All-American Muslim Girl

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “Maybe not. But when you insult the religion I joined you in, it insults me, too. It makes a mockery of my decision.”

  “We’re not religious! Saying a few words in front of an imam to please my mother isn’t the same thing as praying five times a day and doing all that bloody nonsense!”

  “How many times are we going to go through this?” she says. “It wasn’t to please your mother. It was for me! You don’t have the right to look into somebody else’s soul and make moral judgments about intent!”

  “You don’t pray, Elizabeth.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Come on. You don’t fast. You’re a Muslim in name only, like me,” he says. “Unless you’re doing things behind my back, like your daughter.”

  A gasp.

  It’s silent for a long time.

  “We need to take this down a notch,” Mom says. “Now.”

  Finally, my father’s voice, small and regretful: “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry, too.”

  “I shouldn’t make your issues mine.”

  “No, Mo. You shouldn’t.” She sighs. Cabinets open and shut forcefully, and then I hear the flicker of the stove. She’s probably making tea. “I know I shouldn’t have kept things from you. I didn’t want to betray Allie’s confidence—and furthermore, I think it’s important to keep this whole thing in perspective. You’re sorely lacking it.”

  He grunts.

  Hearing my parents go at it because of me makes my cheeks burn in shame.

  I close the door, not wanting to disturb them and upset them further—they’d be mortified if they knew I’d been listening.

  My father calling me naive rings in my ears.

  Muslims are targets. I get it. And I didn’t handle everything properly.

  But I can’t erase who I am. And I shouldn’t have to. And I don’t want to.

  Leila and Fatima and Dua and my grandmother and my cousins and every Muslim woman who wears hijab or publicly identifies as a Muslim—they’re not naive. And it’s unfair of my dad to imply they are.

  I might never wear hijab again, but it’s bigger than that. Why should Muslims be the ones who have to change? Why shouldn’t it be everybody else?

  I’m tired of people pleasing. I’m tired of hiding.

  I’m proud of being a Muslim. I want to show it to the world.

  And if that makes somebody uncomfortable—even if that somebody is my dad—maybe they’re the problem, not me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Samira was right: I’m picking up Arabic at light speed.

  It’s not like I’m going to be fluent anytime soon. It’s going to take years. But with every lesson, every chapter of Al-Kitaab, every Amr Diab or Nancy Ajram song on I play on repeat until I can sing along with comprehension, I’m assembling puzzle pieces. It doesn’t feel like I’m learning Arabic for the first time. It’s like I knew the language all along, and long-buried words are simply being excavated, dusted off, and carefully brought into the light.

  Dua continues taking charge of my musical education, curating Spotify playlists and forcing me to listen to them with her after school.

  Soon after Easter, the two of us sit in front of her computer, listening to the newest playlist she’s made.

  “We could have done this over FaceTime,” I say.

  “Where’s the fun in that? I wanted you with me while you listen.” She puts on a Nancy Ajram song. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Better than Beyoncé,” I say teasingly.

  “Okay, let’s not go there.”

  Together, we sit and listen. Dua sways a little in the chair, feeling the music and waving her hands in the same distinctive, undulating way my cousins do, while I look on awkwardly. I wish I were the kind of girl who looked cool dancing. Instead, it’s like somebody’s stabbing me with a hot poker.

  “This one. This line”—she sings along, off-key—“I freaking love it.” She looks at me, a mischievous look on her face. “Pop quiz. What’s she’s saying?”

  “Play it again?”

  Dua drags the song back a few seconds with her finger on the iPhone screen, and plays it again.

  “She’s saying, ‘I’m in love with you,’” I say. “And something about your eyes?”

  “Awesome!” Dua cheers.

  “I mean, that’s hardly advanced Arabic. I’ve known ‘I love you’ since I was like four.”

  “Whatevs. You’ve gotta celebrate the victories where you can find them. Where’s your Arabic textbook?”

