All-American Muslim Girl

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  Mom pats me on the shoulder and says she’ll be upstairs taking a bath. She licks her lips, looking apprehensively back and forth between the two of us. Dad nods her off.

  He pats the seat next to him. “Come. Sit.”

  I sit next to him on the couch, feeling nervous.

  “Homework going well?” His voice is controlled, steady. I can tell it’s killing him—he wants to get to whatever it is he’s about to say—and yet he’s still managing to keep it together. My dad: cool under pressure as always.

  “Yep.” It’s as if I’m discussing the weather with a stranger, not talking to the person who I’m closest to in the entire world.

  Scratch that: who I used to be closest to.

  He sighs. “Look, Allie. I found something in your room, and I want to talk about it.”

  I breathe deeply, trying to quell my rising anxiety. Here we go.

  “I found a prayer cover and rug,” my father says. My heart starts beating double-time.

  “Dad, I swear—you’re being dramatic.”

  That phrase—I swear—reminds me of a memory I’d buried.

  We were sitting on the couch together, laughing at a YouTube video. He expressed disbelief at something I said—about YouTubers making more than a million dollars a year? who knows?—and I replied, “I swear to God!” I laughed as I exaggeratedly made the sign of the cross.

  I don’t know why. I probably thought it looked cool.

  My father stopped laughing. His face went slack, his warm eyes turned concerned. He looked at me, his happy face suddenly deflated.

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “The cross,” he said. “We’re Muslims. You’re a Muslim.”

  “Okay, jeez, sorry.” I said it standoffishly, but I was burning with humiliation and hurt. I changed the subject. The two of us sat there a few more minutes watching videos, but all the joy had gone out of it.

  Later, I remember thinking: How can I be a Muslim if I don’t know what being a Muslim means?

  It was wildly out of character for my dad. I’d seen him suddenly get weird when the subject of his religion came up. But it was the first time he got weird about it with me.

  As I look at my dad on the couch now, watching me with confused eyes, I know I’m in for another uncomfortable situation.

  It’s been a long time in the making.

  “I found your Twitter,” he says.

  “Okay.” The unsaid hangs in the air: So what?

  “I didn’t know you had a Twitter.”

  “Well, you don’t know everything. And it’s called a Twitter account. Not ‘a Twitter.’”

  “Pumpkin, this isn’t you. You don’t talk to me like this.”

  “Dad.” I sigh. “What’s the big deal? So I have a Twitter account. I barely use it.”

  “Yes, but it’s what you’ve Twittered about.” He clicks around on his phone.

  Has he downloaded the app? I think. My dad doesn’t even have Facebook.

  “You posted a photo of yourself wearing a hijab.”

  I need a defibrillator, because I just had a heart attack.

  I lick my lips, buying time, gathering courage.

  “Yeah. And?”

  “And this. This is from last month.” He reads something I retweeted from a firebrand Muslim who breezily takes on trolls.

  “I retweeted somebody,” I say, somewhat sullenly. “So?”

  “Retweeting implies an endorsement. It takes something you didn’t say yourself, and uses your force to put it out there in the world. It implies you believe it.”

  “It’s not a big deal. People retweet stuff all the time,” I say. I pause, my heart pounding, before saying, “But I do believe it. Muslims are treated like garbage. Look at Teta and Fairouza and Aunt Bila.”

  “That’s why you need to be careful,” my dad says. “Things are not normal right now. You’ve gone shouting about Islam to the rooftops, and now you’ve made yourself a target.”

  “Shouting to the rooftops? I’ve tweeted like five times!” I cross my arms. “What you’re really saying is, you want me to hide who I am.”

  “I don’t want you to hide. I want you to be smart!” His frustration is palpable. He opens something on his laptop screen. “I take it you haven’t seen this.”

  “Seen what?”

  He moves the computer in front of me. It’s a clip one of his work colleagues emailed to him. The subject reads Allie?

  On the screen is a freeze-frame image of Jack Henderson on his show The Jack Attack.

  “Jack Henderson,” he says. “From his show earlier tonight.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “Wells’s dad.” It’s both a challenge and a statement.

  We stare at each other.

  “Yeah,” I finally say. “Wells’s dad.”

  “How could you keep something this important from me?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I mutter.

  My dad presses PLAY on the clip.

  “And that brings us to the subject of Muslims,” Jack says in his monologue, a giant red graphic with the word Muslims taking up the screen next to his face. “You and I both know there’s a serious Muslim problem in this country. We have refugees pouring in from countries like Syria. We have those who seek to wage jihad and impose Sharia law. And, of course, we have the moral imperative of needing to help these poor women who are being forced to veil against their will.

  “Well, what would you say if I told you I’d met a Muslim who changed my mind? I know, I know. Hear me out. She goes to high school with my son, and she’s a Muslim, but she’s just like you and me. And this Muslim girl, well, she defies your expectations. She’s this sweet little pale redhead named Allie, and she looks like she could be the girl next door. Now, Allie and my son have been spending quite a bit of time together—you know how teenagers are—and so I’ve gotten to know this lovely little lady, and I’ll tell you—she’s a delight. Such a surprise. And I mean it when I say: You’d never know she’s Muslim! She wears normal clothes, and she doesn’t have anything covering her pretty hair, and she’s articulate and she wears makeup, and she’s very, very normal. She’s not radical.

