The
HIJAB
Boutique
Michelle Khan
THE ISLAMIC FOUNDATION
Copyright © The Islamic Foundation, 2011/1432 H
Text Copyright © Michelle Khan 2011
ISBN: 978-0-86037-468-8
The Hijab Boutique
Author Michelle Khan
Editor Fatima D’Oyen
Illustrators Eman Salem
Cover/Book design & typesetting Nasir Cadir
Coordinator Anwar Cara
Published by
THE ISLAMIC FOUNDATION
Markfield Conference Centre, Ratby Lane, Markfield
Leicestershire, LE67 9SY, United Kingdom
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.islamic-foundation.com
Quran House, P.O. Box 30611, Nairobi, Kenya
P.M.B. 3193, Kano, Nigeria
Distributed by
Kube Publishing Ltd.
Tel: +44(01530) 249230, Fax: +44(01530) 249656
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.kubepublishing.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
A Cataloguing-in-Publication Data record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-86037-468-8
CONTENTS
1. MISS PEABODY’S ACADEMY AND THE IMPOSSIBLE SCHOOL ASSIGNMENT
2. ME, THE INVISIBLE GIRL?
3. MY MOTHER’S SECRET LIFE
4. DREAMS, AMBITIONS AND THE HIJAB BOUTIQUE
5. HIJABS IN THE SPOTLIGHT
CONCLUSION
DEDICATION
FOR TAUFIQ IQBAL SUFI,
WHO ONCE TOLD ME
I COULD BECOME A WRITER.
NOW I AM.
THANK YOU.
1
MISS PEABODY’S ACADEMY AND THE IMPOSSIBLE SCHOOL ASSIGNMENT
“Listen up! Listen up! Listen up EVERYONE!”
Our classroom lights are switched off. And, back on again.
Ms. Grant sure knows how to get the attention of her students. She must’ve passed teacher’s college with full marks. I sit up in my seat despite my itchy uniform. I am seriously plagued by Monday midday blues.
“This Thursday is International Women’s Day,” Ms. Grant announces with her hands on her itty-bitty hips. Her pleated, knee-length skirt stands firm. “People from around the world will be celebrating what it means to be a woman. I’d like you to bring in something that symbolizes your mother. You’re all expected to present one item over the course of three class periods.”
Right then, the school bell rings. Relief bursts through me. It’s the end of the day! I’ve been operating on ‘half-battery’ because I stayed up late studying for this morning’s math test. Everyone in my classroom is chatting away at full speed. Even Ms. Grant knows that getting anyone’s attention now is a lost cause. She walks back to her desk where everything is placed ‘just so’. It’s clear that she has an allergy to anything messy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she arranges her wardrobe according to colour at home, in alphabetical order! But my fellow students rush out of our classroom like they’ve got springs on their feet. I follow the crowd and get going too.
“Have a nice evening, Farah,” my social studies teacher says.
“Thank you, Ms. Grant,” I say, heading out the door. “The same to you.”
I board our school bus (a.k.a. the Banana Boat) with my best friend, Ashanti Smith. We’ve been BFFs (best friends forever) ever since we were toddlers. No joke. Mom says we hit it off in a baby playgroup. I guess we had an instant connection–before we could spell the word. We’re both ‘only children’, and refer to ourselves as ‘soul sisters’. We love to do EVERYTHING together. Naturally, we’re glued to each other on the Banana Boat, too. I always get the window seat, no questions asked. In solid friendships, some things – thankfully! - are just a given.
