The Proudest Blue A Story of Hijab and Family

Mama holds out the pink. Mama loves pink. But Asiya shakes her head. I know why. Behind the counter is the brightest blue. The color of the ocean, if you squint your eyes and pretend there’s no line between the water and the sky.

It’s the first-day hijab. Asiya knows it. I know it. We’re sisters. The next day, I wait. A new backpack, new light-up shoes. I feel special. I feel like twirling. Asiya comes out of the house. And I stop. It’s the most beautiful first day of school ever. I’m walking with a princess. So I pretend I’m one too. But even princesses have to stop to cross the street. Asiya takes my hand in hers, says, “C’mon, Faizah!” We speed-walk it. Fourteen steps, fourteen light-ups to get across. Asiya takes me to my line first, hugs me goodbye. I turn to watch her leave, give a little curtsy to the princess going to the sixth-grade area. She’s easy to see. Her hijab smiles at me the whole way. My first-day hijab is going to be blue too.

“What’s that on your sister’s head?” the girl in front of me whispers. “A scarf,” I whisper back. I don’t know why a whisper came out. I try again, louder now. “A scarf. Hijab. “Oh,” she whispers. Asiya’s hijab isn’t a whisper. Asiya’s hijab is like the sky on a sunny day. The sky isn’t a whisper. It’s always there, special and regular.

The first day of wearing hijab is important, Mama had said. It means being strong.

I turn but I can’t see the blue anymore. I run to the big kids’ side. Twenty-seven steps to see Asiya. I need to give her another hug. I need to see her smile. “Faizah?” Asiya’s eyes wonder why I’m here. “Are you excited?” I ask. “About the first day of hijab?” She nods, smiling big, and I feel better. Someone laughs from nearby. A boy, pointing at Asiya.

Some people won’t understand your hijab, Mama had said. But if you understand who you are, one day they will too.

Recess time is for five cartwheels in a row. I land the last one near the sixth graders. Near Asiya and her friends. Near a boy yelling, “I’m going to pull that tablecloth off your head! “Asiya’s hijab isn’t a tablecloth. Asiya’s hijab is blue. Only blue. Asiya turns away. Her friends turn away. They race to the middle of the schoolyard, their shoes pounding the pavement, playing tag.

Mama: Don’t carry around the hurtful words that others say. Drop them. They are not yours to keep.

They belong only to those who said them.