Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  “You have to be quick,” the coach was saying. “Fencing is all about speed and agility. It’s strategy, it’s technique. And everything comes at you within a millionth of a second. You think you can handle that?” Before I could answer, Coach Mustilli grabbed a sword and was demonstrating what a fencer should look like in action.

  “This is the strip,” he said, pointing to the long, narrow, red rectangle on the floor. “All fencing takes place on this strip. If you step off the strip, or get pushed off, game over. Got that?” With his sword in the air, the coach proceeded to move back and forth on the strip in a series of lunges and quick steps, all the while moving his sword in jabbing and thrusting motions. I felt my eyes grow wide, and I snuck a peek at my dad, whose face was impassive. I turned back to watch the coach.

  “Now before we have you get your hands on a sword and you poke me in the eye, let’s show you how you have to move on the strip,” Coach said. “Come stand over here with me.”

  I walked over to the strip and stood facing Coach Mustilli. I could barely look him in the eye. I felt incredibly self-conscious.

  “Okay, Ibtihaj,” Coach Mustilli started. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you put your right leg in front of you and then bend it, like you’re doing a lunge.”

  I did what he said, but he wasn’t satisfied.

  “Straighten that back leg,” he said.

  The coach must have sensed my nervousness because before he put his hands on my back leg he announced, “I’m going to just adjust your leg here a little bit.”

  I think I flinched when he touched me.

  I think my dad did, too. He definitely made some sort of noise in the back of his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Both of us were uncomfortable, but the coach seemed oblivious.

  He continued on with his lesson, occasionally putting his hands on me to adjust my stance or to move my arm into the right position. He taught me how to lunge forward and then scoot right back. Lunge forward and scoot right back. It all felt very awkward and boring. There wasn’t a lot of action happening. My body felt strange in the neutral fencing position with my knees bent and pointed outward. It felt like I was executing something in between a karate move and calypso dance. I could also feel Abu’s thoughts. He kept shifting in his seat every time the coach put his hand on my leg or waist. I think it was pretty clear that my dad wasn’t comfortable with what was going on. The frown on my father’s face only added to my discomfort. When the coach finally said our time was up, I let out a sigh of relief. Abu thanked Coach Mustilli and paid him in cash. I almost ran back to the car.

  When we got home, my mom could barely wait for us to walk through the front door.

  “How was it, Ibtihaj?” she asked me, a look of giddy anticipation on her face.

  I glanced at my father, who answered for the both of us. “Ibtihaj will not be fencing,” he said.

  My mom looked confused. “Why, what happened?”

  “That man had his hands all over Ibtihaj,” my dad said, the concern he’d been holding back now uncorked.

  My mother turned to me for confirmation. “You didn’t like it, baby?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It was okay. I don’t know,” I said softly. “I didn’t feel very comfortable in that garage, and it wasn’t all that exciting.”

  Abu patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll find another sport for you,” he said and told me to go upstairs to my room.

  I didn’t need to be told twice, and I headed for the stairs. I figured my dad was going to give my mom a blow-by-blow of the awkward fencing lesson and all the reasons I should never go back. I kind of felt bad for my mom because she was so sure this was going to be the perfect activity for me, but as far as I was concerned, fencing wasn’t it. Like track and tennis, I was glad I tried it, but it wasn’t for me.

  CHAPTER 4

  You can be the lead in your own life.

  —KERRY WASHINGTON

  I had to come up with a plan.

  Even though it was hot in my attic bedroom, I had my own room now that Asiya had moved downstairs to share a room with Faizah. I could think in peace and escape into my own world when I needed to. Amy told me I was crazy to be worried about college before we even started high school, but I wasn’t going to wait until it was too late. That’s not who I am. I don’t wait for things to happen to me, I go out and make them happen. When we finished our biology class at NJIT, Ms. Ramos had warned us about the student with a 4.0 GPA. He’d been accepted into five great colleges but ended up not going to any of them because his parents couldn’t afford the tuition.