  I pull out Al-Kitaab from my backpack. She flips through it, whistling.

  “This is no joke,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They jump right into it. And it’s written in Arabic!”

  I nod.

  “You know I can’t read and write Arabic, right?” she says.

  “You can’t?”

  “My parents never taught me. I can barely write my own name. You’re supposed to learn Arabic to read the Qur’an, but most of my cousins born in the US are the same. My parents were born in America—we all learned English first and Arabic second.”

  “Same with my family. My cousins are fluent, but English is their first language, not Arabic.”

  “Kind of ironic,” she says. “Considering everybody thinks we’re so foreign, but we were born here, English is our native language, and we can’t read a lick of Arabic.”

  “Caught between two worlds.”

  She shrugs. “Us and half the country, right? We’re all immigrants.” She clicks around, pulling up another playlist. “Hey, what’s up with Wells?” Her tone is nonchalant.

  “What do you mean?” I ask dully.

  “I’ve seen you ice each other in the hallways. You don’t sit together in the library before school. You’re taking the bus again. What happened? Did you break up?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes, silly.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I told you I’m here for you, and I mean it,” she says. “Bad things happen when people feel alone.”

  “I’ve felt alone a lot recently,” I admit. Then I give in and spill the whole story about the Easter party.

  “Wait, step back,” Dua says. “Jack Henderson? From TV?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s Wells’s dad? Whoa. Intense. And you went off on him? In his own house? On Easter?”

  “Not my finest hour,” I say, and grimace.

  She laughs, leaning back in the chair as if she’s personally reliving the moment. “I wish I was there to see it. My parents loathe that guy.”

  “He and Wells don’t have the best relationship.”

  “Okay,” Dua says, “but why are you punishing Wells for his dad?”

  I explain what Jack did on TV.

  “I mean, if I’m with Wells, I’m condoning his dad, don’t you think?” I say. “I’m saying what he does is okay.”

  She shrugs. “If you say so. I barely know Wells, but he doesn’t seem like the poster child for toxic masculinity. He seems like a pretty good guy.”

  “He is a good guy,” I whisper. “I miss him.”

  She scratches her chin. “Is he supportive of the religion?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Look, maybe you’re catching me in a good mood, but Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala, works in mysterious ways. You’re not marrying him. If he’s supportive of you practicing, and if you’re not—you know—going buck wild—”

  I start giggling. “Buck wild?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says. “Halal dating. Maybe you guys can do that—if you’re so despondent without him. You think he’d be cool with it?”

  “I don’t know. We left things pretty messy. We haven’t spoken since his dad’s … performance.”

  “Oh, please. I’ve seen how that boy looks at you in the hallway. He’ll forgive you. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll con
vert—and then you can marry him.”

  “Wells? As a revert? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She shrugs. “Your mom did it. Every convert starts somewhere.”

  I laugh. “Hey, weird thought. Maybe I can make it to the end of sophomore year still in a functional relationship before I start trying to get my brand-new sixteen-year-old boyfriend to change his religion to marry me.”

  Her cheeks redden. “It sounds silly when you say it like that.” She clicks around on the computer. “Wait, it’s May first. Astrology Universe is up.”

  “It’s not up. She’s always late. I checked this morning.”

  Dua spins the computer screen to face me. “Boom. It’s up now.”

  “Ooh!” The two of us crowd in front of the screen. “Do mine first.”

  “Too late.” She’s already clicked to hers. “Okay. Leo, Leo. Whadda we got…?” She skims, calling out key phrases. “‘Mercury ends retrograde’—that explains my iPhone falling in the toilet last week … ‘Your social life is going to be on fire’—what’s new?” she says, and grins at me. “‘Primed for success’—going to rock my final exams … Blah-di-blah, same old. Okay, let’s do yours.” She clicks on Aquarius.

  I read it out loud. “‘Family and friends will play a huge role this month’—that’s not a surprise. ‘Secrets are in your chart’—whoa, that’s kind of freaky.”

