Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  “It feels awkward, I know,” Jason encouraged us. “But you’ll get used to it. I promise.”

  I wondered if “awkward” was a synonym for “the most painful thing ever” in the fencing world, but I didn’t say anything about my throbbing legs out loud.

  I looked around at the other underclassmen on either side of me. Everyone had a look of serious concentration on their faces as they struggled to get the moves right. Some kids giggled nervously as they tried to maneuver their bodies into these “awkward” new positions, but no one was laughing at anyone else. No one was talking about anything but fencing. It was only the first day, but already we felt like a team.

  Very quickly, fencing became a big part of my life. Coach Mustilli demanded it. In addition to practicing for almost three hours after school every day, Monday through Friday, we also had practice on Saturday mornings from nine a.m. to noon. Some kids on the team competed in the local and regional competitions as well, and those were held on Sundays! So there was no break from this sport. It felt like fencing was on 24/7. But Coach Mustilli always said that commitment and hard work were what separated champions from everyone else. He warned us that if we didn’t want to put in the time, we didn’t need to be on the team, because there were plenty of other students willing to put in the work. And Coach made sure we worked hard every day. Practice was methodical and intense. We usually started out with a warm-up run and group stretching led by the team captains. If anyone showed up late to practice, the whole team had to do sprints down the length of the hallway adjacent to the cafeteria. If ten students were late, we had to run ten sprints. No exceptions. We trained as a team, we won and lost as a team. I loved it because Coach Mustilli created a meritocracy. Everyone was treated equally, and you got out of the sport what you put in. We weren’t Black or white or Muslim or Christian, we were athletes. I knew when I walked into practice every day, I’d just be one more Columbia High School fencer, not the Muslim girl or the Black girl. Even though I was the only Muslim on the team and one of only a handful of people of color, I always felt safe and that I was exactly where I belonged.

  I didn’t always feel that comfortable when we went to other schools to compete. Whenever we went to compete against other schools in New Jersey, I never knew what to expect. Fencing had a reputation for being an elite, white sport, and oftentimes that’s what the other teams looked like when we made it to their schools. All white students, white coaches, and white parents watching from the bleachers.

  Our team of more than a hundred fencers, with five Black kids and two Asians, was considered a model of diversity in the world of high school fencing. As the only hijabi, I often felt all eyes land on me when I walked into a gym for the first time. There were times I couldn’t wait to fence just so I could hide behind my mask and blend in with the other athletes. The feeling of dozens of eyes on me made me uncomfortable. But at the beginning of my high school fencing career, I didn’t get to fence all that much, because only the varsity team actually got to compete.

  In a varsity match, only nine of the team’s best fencers compete, three in épée, three in foil, and three in saber. Each fencer had to fence three bouts, one against each of the members of the other team in the same weapon. Whoever scored five points first won the bout. The first school to win fourteen bouts won the meet.

  My first year on the team, I only fenced in the junior varsity matches. But not all teams were as large as Columbia’s, so if there weren’t any other underclassmen to fence, all of us JV kids would be left to cheer on our teammates. Coach Mustilli never made the kids who didn’t get to fence feel like we weren’t integral members of the team. While everyone knew who the top nine fencers on our team were, when the varsity team won, it was a win for all of us, not just the nine superstars who were on the strip that day. Coach Mustilli had a way of making each of us feel equally valuable, whether we fenced, cheered, or kept score. And if our team was winning by a sizable margin, which was more often than not, he would substitute a few of the junior varsity members in for a bout, so that’s why we were always told we had to be ready to fence. That chance to be plucked off the sidelines and sent into action motivated everyone on the team to work hard, because you never knew when Coach might decide to throw you on the strip.

  By the end of my first season, even though I hadn’t quite distinguished myself as the world’s best épée fencer, I was in great shape. I could see muscles in my thighs and stomach, where I had never seen muscles before. I could run four miles without even breaking a sweat. I felt confident and strong. I had a great new group of friends. And I had come to realize that while I enjoyed volleyball because I got to hang out with Damaris and my other friends, as an athlete, I much preferred fencing because it was an individual sport. I wanted to be in total control of the outcome of the game, so when I lost I was the only one to blame, and I could train harder to do better the next time.

  By the end of my second year on the team, I still wasn’t in the starting lineup, but I was a more confident fencer. I remember watching the newbies come in to practice and thinking how far I’d come since my days of learning how to hold my épée. When we had open fencing, where we were able to fence against each other at practice, Coach Jason didn’t have to correct my fencing or footwork as much as he used to, and I could hold my own against some of the upperclassmen. Coach Mustilli was also letting me fence during varsity matches more often, especially when we were competing at larger matches against more than one school. Nicole and Ana still liked to poke fun at me for choosing to fence, but no one could deny the fencing team was Columbia High School’s most accomplished sports team. And when my friends saw how hard I had to work to be a fencer, I know I earned their respect.

