True Story

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Today was the day. I nervously thumbed the end of my scarf as I walked across the campus towards my first class. The middle of the semester of my senior year but I still didn’t have any close friends from here. I only went to this school because it was close to home. My new home, not the one I grew up in.

It had been a year since I married my husband and moved in together. The only reason I walked across campus was due to our different majors. I was English, and he was Engineering. And if I wanted a ride to school, I had to arrive hours before my first class and trek across from one end to the other. If I let something like our difference in career choices bother me, we never would have gotten married.

The thing is, my husband is a Muslim, and I was agnostic.

Add in being from a different country, and you have more differences than similarities. Even with struggling sometimes, we still loved each other enough to get married. And put up with one another for the rest of our lives. We are the true definition of opposites attracting.

This has something to do with my current nervousness as I entered my classroom. When we married, I converted to Islam. What many don’t know is that conversion does not mean coverage. Just because you’re a Muslim doesn’t mean you have to wear a scarf around your head. It doesn’t mean you have to wear baggy clothing that hides your feminine shape. It is a choice made by the woman; to cover or not to cover.

It doesn’t mean that some aren’t forced, but my husband never forced me. He asked me. It had been a year since I converted, so he asked me nicely to start covering. His words were, “I gave you a year to get comfortable, but now I would really like it if you covered. It would make me and God happy.” So today, after being known by my classmates for months as one in the crowd, I now wore Hijab and stood out.

I wondered if anyone would say anything? Or if they would ask me questions? Would anyone not want to sit close to me now that I publicly declared my beliefs? Sure, plenty of people walk around with a cross necklace on but given that I lived in the Southern States of America, wearing a scarf around my hair and neck stood out as ‘different’ far more.

Class wore on, but not even my professors blinked twice at me. It probably had something to do with recently studying One Thousand and One Nights and mentioning my Islamic culture knowledge. The only difference now was I no longer had to say I was Muslim. It was clear as day.

Something that wouldn’t change as the years passed, the eyes that lingered. After all, I am a convert; I was raised in a Southern Baptist home. My skin is a peachy white, not a drop of tan or olive in it. My family tree can be traced back to the Mayflower and before that, Scotland and Whales. Nothing about me screams Muslim until I put on my Hijab. Some people do a double-take when they hear me speak. I have a Southern accent and not one of an ESL.

That said, I have never felt more like myself than I do wearing the markers of a Muslim. After taking it as my religion and following the beliefs, I proudly display them without saying a word. I love it when someone does ask me a question. But the best part is knowing that I rock the system of beliefs set in place about Muslims just by being my true self. I’m not the norm; I didn’t convert as a means of rebelling against my family’s religion. And I didn’t grow up in a culture where Islam was a possibility. However, I choose it for its beauty and strength—something I like to show the world when I happily enter the public eye and show the joy I have with my life.

Someday, my daughter might choose to dress like me. Whatever she decides, it will be her choice. And I know that covered or not, it will be her true self. And I cannot be upset with that!