  “She’s always right.” Dua nods solemnly.

  “‘Stuff that happened in April, around the middle of the month, is going to come to the fore in May’—oh my God. Wells? My dad? Both?”

  “There’s no fighting your horoscope,” she says.

  “Oh, good, you’re reading your horoscopes,” Amina says sarcastically from the hallway.

  “Amina!” Dua shrieks. “Privacy!”

  “Not my fault your door is open. It’s haram, you know,” Amina says, waggling a carrot stick before taking a bite. “Mom wouldn’t be happy.”

  “Well, so is your flirtation with Fareed,” Dua snaps. “Should we tell her both and see which one pisses her off more?”

  Amina’s cheeks go pink. “I’m not doing anything. We’re talking.”

  “You sure? You two looked supercute in the backyard yesterday as he was leaving. Does Zaki know you’re dating his best friend?”

  “Wallahi, Dua, if you say one single word, I will end you. We’re just talking,” she says between clenched teeth.

  “You owe me one,” Dua says, blowing her sister a kiss. “Close the door, please.”

  Amina slams the door in a huff as Dua turns back to the computer. “You’re so lucky you’re an only,” she says. “Okay, what’s Wells’s sign? Let’s do him next.”

  “Leo, just like you.”

  “All the best people are,” she says. “One point for Wells.”

  * * *

  As I’m doing homework upstairs before dinner, I get a text from Wells.

  WELLS: Hi, it’s me

  WELLS: Can we talk?

  ME: Sure

  ME: Like, on the texting machine?

  WELLS: I’m nearby. Could be at yours in five?

  Soon after, we sit on the screened-in porch overlooking my backyard, drinking from a freshly made pitcher of sweet tea my mom put out for us. She closes the porch door behind her, peeking through the screen at me quizzically.

  Okay? she mouths.

  I nod at her discreetly. She nods back and then leaves.

  “I wanted to show you something,” Wells says.

  “Yeah?”

  He reaches into his messenger bag, covered with patches of his favorite bands, and pulls out a black-and-yellow book. It’s one of those Dummies guides, about Islam.

  I burst out laughing. His cheeks redden.

  “It’s funny?” he mutters.

  “It’s sweet.”

  “I wanna learn. I’m trying to understand it better, so I can understand you better. I’ve”—his voice cracks, and he clears his throat—“uh, I’ve missed you.”

  I reach out and take the book, flipping through it while I try to calm my racing mind.

  “I’m sorry about my dad,” he says. “My mom told me what he said on TV.”

  “What’d she tell you?”

  “They got into a big fight about it. She wasn’t happy.”

  I nod.

  “We got into a fight, too,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I told him he needed to back off. He said…” Wells pauses, shakes his head. “Anyhow, he tried to get me to break up with you. I didn’t explain that we already kind of…”

  I reach over and touch his hand. I can’t help it. I have to.

  “Sorry I made a scene at your house,” I say.

  The touch seems to relax him. He threads his fingers through mine, and we look at each other.

  Just like that, I know we’re gonna be okay.

  “The thing is,” Wells says, “you were right. He threatened to stop paying for stuff. Never heard that one before.”

  “Did he?”

  “He tried. My mom got in the way.”

  “She stopped him?”

  “I guess she’s been putting money away—a lot of money—for a while. Turned into a fight, it got ugly, and…” He clears his throat. “Anyhow, Dad’s back now. He does that when they fight. Disappears for a few hours, goes to the club for cigars or whatever. Then he gets over it and pretends it never happened.”

  We fall into silence.

  “So I have this theory,” I say eventually. “Not really a theory, but more of a realization. Your parents are human.”

  He laughs. “Breakthrough.”