  “Don’t become the next cautionary tale,” Ms. Ramos had said, giving a strong warning to us rising ninth-graders in the room. “It is never too early to figure out how you’re going to pay for college. Don’t automatically assume your parents are going to figure it out for you, either.”

  I knew Ms. Ramos was right, especially in my case. With four other kids to think about, there wasn’t going to be a blank check from my parents for my college tuition. I had to focus on finding a way to pay for college. My parents would be there to help—my mom bought a giant book about college scholarships for me—but the work of earning that scholarship would fall to me. Ms. Ramos had already made us come up with our wish list of colleges we wanted to apply to, and I had chosen all eight schools in the Ivy League plus Duke, because I wanted to go to one of the best schools in the country. Earlier in the summer, we’d had a college fair, and representatives from the top colleges had been there to sell us on their institutions. I had collected their catalogs and completely bought into the dream they were selling. I wanted to go to one of the schools with the best reputation and that offered the best education. After all, if I was going to be a doctor, my future was riding on it.

  I’d often pull out the collection of college catalogs I’d picked up and lay them out on my bed. I loved looking at the glossy pages of campus life, young people on their own and independent. I couldn’t wait to get there. To college. To my future.

  As I started to brainstorm how to get the most scholarship money for college, I again paged through my catalogs and I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. All these Ivy League institutions had fencing teams. I grabbed the Princeton catalog just to double-check and, sure enough, under sports teams, fencing was listed. I hopped off my bed and went over to my desk and turned on my computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I tried to remember what I’d learned at that lesson in that man’s garage. I didn’t remember much, only that it was rather uncomfortable and kind of boring. I started typing questions about fencing into the search bar on my computer, and one hour later realized I needed to give fencing another try. It was a practical decision. Ms. Ramos had told us to go after scholarships that we were uniquely qualified for instead of the ones that “everyone and their mama were going to try to get.” I quickly devised my plan.

  I had four years to become a good enough fencer to earn a scholarship. I could do that, I thought—maybe naively. I knew I’d put in the work. And I figured, even if I didn’t get good enough for a scholarship, it would still make me stand out on my applications. I noticed that almost all of the fencers in the pictures I’d seen were white men, so a young Black woman who fenced, that would definitely make me an original. Like Serena and Venus Williams. And that’s what Ms. Ramos said was the key: figure out how to make yourself stand out in the crowd. “Don’t ever settle for being like everyone else,” she’d said. I’d laughed a little inside when she said that, because “being like everyone else” wasn’t even an option for me, the African-American girl wearing hijab.

  I was so excited for high school. I devised this game plan that included taking all honors and advanced placement classes and I wanted to play three new sports, one for each season, of course, because I knew colleges wanted to see a diverse résumé. My parents did, too. Playing sports had become such an integral part of our family culture, and I saw no reason to move away from the status quo. I w
as going to do volleyball in the fall because Damaris played club volleyball and told me how much fun it was. Fencing would be my winter sport, and I would play softball in the spring. Now that I’d convinced my dad that fencing could possibly net me a scholarship and because I’d be fencing on a team instead of taking personal lessons in someone’s garage, he was 100 percent in favor of my plan. It was perfect. Now all I had to do was convince my friends to try out for the fencing team with me. That way, if I still didn’t like it, at least I’d be hanging with my girls.

  After volleyball practice, I reminded Nicole and Ana that fencing tryouts were coming up. “All we have to do is show up for the first day of practice, and essentially we’re on the team,” I said, trying to make it sound easy.

  “But do we really want to do this, Ibti?” Ana asked.

  “Yeah,” Nicole quipped. “Are we sure fencing is ‘the thing’?”

  Nicole’s dad had fenced in college, so he was really keen on her checking it out. And Ana’s mom wanted her to try out, too. So luckily for me, that left both Nicole and Ana with little choice in the matter.