It’s no coincidence that Ashanti and I attend the same prestigious, all-girls private school. Here’s the scoop: two years ago, we left our local elementary school. We set our sights on our new school after reading about it in the children’s section of our local newspaper. The article explained how Miss Peabody’s Academy is known state-wide for its fantastic art programmes. Why wouldn’t we want to go to an environment where our talents would bloom? After all, Ashanti and I are art fanatics. We’ve taken Saturday morning art classes together forever. Once we found the school of our dreams, we made a case to our mothers, explaining why we wanted to attend. We must have rehearsed a million times behind closed doors in anticipation of their questions! Alhamdulillah, our hard work paid off. Both mothers gave us the bright green light! However, our battle was yet to be won. Next, came the admission process. F.Y.I.: places at Miss Peabody’s Academy don’t just depend on parents being able to afford hefty tuition fees. Prospective students have to go through a tough interview process. The teachers grilled us with questions. We answered honestly. Both Ashanti and I brought in portfolios of our artwork. And then, the day we were waiting for arrived, and – tah – dah! – the postman delivered letters welcoming us to join Miss Peabody’s Academy. I can still taste the sweet double fudge sundaes we had to celebrate our combined success. Talk about yum!
Our efforts were worth it; it’s a good school, with a great art programme. But Miss Peabody’s Academy isn’t perfect. For one thing, I’m embarrassed to admit that our school prides itself over its dinky bus rides. I personally don’t see what the big deal is. The seats are comfy. Most rides are relatively short. Ben (our bus driver) always has his eyes on the road — though I’ll tell you in the strictest confidence that I’ve caught him sneaking sips from his coffee cup whenever we stop at a red light. Anyway, this Banana Boat was a stormy subject when the idea was first introduced. Loads of parents objected to it. They wanted to keep sending out taxi cabs or chauffeurs to pick up their little princesses. Meetings were held; tempers flared. Some local Los Angeles television stations picked up the story. In the end, our school’s tough board of governors won, and my mom couldn’t have been happier. She said the school bus ride would make the girls at Miss Peabody’s Academy more humble. To be honest, I’m not so sure.
For the record, there is no assigned seating on the Banana Boat, yet everyone always sits in the same area. Read: it’s an unspoken code. Miss Peabody’s has pupils ranging from little kindergarteners to mature fifth graders. You can see this divide on the bus. The youngest kids sit up front. The middle graders are smack centre. The eldest students head towards the back. However, the most prized seats in the last row of the Banana Boat are for the super-popular girls from my fifth grade class: Stacy, Tammi and Juliet. (F.Y.I.: I secretly refer to this threesome as the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls.)
Ashanti and I get to sit in the second-to-last row thanks to Ashanti’s mom. Now, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. Ms. Smith didn’t bribe anyone to get her daughter (Ashanti) and her best friend (me) better seating. Okay, okay, I admit that we did, in fact, score these seats because of Ms. Smith’s celebrity status. You see, Ashanti’s mom is an actress on the hit daytime TV soap opera, ‘Blinding Light’. One time last year, Ashanti and I got to meet the e-n-t-i-r-e cast from her swanky show. It wasn’t exactly a joyful experience, though. First, my mom went on and on about how soap operas are a waste of time. Second, the biggest actress on ‘Blinding Light’ wore so much perfume that I went into a sneezing frenzy. I’m not even exaggerating when I say I had a dripping, runny nose and everything. Talk about embarrassing with a capital E!
On today’s bus ride home, the hot topic is the assignment about International Women’s Day. I choose to look out at our sunny Los Angeles streets and stare at the incredible blue skies. I decide to listen rather than participate in the conversation. It’s not that I’m being nosy; it’s actually hard not to overhear the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls. Their voices are always cranked up at full volume.
“This homework assignment is totally fantastic!” Tammi, the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls’ spokesperson announces. She flicks her fluffy, shoulder-length blonde hair. “It’s hard to pick just one thing that represents my mom. She has the most amazing stuff.”
I wish I had that problem, I think to myself. My religious mother only has simple belongings.
Juliet pops fruit-scented, sugary bubblegum behind the seat, so that the bus driver won’t see her. “I know what I’m bringing in,” she adds with a sparkling white smile that would surprise any dentist. “My mom is a talented makeup artist. She lives for French-label cosmetics.”
Stacy crosses her long legs that seem to start at her waist. “You’ll never catch my mom without a paintbrush,” she says, with a hint of pride showing in her exotic eyes. “Mom loves creating artwork featuring old Chinese women.”