  “I would never be trying to come to school on Saturdays for practice,” Ana said on a Monday in the cafeteria after I told her and Nicole what my crazy weekend had entailed. Practice, matches, and then homework.

  “Me either,” Nicole quipped. “And I can’t even imagine not being able to sleep in on Saturday mornings.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Damaris said, shaking her head. “And keep your grades up.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t about to tell my friends that I loved my team and couldn’t imagine going through high school without them. I didn’t feel like I could put into words how happy being part of the fencing team made me—not because I loved fencing so much, but because it felt good to be in that environment. Even when practice was hard, we still had fun. As a team, we were always winning, and, most important of all, I fit in without having to try. It was the only sport I had ever participated in where I didn’t have to wear something different. I didn’t stand out like I did on every other sports team I had been a part of. I could just be me, and for that reason alone, I was more than willing to practice six days a week and work harder than I ever had before. To me it was more than worth it.

  “Are you still going to play softball this spring?” Damaris asked. She knew I wasn’t having an easy time getting along with the girls on the softball team and I had confessed to her that I was thinking about quitting.

  I still wasn’t sure. My original plan was to play a sport each season for all four years of high school, but the softball team was tough. I was the only non-white person on the team, and the other girls generally weren’t very friendly. When I compared playing softball with my experience on the fencing team, it was hard to find the enthusiasm to play a game I didn’t love, with team members who made me feel like a third wheel on a bicycle, unnecessary and in the way. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “Maybe I’ll play this year and see what happens.

  “A very diplomatic Ibtihaj Muhammad answer.” Damaris laughed.

  I laughed, too. “Hey, I gotta make sure I’m doing the right thing for my future,” I said. “I’m not as cute as you, Damaris, so I can’t just depend on my looks.”

  Damaris, Ana, and Nicole all laughed. No matter what, it always felt good to have my girls.

  CHAPTER 5 />
  If you’re going to do something, you’re going to do it to be the best.

  —COLIN KAEPERNICK

  Who made that noise?” Coach Mustilli demanded as he ran into the épée and foil practice room.

  No one answered. “I heard a roar, and I want to know who it was,” he said, in his usual forceful tone.

  I raised my hand, “It was me, Coach.”

  “Ibtihaj, get over here,” he yelled. I dropped my weapon and mask and ran over to Coach Mustilli. I had been free fencing with my teammate and gotten really into it when I scored my last winning point. She’d attacked me like we were in a real competition instead of just practice, so I’d responded in kind. It wasn’t often you heard épée fencers yell, especially at practice, so I figured I probably shouldn’t have yelled so loud, but the instinct to open my mouth and scream as the point of my blade hit her square in the chest, scoring a perfect touch, was too much to resist.

  The roar couldn’t be contained within me.

  “Yes, Coach?” I said on my approach. My friend Alex was standing nearby, and I stole a glance in her direction, looking for some guidance on what to expect, but she just shrugged.

  For a minute, Coach Mustilli stood there looking at me and then a funny smile appeared on his face. Then he spoke. “Ibtihaj, I didn’t know you had it in you. That’s the kind of fire we want to hear and see,” he said, his face flushed with excitement.

  I was confused, and Coach Mustilli must have seen it on my face.

  “I heard that roar all the way from the other room,” he said. “When I hear a sound like that, I come running, because that is the sound of a champion,” he said, smiling like a man who had just unearthed a hidden treasure.

  I smiled back. I didn’t really know what to say, so I stood there awkwardly waiting for the coach to continue. So far, I’d distinguished myself on the team by being a hard worker and by being the one who always arrived to practice on time and ready to get to work. It’s why I had been voted captain this year, even though I was only a junior. But it felt nice to have the coach call me a champion. Even though I hadn’t earned the merit individually as of yet, the team had captured the state championship title two years in a row. This would be my first year in the coveted starting lineup on the varsity team, and I was really looking forward to contributing tangible wins for the team.

  “I want you to come fence with the saber squad,” Coach said.

  That was not what I was expecting. At all. The last thing I wanted to do was switch weapons. I was finally one of the top épée fencers, and Coach wanted me to start all over from scratch? Saber was so different from épée. Not only would I have to learn an entirely new fencing technique, but the system of scoring was also totally different. In épée, you score a point by compressing the tip of the blade of the sword anywhere on your opponent’s body, from the head to the toes. With saber, the target area is from the waist up, and saberists can use slashing motions to score with the side of their blades. I’d watched the saber fencers practice sometimes, and everything was a lot faster and way more aggressive than in épée. During competitions, the saber fencers were loud and screamed on almost every point, almost as if they were trying to convince the referee they deserved the point.

  “No, thanks. I like épée,” I said to the coach politely.

  Coach Mustilli stopped smiling. “Then you’re off the team,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. “I don’t want to get kicked off the team, Coach,” I said. “I just don’t want to switch weapons.”