  “And as I’ve gotten to know this little lady, I’ve realized: You know, for the most part some Muslims really are just the same as you and me. They don’t want their husbands telling them what to do any more than you or I do! Take Allie’s parents: They drink, they don’t pray, they’re almost as normal as can be. And so I say, if a Muslim family is here legally through the proper channels, if they’re hardworking, if they’re willing to put their culture aside and embrace America, well, then they’re welcome, too.

  “This is your food for thought. Muslims are people, same as you and me. Good night, everybody, and thanks for watching.”

  Dad clicks the laptop shut.

  “We’re not— That’s not— He’s using me!” I say.

  “I know he’s using you,” Dad says quietly.

  “He’s trying to act like he’s being tolerant and inclusive, but he’s furthering harmful stereotypes. He’s saying the only Muslims worth anything are the ones who don’t seem Muslim, period.”

  Dad nods.

  “So why are you mad at me? That’s not my fault!”

  “This isn’t a game, Allie. I’ve spent your life trying to teach you, but I clearly didn’t do well enough. Our country isn’t safe—it never has been.”

  Safe. He doesn’t think it will ever be safe. I guess I can’t blame him, given the history. I don’t remember a time when we weren’t outsiders.

  I’ve heard the stories about what happened when the twin towers fell. My family lived outside Dallas, our town a Muslim island in the sprawling seas of Bible Belt Texas. Safety in numbers both comforted my newly converted mother and worried her; crowds of Muslims drew crowds of protesters. The first time the house was egged, the police didn’t show up for hours.

  My father assured her it would be fine�
��he’d weathered worse; people were grieving; they needed to vent their fear and anger somewhere. People like us were the recipients of that anger as they tried to make sense of a scary new reality, he said. History was cyclical, and progress always won in the end. It would pass. Goodness would prevail. We simply needed to have faith.

  Dad was right, as always: The taunts and graffiti and slurs against anybody who even remotely looked Muslim eventually died down. Slowly, people tolerated our family’s presence: first in Richardson, and then in Wayne, in El Segundo, in Evanston.

  But no matter where we lived, the anxiety we provoked—the fear and anger—never went away.

  Even among so-called good liberals.

  Not really.

  Dad continues. “You don’t know what it’s like to cover. You don’t know what it’s like to have people hate you because you look Muslim. You have no idea what it means to identify as a Muslim and live in this world. You risk letting a monster like Jack Henderson in? Why? And why would you post things publicly? You’re lucky. You pass as American, like everybody else, and you want to throw it all away? Most Muslims would be grateful to be in your position.”

  “Lucky enough to pass? I’m ashamed of myself for passing!” I shout. “I’ve spent my entire life rejecting who I am so people won’t judge me. My friends don’t have that luxury. Leila doesn’t have that privilege. Fatima gets discriminated against on multiple fronts. How I can live with myself if I call myself a Muslim, but only when it’s convenient and doesn’t get me into trouble?”

  “Allie. Pumpkin. I know you mean well.” He’s launched into his professor voice. “But this is—I cannot abide this.”

  “I can’t help who Wells’s father is!”

  “You didn’t have to spend months lying to me about it.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t … share.”

  “The abaya is especially puzzling to me. Are you honestly telling me you’re praying now?”

  The fight seeps out of me like a deflated balloon. “Yes.”

  “This is your grandmother’s fault.”

  “It’s not Teta’s fault. I started praying before she visited.”

  He looks baffled. “We didn’t raise you like this. Our family is not about apocryphal stories and emotional appeals. We’re about reason and facts,” he says. “Does your mother know?”

  Now I’m on thin ice. I don’t want to lie to my dad, but I don’t want to get my mom in trouble, either.

  I take so long debating whether to tell him that my silence accidentally serves as the answer. His face falls.

  “What is going on in this family? Religion is a means to control people—a political tool. Your mother knows that. We’re on the same page. Team Abraham believes in science.”

  He’s playing the Team Abraham card.

  “Okay, you’re being beyond hypocritical,” I say. “My entire life, I’ve been told I’m a Muslim. The family are Muslims. You’re a Muslim. Mom converted when you got married. We went to the mosque when Jido died. Teta taught me how to pray. And now that I want to know what it all means for myself, I’m supposed to back off? That’s not how it works. It’s not fair.”

  “Your mother converted as a formality,” he says gruffly.

  “She meant it in her heart. I know she did.”

  “I know that’s hard for you to hear, Pumpkin.”

  “It’s not hard to hear, because it’s a lie. A convert is a real Muslim, and she’s a real Muslim, and I’m a real Muslim. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Wells’s crappy dad, and I’m sorry I hid things from you, but whatever. You don’t have the right to take my religion away from me.”

  He sighs, clearly frustrated. “Look. I’m glad you’re passionate. But it’s not a good idea to be putting yourself out there so publicly with this Muslim thing. Just … cool it, okay?”

