A Hijabi in Trumps’ America

The day I first wore hijab, I wanted the car to crash on the way to school, so I wouldn’t have to face the Lindas and Rachels and Jodis of my white, white school.

I was 13.

I was the only covered girl in the entire school. I spent most of my time there bullied, mercilessly mocked, and wounded in ways I’ve never quite healed from. And that wasn’t even in America.

Hijab is tough.

Four years I’ve spent in America. I uprooted myself, left family and friends and a whole life behind, and started from scratch. I’ve made this place my home, in my own way.

I have never felt more of an outsider than I have today.

I have never been more aware of my hijab than I have today.

I’ve been spat at before. Several times. Had a man whisper “I wish I could kill you” on the subway. Been called a towelhead, a dirty Muslim. I’m randomly searched every single time I am at the airport I frequent so often I know some of the immigration personnel by name. But I brush those things off — after all, they’re the exceptions.

But nothing has ever come close to making me feel the way I do today than the thought that half the people in the country I’m living in might want to see me gone. See me as less than me.

There’s always a little voice in my head that wonders sometimes what people think when they look at me. That wonders if they think I’m somehow less equal. If I’m not as smart. If I’m somehow limited. If I’m unenlightened, oppressed, stupid. That wonders how I’m judged before I’ve even said a word. That feels I never start any relationship on an equal footing.

That voice is very quiet most of the time. I’ve grown up, overcome obstacles, broken barriers, proved myself, over and over again. Today, I’m confident in who I am and what I’ve done, and I squash that voice whenever it surfaces. I compensate for this glaring sign of ‘otherness’ — I work extra hard, I’m extra smart, I’m extra nice. Smile, so you don’t come across as scary. Wear bright colors, so you don’t look oppressed. Talk popular culture, to make sure everyone knows you’re integrated and watch Black Mirror just like them. I write about it it. Hell, I’ve even won an award for my writing about it. It’s exhausting. It’s tiring. And often, it feels pointless. Because the people I’m talking to are often not the people who need to be listening.

Hijab is part of me, part of my identity, woven in the fabric of who I am and who I’ve become. Some days I love it, some days I hate it, and some days I don’t remember what it means or why I wore it in the first place. But it’s part of me.

I understand how visible my hijab is, but it has become almost invisible to myself. I see the eyes on me every day. I never don’t feel their weight. I walk around with a spotlight on me I have gotten so used to I don’t know what it would be like to walk around in normal light.

But today, I wonder.

I wonder if every other person who looks at me thinks I am somehow not worthy. Somehow less.

Donald Trump is president of the United States.

It still hasn’t sunk it. How could a grotesque, vomit-inducing caricature of all the horrible parts of humanity, win? How could someone who stands for the exact opposite of everything I believe this country stands for, win? Someone who has now given every hater and bigot and racist and xenophobe legitimacy.

I saw Trump’s face every day. I couldn’t wait for the day I no longer had to look at that face, see those gestures, hear that grating cadence of his voice. Every day, it was like a sick joke. A horribly insulting, repulsive, shocking joke, but one that you could not take to heart because it was a joke, and despite its horrible impact, it was going to end. It was never going to be real.

But today it is real.

It’s like I’m looking at people today using Trump glasses. I stood in line at Blue Bottle to get my coffee this morning, and three white men ahead of me were laughing. I heard the words “President Trump.” Today, I can’t help but wonder if they’re all Trumps. If they’re looking at me the same way Trump looks at me. If my Trader Joes cashier really thinks I should get the hell out of her country.

I understand that that’s probably not the case. That Hillary won the popular vote, than millennials voted blue, that I live in California, etc.

But I feel so vulnerable.
I feel betrayed.

My high school teacher used to console me by telling me to remember that bullies never get ahead. That once they leave school and get out into the big bad world, they lose.

America just decided that the biggest bully should be president. The guy at school who bullied literally everyone. Brown people, black people, disabled people, Muslims, Mexicans, gays, immigrants, women.

I feel wounded.
I have never felt more like I don’t belong here.
I have never felt more unwelcome.