Tammi smacks the bus seat in front of her. I start and nearly jump at her sudden, unexpected movement.
“Now I know exactly what to bring in!” Tammi exclaims with wide, turquoise eyes.
You can tell a light bulb has just gone on in her brain.
Juliet and Stacy sit at the edge of their seats. “What?” they ask, like eager beavers.
“My mom is always moving to music,” Tammi singsongs. For added emphasis, she drums a beat with her palms on her lap. “Mom has the most gorgeous tap-dancing shoes. I can’t wait to show them off to everyone!”
I’m not surprised that her mother is a performer, and tell Ashanti so. My best friend has a talent for spotting theatrical genes, although Ashanti didn’t inherit many from her mother herself. Our whispered conversation catches the attention of the leader of the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls.
“Hey, Ashanti!” Tammi says, poking my BFF on her shoulder with her sharp, fiery-red nails.
Ashanti turns around to face her. “Yeah?”
Tammi crosses her arms. “I want you to bring in a script from the Blinding Light show,” she orders, arching her overly-plucked eyebrow in challenge.
I can tell Ashanti is trying to hide a cringe. More often than not, she doesn’t like the awkward situations she gets into because of her mom’s very public job.
Stacy nods her pin-straight, midnight-black mane. “Yeah, my grandma would love to know what’s going to happen next on her favourite soap opera. She taught herself English just so she could keep up with the show.”
Ashanti purses her shapely, thick lips. “I know for a fact that the writers on the ‘Blinding Light’ keep the show’s storyline top secret,” she says with authority.
Nobody argues with this. It would be silly to. Everyone knows that Ashanti has a lot of insider info about the world of television.
“Getting my hands on a script definitely won’t happen,” Ashanti continues. “But I can do the next best thing, and bring in autographed pictures of all the actors.”
Now I turn to see the reactions of the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls. My eyes dart from Juliet, to Tammi, to Stacy’s face. Just as I predicted, they are melting with excitement. I’m happy for my best friend’s triumph, but secretly I wish my classmates would react the same way to something I could bring in about MY hijab-wearing mother.
Ashanti meets my eyes. I can tell she’s trying to read my thoughts. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Farah. What are you planning to bring in for International Women’s Day?”
How do I tell her that we may be “soul sisters,” but I’m the one whose mom is not from Hollywood? She wouldn’t understand. Her mom has been a celebrity ever since she was a child. I look out the bus window, and thankfully my stop has arrived. I throw my heavy backpack over my shoulder and get up.
“I’m still trying to chew up an idea about my mother,” I tell Ashanti. I squeeze past her muscular legs and into the bus aisle. “See you tomorrow.”
I get off my bus in record time. I watch the Banana Boat drive away, and feel envious because both the bus and the girls inside it know where they are heading. I start to walk up my winding, red-bricked driveway at a snail’s pace. The weight of my backpack seems to test the strength of my every bone. It’s almost like everything around me is drooping. The sun beats down on me. When I reach the iron gate barricading our home, it’s hot and rough to touch. It silently begs to be repainted. The weeds in our front lawn dance wildly in the wind. I drag my feet to our front door, and laugh dryly at the lion statues that greet me with empty eyes. They, too, look defeated. I can’t help but think they miss the absence of my doting, late father (may Allah have mercy on him). He was extravagant in every way—speech, clothing, work ethics, volunteer efforts and belongings. He wholeheartedly believed that his home was his castle. In turn, he spent many long hours plugging away at his super-successful textile business. He made sure that everything was topnotch. Ever since his death, there has been nobody in our small family to step up to the plate and take on that role. In a sense, Mom and I have wilted away with him.
I punch in the security code to our home and step inside to the cool interior. I hear the water running and figure Mom must be taking a bath. That suits me just fine. I kick off my trainers with relief and put them inside the closet. I’m about to leave the entrance hall when I do a double take and stare at the shoe rack that houses Mom’s footwear collection. Not surprisingly, there isn’t a pair of tap dancing shoes in sight. Forget that, Mom doesn’t even own a pair of high heels! I pick up a set of modest leather flats, and smack their rubber soles together. No rhythmic sound. Their silence hangs like a heavy, dark cloud over my mind.