  “No, hear me out. Everybody is like, ‘Oh, you need to obey your parents. You need to respect your parents.’ It’s a major point in the Qur’an. And in a lot of cases, it’s true. But think about the most ridiculous person you know. Like Mikey Murphy. He’s probably going to be a dad someday. And suddenly, because he had sex, a tiny human who shares his DNA has to respect him? Even if he spouts nonsense? Even if he’s a bad person? Just because somebody is a parent doesn’t mean they transform into a saint. It doesn’t automatically mean they’re worthy of respect.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

  “What if your parents aren’t worth obeying? What if they’re wrong?”

  He laughs. “We’re screwed.”

  “Or maybe,” I say, “we’re free.”

  “You’re lucky,” he says. “You’ve got good parents.”

  “Yeah. I do. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  And I catch him up on my fight with my father.

  “We’ve barely spoken since. Mostly silent dinners. No more movie night. Just awkwardness,” I say. “He gets that I’m growing up, but it still bugs him that I’m not his little girl anymore and he can’t make me listen. He’s annoyed I didn’t tell him about your dad. And he’s hurt that I hid the praying thing from him.”

  “How long will it take him to get over it?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll ever get over it. I mean, the thing with your dad—yeah, whatever. But the religious thing … that’s a pretty fundamental disconnect. He thinks I’m stupid for being religious, which means he doesn’t respect me anymore, and I’m so hurt for knowing he looks down on me I can’t bring myself to talk to him. It’s a big mess.”

  “I wish there was something I could do.”

  Okay, time to kick this awkwardness into high gear.

  “There is. But you’re going to hate it.”

  “Maybe. Tell me anyway.”

  “It’s silly.”

  “Allie. C’mon. Tell me.”

  I take a deep breath, suddenly feeling freezing. “I want to try halal dating.”

  “Sounds like something you eat on a high holiday. What is it again?”

  “It’s like … we date, we’re in a relationship, but no sex,” I say, blushing. “Like, ever. I mean, yes, someday, but only if we’re married. Not that I want to marry you
… Not that I don’t want to marry you.” Oh God. This conversation is a disaster. “Anyhow, it’s kind of like PG dating, and I’m going to go hide in my room for a hundred years now.”

  Despite himself, he laughs.

  “PG dating?” His face looks like he’s smelled something weird.

  Then he chews on a thumbnail.

  “Can we make out? Can we be alone? Are you going to be grounded forever if I put my arm around you?”

  “I hope you’re joking. First of all, I’m not doing this for my parents. And, secondly, hour-long make-out sessions lying down in a dark bedroom obviously aren’t okay, but—”

  “Can I bargain you down to twenty-second make-out sessions sitting on a lit porch? In a row?”

  I giggle. “More like two seconds. And once.”

  “No sex. Yeesh. That kind of sucks.”

  He starts chewing on the thumbnail again.

  “But who am I kidding?” he says. “I mean … I’ve made it sixteen years.”

  I push through my embarrassment. “The idea is that you take away the physical temptation, so you build a real connection instead.”

  He nods. “I get it. When Mikey had his first girlfriend last year, all they did was make out—like, seriously, get a room—and he barely knew her favorite color. He didn’t know her favorite band, and he never went to her softball games. He didn’t even know that she hated The Empire Strikes Back.”

  “Sacrilege.”

  “Why are you even dating, you know? I mean, hooking up is one thing, but if you’re gonna be in a relationship—” He stops, looking panicked. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’d never stop busting my balls.”

  I laugh. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  We stare at each other, and I feel that familiar nervous thumping against my chest.

  To calm myself down, I start playing with my hair, twirling it into a corkscrew and then pulling the ends through my fingers over and over. “I’m not against getting physical,” I say, “if that’s what people wanna do—get on with your bad self—but I like this way more. The closer I get to Islam, the more I study, the stronger I feel. I want to keep it up and see where it goes.”

  He’s quiet, staring at his hands. Finally, he looks at me, resolved.

  “Whatever I have to do to be with you, Allie, I’m in.”