A Defining Moment
For as long as I could remember, I spent so much apologizing for who I was. My name wasn’t “Wafa’,” it was ”I am sorry.” I am sorry for my difficult name. I am sorry for my skin tone. I am sorry you don’t like my hair. I am sorry you don’t like my faith. I am sorry I am not who or what you consider “normal.” The apologies grew as the years with the numbers in my age.
Growing up in a small town in Northern Kentucky came with many challenges. Raised in a dichotomy of the Bible belt and the land of the KKK, Confederate flags and rebel soldiers (my high school mascot & flag), to say that “navigating” the proverbial waters were “rough,” would be an outright lie. It still baffles me, “WHY out of this whole entire United States did we settle in this State?” I often asked my father (May Allah rest his soul), “Baba, why here? Why did you decide to settle here?” He would just say, “land is cheap here.” My father was a teacher overseas. As soon as he graduated from high school in Ramallah, Palestine, he went to study at the University of Alexandria in Egypt. Upon graduation, he accepted a teaching position in Saudi Arabia. My mother went to the American University of Beirut and became a Kindergarten teacher in Kuwait. When they came to this country they were “not employable” as teachers. Needing to survive, and support his family, my father went back to school and my mother decided to stay home to raise us. My father and his older brother pursued the “American Dream.” They started a construction company and built custom homes on that “cheap” Kentucky land they had purchased.
In the 4th grade, our class celebrated the annual Christmas party. My mother taught us to hold tight to our values but to participate in celebrations with others we are in community with. She taught us that celebrating those differences is what made our life special. She made sugar cookies for my classmates as her contribution to the cookie decorating station. On the day of the party, like all other students, I began my rotations with utmost excitement to partake in the activities. I went through two stations and had one more station to reach the sugar cookies. I could not help but feel a sense of pride and excitement that I had helped my mom make them the previous evening. At the tinsel station, the teacher explained the instructions and then told us to start. I had threaded the needle excitedly and was ready to go.
I strategically placed some cranberries and popcorn on my desk, set my focus, and picked up the first piece of popcorn. I envisioned placing my beautiful tinsel on the tree. But I froze. Although I was ready, I just… couldn’t… do… it… The other kids were able to get through a few pieces and I sat there bewildered.
My teacher came around and noticed my inaction. She asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know what to say. At first I said to her, “I don’t think I can do this.” There was so much more happening in my life at that moment, some of which she actually knew about, so much so, it was crippling me from completing the task I set out to do. My father had lost his job two months before, and we were a family of seven. I was the eldest of five kids and money was very tight. We were given the green punch cards when we were enrolled in the “free lunch” program. That card became a symbol of shame and utter embarrassment in comparison with the pink card that most of the other students had. As much as I tried to hide my card, the color was glaring and I felt like in a sea full of students and cards, it stood out so explicitly. There were some nights where my parents didn’t have enough to make dinners, and my school lunch was the only meal of the day, so I had no choice but to swallow my embarrassment and use my card to get what could be the only true meal of the day.
At that moment, my teacher asked “What do you mean you can’t do it?” I asked her if she thought we should be eating the food instead of turning it into a decoration. Her response was, “Are you sassing me young lady?” Before I could say no and clarify, she had already pulled on my chair and told me to go out in the hallway. I sat in the hallway for what felt like an eternity until she came out with a paddle. When I saw that paddle my heart dropped and I begged her to listen so I could explain. This paddle was not a normal paddle. This one had holes drilled through them so that the sting would linger so much longer after being hit. She accused me of being a “disrespectful” young lady” and then proceeded to punish me by not allowing me to participate in the activities for the rest of the day.
What took place afterward would be etched in my memory forever. I was never in trouble. I was always compliant. That was what I was supposed to be. I was not trying to cause trouble now either. My teacher dragged her chair over as the hind legs screeched on the floor making the same sounds that I wanted to scream. She sat down. She commanded me to pull my pants down and then proceeded to swat me three times. Tears of pain and anger streamed down my face. I spent the rest of the day on the cold hallway floor because, I was banned from the class and the activities, including recess and, going to lunch, my only meal that day.
At the end of a very long day, my teacher allowed me to gather my belongings. I could not look at her. My eyes were to the ground the whole time. I put my backpack on and as I walked towards the door to leave, she handed me the empty cookie container. I happened to look over to her desk and saw three cookies stacked nicely on her desk.
Something broke in me at that moment…
There are so many things I want to say to my fourth grade self but so many more things I want to say to my fourth grade teacher as my adult self. Educators can build, but they can also destroy. It took years for me to grasp how a day I was so excited for turned on me so quickly. All I wanted to do was get to the cookie decorating station. I wanted to brag to the other kids “my mom made these for us.” All I wanted was my teacher to be understanding of my situation and accepting of me, the girl whose family did not celebrate Christmas. The girl who no one bothered to say her name properly. The girl who was constantly made fun of because she didn’t look like her classmates. Instead of making me feel like I belonged, she pushed me further into isolation.
Years later, my parents learned about a mosque that was established across the river in Cincinnati, OH. For the first time in my whole childhood, I met people who were just like me. I finally felt like I belonged. When I turned fifteen, it was the beginning of my 10th grade year and we were going to the high school building. It was a few days before school started that I made a resolute decision to wear my hijab. Because they were scared for me, my parents and the whole extended family were adamantly against my choice. I was also scared, but I never let them know.
Hijab was my liberation. If the world didn’t want to see me, I would force them to see me. If my teachers did not want to see me, I would make them see me. I would no longer apologize for who I am. As tragic as that incident and others like it were, it helped shaped my identity as an educator. My job was to ensure that my students were seen and heard. That they would not be dismissed as if their very presence was a burden to the adults in the room. I wanted to make sure they felt that they had an advocate in the building. Someone who would help them find their voice when they could not make a sound.
My name is Wafa’. I have a beautiful name that means “loyal.” I am loyal to my life’s calling and I am, unapologetically ME.
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This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of Arabs as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Eman Mohammed.
Be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series.