My heart is beating faster now. With a new sense of purpose, I march upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. The soft beige carpet under my feet offers little comfort. Rushing over to the mahogany vanity bureau that I share with Mom, I open our drawer with more force than necessary. My fruit-flavoured lip glosses and rhinestone hair clips jump in surprise. I ignore them. I’m on a mission to find goodies that don’t belong to me, but I don’t discover any treasures. Instead, Mom’s hard, plastic hairbrush stares back at me. By its side, I see a plain white hairdryer. Pricy makeup is nowhere to be seen. Once again, modesty reigns supreme.
Annoyed, I go downstairs to our living room. I want to see something—ANYTHING—that looks like the belongings of my friends’ mothers’. My eyes refocus as this room refreshes me with colour. Our walls are painted a light yellow hue that matches the sunshine pouring in our large windows. Exotic plants line the floor, showing off their natural beauty. Dad’s antique wooden coffee table stands proud, despite its obvious chips. His favourite cream-coloured sofa set looks plush, but at the same time it murmurs sadness over seeing better days. My eyes wander to the one-of-a-kind quilt hanging that my mom made, with its rich, Indian sari fabrics. I walk over and finger the quilt’s delicate gold and red threads. Without needing to ask, I know this rare, handmade piece of work is too fragile to leave the safety of this room. Once again, I am defeated.
With a heavy heart, I enter our spacious kitchen. The black and white tiles underfoot feel cool under my bare feet. There aren’t any snazzy portraits of people or funky posters in this section of our house either. From across the room, I see stained glass artwork that Ashanti and I made together. Its cheerful colours mock me. Why does this school assignment have to be so difficult? Is it really so hard for my family to be like everyone else’s?
I sit down on a bar stool at our marble kitchen island. Its gleaming countertop is as shiny as the wet tears that threaten to pour out of my eyes. I blink them away. As usual, Mom has already prepared an after-school snack for me. My stomach grumbles just looking at the plate. I pick up my halal roast beef sandwich loaded with delic
ious toppings, say a quiet ‘bismillah’ and take a bigger bite than usual. I swallow hard, trying to gulp down my problems with good food. My eyes are drawn to a note left for me on the counter. I know it’s from Mom because it’s written on her pale pink stationery. She has a quirky but lovable habit of leaving me surprise letters. I pick up today’s message in slow motion.
As-Salamu Alaykum Farah,
Hope you had a wonderful day at school, honey.
I know you had a math test earlier this morning, and inshallah you did very well. I thought I’d treat you to your favourite sandwich for all your hard work.
Enjoy your food, and get some rest while I have a relaxing bath. You can start on your homework after you feel fresh.
Love you,
Mom xo
I usually grin after reading one of Mom’s surprise notes. Right now, I can’t even force a fake smile. I’m just too upset about not being like everyone else! Don’t get me wrong. I know there are A LOT of kids out there who’d trade their favourite video game collection in a heartbeat to have a mom like mine. Translation: In this sense, I am grateful for my wonderful, loving mother. However, having a great mom is what makes this situation all the more complicated. Before this, I could always run to her if anything went topsy-turvy. I can’t do that now without hurting Mom’s feelings. After all, there’s no polite way to tell someone that all her belongings are b-o-r-i-n-g. What am I supposed to do???
I decide to take my mind off my problems for a little while, and do my afternoon prayers. Maybe Allah will give me an inspiration. I splash cool water over my face, arms, head and feet, taking special care around my ears. Making ablutions always makes me feel fresh and tingly after the hot and dusty ride home. But although the peace that comes with prayer calms down my nerves, after my final salam my heart is still troubled. There’s no solution yet in sight. Conclusion: I’m still stuck!
The Hijab Boutique Page 1