  But I wanted my friends to share in my enthusiasm. “Aren’t you guys even just a bit curious to see what fencing is like?” I asked.

  They shrugged. Nicole and Ana were on the volleyball team, and we’d become friendly at practice, plus Ana and I had a few classes together.

  “Don’t worry, Ibti,” Ana said. “We’ll be there. But if it’s lame, I’m out.”

  “Yeah,” Nicole said, nodding her head. “Me too.”

  On the day of tryouts, Ana, Nicole, and I met outside of the school cafeteria, where fencing practice was held. All of us were dressed in t-shirts and gym clothes. I had on my gray sweatpants, Nicole had on some cute purple Nike shorts, and Ana wore capris. We looked ready. Before we walked into the cafeteria, Ana asked me, “Ibti, aren’t you hot in those baggy pants?” she said. “It still feels like summer outside.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  “I’d be sweating if I had to wear long pants all the time. I don’t know how you do it,” she said.

  “I’m used to it,” I said.

  “Well, girl,” Nicole said, “I could never be a Muslim because I swear to God I am always hot. Plus, I look too cute in tank tops.” We all giggled, but I cringed on the inside. I hated feeling different, especially around my friends.

  I forced myself to ignore their comments and kept a smile on my face. I had learned a long time ago how to assimilate, cover my discomfort, and just keep it moving.

  “Come on, you guys, let’s get in there,” I said, hoping to get them interested.

  I pushed the door open to the cafeteria, and the three of us peeked in. Most of the people milling around in the room were white and kind of dorky looking. At first glance, it didn’t look like a welcoming space for three Black girls with something to prove. We pulled our heads out of the room and let the doors close.

  Nicole and Ana looked at each other and almost in unison said, “No way!”

  I laughed. “Come on, you guys,” I said. “Let’s just check it out.”

  “Sorry, Ibti, we’ve only been in high school for two months, and we are not going to kill any chance we have at having a normal social life by joining that team,” Ana said.

  I turned to Nicole. I couldn’t believe she was going to just walk away. “Come on, it could be fun,” I tried.

  Nicole scowled. “You cannot make me go in there, Ibti.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I blurted out. I couldn’t believe they were ditching me. But then again, lately, a lot of my friends were now more interested in boys and being popular than anything else. Me? I wasn’t ready to give up my childhood. I still liked riding bikes, playing with my Barbies, and walking down to Main Street to get ice cream. Chasing boys and going to parties weren’t even options in the Muhammad household anyway. My parents were consistent with their message of no parties. Maybe it was because I was only twelve years old when I started high school, but I could already feel some of my friends gravitating in a different direction. So I shouldn’t have been so surprised when Nicole and Ana decided to back out. Even still, it hurt my feelings.

  “Why don’t we all try out for the track team instead?” Ana asked. “That way we won’t be the only Black kids on the team. And we wouldn’t be associated with those guys in there,” she said, gesturing toward the kids in the cafeteria.

  At that moment, I had to make a choice: follow my friends or stick to my plan. I thought about trying out for the track team, and my mind immediately went to the uniform; what would I have to wear? Then I thought about the comments these girls had just made about my clothes and that clinched my decision. I was going to stick to my plan, because my plan was going to take me places.

  “I’m going to try out, you guys. I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” Ana said. “We’re leaving. Come on, Nicole.”

  They turned to collect their things.

  “You guys are going to regret this,” I said as they started to walk away.

  “No, we won’t,” Ana responded without turning around.

  I felt a mixture of anger and disappointment as I swiftly turned and marched into the cafeteria to find the sign-up sheet. I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about my reputation as a potential cool kid. As one of the only kids in hijab and one of the only Black kids in honors classes, I would always be different. Being popular wasn’t going to get me into college. If fencing was for nerds, I’d gladly fit right in. Besides, Columbia High School’s fencing team was known for having the most state championship titles and the highest GPAs in the school. That sounded like my kind of crowd.