  “Look, Ibti,” Coach Mustilli said, softening his tone. “All of our saber girls are graduating next year, so I need a new saber squad ready for next season. You’d be in our starting lineup.”

  “But I really like fencing épée.” I tried again. I wouldn’t dare say this aloud to him, but I also liked my épée friends. Over the last two years, practicing together, we had our own little group, and I didn’t want to lose that.

  Coach Mustilli rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “Do you like winning?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, the team needs you to win. We need a saber fencer, and you have what it takes to help this team repeat as state champions,” he said.

  I felt a wave of anxiety run over my body. He was putting a lot of sudden pressure on me. Of course I wanted to help the team win and defend our state championship title, but was I really the person to do that? Wasn’t there someone already fencing saber who was better prepared than me?

  “But why me?” I asked, giving the coach a chance to change his mind. Maybe if he thought this idea through he’d realize I wasn’t his best option.

  “Because I heard you roar,” Coach said as if it were obvious. “Only a saber fencer roars like that. I thought you were a meek little person, but you obviously have something else going on in there.”

  I didn’t know if I should be nervous or excited by coach’s comment. But before I could say anything, Coach Mustilli added, “I know a star when I see one, Ibti, and you have the makings of a great saber fencer.”

  It was encouraging to hear. But did I really have the potential to be a great saberist? I kept coming back to all of the extra work I’d have to put in. I tried to imagine myself as one of the best on our team, but did I have the willpower and patience to learn a whole new weapon? I would have to start watching saber bouts more closely as soon as possible. Before I could ask any more questions, Coach Mustilli was explaining what made a great saber fencer and guiding me out of the épée and foil room. The decision had been made for me. When we got to the cafeteria where the saber fencers practiced, Coach Mustilli turned to me and said with a wicked grin, “Welcome to the dark side.” Then we got right down to business.

  Coach Mustilli began by telling me that fencing saber is all about speed and strategy. “It’s controlled accuracy,” he said. “To master saber, you’ve got to make quick decisions and execute them just as quickly,” he said. This was very different from épée. “When you were fencing épée,” he continued, “you were waiting around for just the right moment to make a move. You were reacting to your opponent. With saber, there is no waiting, Ibti. I need you to be a hunter and move like that,” he said with a quick snap of his fingers.

  I tried to keep up with Coach Mustilli’s instructions, tried to grab on to some of his obvious passion for saber fencing, but I still didn’t know if Coach had chosen the right person. I didn’t see myself as a “hunter,” and I didn’t know if I was capable of the speed he was talking about. Was it possible Coach saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself, I wondered.

  “How will I know if I can do it?” I asked Coach Mustilli. What I really wanted to know was, what would happen if I failed, but I didn’t dare utter the “f-word” out loud in front of Coach Mustilli.

  “You don’t have to know,” Coach Mustilli said. “You just have to do what I tell you to do. And if I tell you to run through that wall”—he pointed to one—“you’re going through it because you’ll know that it is my job to tell you what to do and your job is to do it. No questions asked. Can you handle that?”

  I nodded.

  I didn’t know if Coach Mustilli was crazy or just super enthusiastic, but something about what he said sent shivers of excitement up and down my spine. If the coach was right about me, that I could be a star, I was all in for that experience.

  The first time I picked up the saber, it felt a bit awkward to hold. I had to get used to the grip—because it was different than the épée—but I loved how light the blade felt in my hand. I tried to imagine myself moving lightning fast on the strip with this new weapon that seemed engineered for speed. Coach Mustilli reminded me I could use the sides of my saber blade to score, not just the tip, and that if I missed the target, I should keep my blade out in front of me on defense to control my opponent’s attack. He showed me the major defense moves—the parries—I would need as a saberist, and he gave me a handful of DVDs to take home to watch
champion saberists and told me to pay attention to their footwork more than anything.

  On my second day as a saberist, Coach Mustilli called one of my teammates over to fence with me. I tried not to freak out. Not only did he give me very few pointers before throwing me to the wolves, but he also called over Rachel Carlson, who was the best female saberist we had on the team.

  “Okay, Ibti, let’s see what you’ve got,” Coach Mustilli said.

  “But I don’t know what I’m doing,” I protested.

  “That’s how you learn,” Coach said with a sly grin. “Sink or swim. But I think you’re going to swim, Ibti.”

  Coach told Rachel to grab me a lamé, a conductive jacket that defined the scoring area on the fencer. He reminded me that the target area in saber was from the waist up. Once hooked up to the scoring machines using a body cord, points register when any part of the blade makes contact with either the metal mask or the lamé. This was much different than fencing épée, where the tip of the blade had to be compressed on the target to score.

  Coach told us to get on guard, or starting position. “Ready,” he said. “Fence!”

  Before I even knew what was happening, Rachel rushed at me, her sword slashing. She hit me with the side of her blade and the coach yelled, “Point left.” I don’t even think I moved out of the ready position. Rachel quickly went back to her side of the strip, and out of habit, I did the same.