  I shift on the couch, feeling antsy. “Dad, it’s not a ‘thing.’ It’s not a phase. This is forever.”

  He frowns again, looking disappointed, as if he expected that his speech would change my mind. On the TV screen, Tony is singing “Maria.” We watch the song without talking, the flickering TV still on mute.

  Finally he says, voice low, “You’re growing up. I understand I can’t tell you what to do. But I’m flabbergasted you wouldn’t have felt safe confiding in me. I’m extremely disappointed.”

  “Dad, will you please stop with the disappointment? It makes me feel horrible,” I say. “I get it. I’m such a disappointment to you. A disappointment because I’m praying. A disappointment because I’m dating. Get over it. Maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be annoying about it—and it’s my business, not yours. When are you going to get the message? I don’t need your advice. Just stop.”

  My father looks as if I’ve slapped him across the face.

  I know what’s coming next: He’s going to explode.

  Instead, he gets quiet. A look of sadness crosses his face—worse than sadness.

  Hurt.

  He scratches his cheek awkwardly. He stands up without looking at me. “Good night,” he says in a small voice.

  I exhale. I’ve never spoken to my father like that in my life. My head is pounding.

  Behind me, steps.

  I turn to find my mom. Of course she’s been listening. She’ll say something diplomatic. She’ll make me feel better.

  Instead she shakes her head.

  “That was out of line,” she says. “Nobody’s perfect, but we don’t have room in this family for cruelty.”

  She turns and follows my father upstairs, leaving me alone in the middle of the living room, “America” flickering on the screen.

  * * *

  It’s past midnight. I should be sleeping, but I have too much work to do. Between Arabic lessons and my comp sci project and Algebra II worksheets and history papers and my English books, it’s a miracle I’m still standing. I’m working my way through algebra when I hear them.

  Mom and Dad.

  Fighting.

  My parents never fight.

  They bicker. They get annoyed with each other. They raise their voices a tad if one of them is frustrated—usually my mom, losing her therapist cool and allowing my dad under her skin.

  But they never fight.

  I move closer to the door, opening it quietly and sticking my head into the hallway.

  It sounds like they’re downstairs, maybe in the kitchen.

  “You can’t treat her like a child!”

  Mom. She sounds pissed. I’m surprised she’s standing up for me after everything that went down tonight.

  “She is a child!”

  Dad. Equally pissed.

  “She’s sixteen.”

  “A child.”

  Now I hear cabinets opening and closing, slamming. They’re worked up.

  “What do you want me to do, Elizabeth? Should I shut my mouth? Close my eyes? Let my daughter go down the wrong path?”

  “She’s not going down the wrong path. She’s exploring her faith. She’s exploring your faith!”

  “It has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you! She’s trying to figure out where she came from. It’s healthy, Mo. Why can’t you see that?”

  My dad mumbles something unintelligible.

  “You can’t pick other people’s parents,” Mom says. “Don’t you remember what it was like with your parents? Remember the guff they gave you about moving to America and marrying somebody who wasn’t Circassian? A Catholic?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “It was exactly like that. You can’t tell your children how to live their lives. You raise them, and you do your best, and you put them on the right path, but eventually you have to take a step back and let them be themselves. We raised a good kid.”

  “She’s still a kid. She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. Look what’s happened already.”

  Loud sigh from Mom. “I know I’m not as qualified as you to talk about this.
Far be it from me to erase any experiences you’ve had over the years. And I know there are bigots out there—I deal with them myself.”

  More mumbling from Dad.

  “I do!” Mom says. “Believe me, I get it. I know you’re trying to protect her, but you can’t coddle her forever. And your religion is something you should be proud of, not ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” Dad says forcefully.

  Mom says something I can’t hear.

  “I’m not. I’m concerned,” he says. “There’s a difference. Her name is out there now. She could be assaulted. She could be targeted. I don’t want her putting herself in harm’s way unnecessarily. If she wants to practice, practice. I accept it, but I don’t get it. That’s not how we raised her. How’s she going to go believing that mumbo jumbo suddenly? And does she have to advertise it? Make herself a target? Open herself up to a snake like Jack Henderson? She’s being naive!”

  My feelings are crushed. I’ve never heard my father talk about me that way: He’s always telling me how smart I am, how capable I am, how mature I am. To hear he thinks I’m being naive hurts my soul.

  “Can’t you talk to her?” Mom says.

  “I tried. What else is there to say?”

  “I don’t understand how it escalated. She’s a good kid. She’s not doing drugs. She’s not out drinking. She’s praying, Mo. Big whoop. You need to cut her some slack.”

  “She’s been changing for months now,” Dad says. “I don’t appreciate her moping around the house, throwing me these looks, acting as if I’ve wounded her.”

  “She’s a teenager! Welcome to parenthood!”

  “We didn’t raise her like this.”

  “We raised her to think for herself—and that’s what she’s doing.”

  “By thinking like everybody else? By subscribing to a religious cult?”

  Silence.

  Finally, Mom’s voice again. It’s icy.

  “You didn’t seem to have an issue with me joining the ‘religious cult’ when it suited you.”

  More silence.

  Dad: “That’s not fair.”