  Coach Mustilli didn’t say anything to me as I stood in line with the other kids as he walked up and down the length of the cafeteria examining us all. I figured he didn’t remember me. There were at least 130 kids—boys and girls—and the coach and the team captains didn’t waste any time trying to make nice. Within minutes of the official start time, we were running hall sprints, doing frog jumps and bear crawls until sweat was pouring from every inch of our bodies. I never knew I could work that hard, and these were just the warm-ups! After almost an hour, we finally got to the fencing part. After an explanation about the three different types of fencing weapons—épée, saber, and foil—we were told to select one we thought we’d like to try. “It doesn’t matter to me what weapon you choose,” Coach Mustilli said. I wasn’t sure which weapon to select, but some of the other freshman girls I met earlier chose épée, so I did the same. When I picked up the sword, it was lighter than I expected. The blade was stiff and narrowed near the end. I was surprised to find what looked like a blunted smooth button at the tip of the sword instead of a sharp point. Clearly no one was going to draw blood with this weapon. I asked one of the older girls if she thought épée was a good choice for a beginner, and she said yes. Problem solved.

  Then the coaches sent us over to the team storage shed, positioned in the back corner of the cafeteria, to find protective gear to wear—they called them fencing whites. Finding equipment that was my size and didn’t smell like sweaty gym socks took time. I needed a jacket, half jacket, glove, and a chest protector. There were so many layers it was hard to figure out which piece to put on first. I had to watch the older kids demonstrate more than once. For the lower body, there were pants called knickers, long white socks, and special fencing sneakers. We were allowed to practice in our regular sweatpants so we didn’t have to wear the knickers. The best part of the uniform was the mask. The special wire-mesh mask, which Coach promised would protect us from losing an eye, felt weird on my head at first, but I was so happy that it fit comfortably over my hijab. I didn’t say anything because people probably would have thought I was crazy, but once we were all suited up, I looked like everyone else, covered from head to toe

  Then the coaches divided us up by weapon. I followed the épée group into the adjacent cafeteria, where we were broken down into
smaller groups of ten or so based on our ability.

  The more experienced kids got started with their drills right away. I watched them moving back and forth on the strip the coaches had marked off on the floor using masking tape. I was blown away by their finesse; they could take the tip of their blade and hit their target with such precision. To me, those kids looked like they were fighting for real. It was impressive. Their moves looked choreographed, and with their faces hidden behind a mask, they weren’t the same nerdy kids I saw in the hallways or sat next to in class, they were dueling opponents battling for victory.

  It wasn’t how I remembered my lesson the previous spring in Coach Mustilli’s garage. If fencing had looked this interesting, I probably would have kept at it. I turned my attention back to the coach. I couldn’t wait to get to the point where I looked like those kids and I could wield my sword with such precision. Coach Mustilli was working with the saber students, so those of us in the épée group worked with an assistant coach. His name was Jason, and he had recently graduated from New York University (NYU), where he had fenced for their team.

  On that first day, we barely touched our weapons. First, we had to learn basic fencing footwork: how to advance, retreat, and lunge. What sounded really simple, moving forward and backward, was actually quite difficult. The legs had to be shoulder distance apart with the front foot facing forward and the back foot perpendicular to the front. Legs bent at the knee, along with the other beginners, I awkwardly advanced down the strip in this position over and over again. Toes up first and then land on my heels. It felt like I was learning how to walk all over again, trying to keep my balance in this awkward position, while simultaneously trying to forget how much pain my legs were in. Once we got a handle on the footwork, we finally got to pick up our weapons. Jason told us to hold our épées steady with the tip of the blade pointed out in front. Then we were to lower our left hand behind us and lower our stances even more. I tried to follow his directions to the letter, but I felt a shooting pain through the front of my right quadriceps and down the back of my left hamstring.