Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  “Welcome to human resources,” Craig said as he led me to his corner office with views that showed off the impressive New York City skyline. He gestured to the seat in front of his desk, and we both sat down.

  “So, Ms. Muhammad,” Craig said, “tell me a little bit about yourself.”

  I was ready for this open-ended question. I launched into my abbreviated life story where I highlighted my academic achievements and my success in fencing. I emphasized my ability to work independently, that I was a self-starter and had excellent time management skills. I finished talking about my desire to work in international law and how a job at this firm would be the perfect gateway into that field. I told Craig how I’d studied Arabic at Duke and in Morocco.

  “That’s all impressive,” Craig said. “And I have to say you have a lot of the skills and attributes that we’re looking for in our paralegal candidates.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling. I tried not to sound too excited, but inside I was feeling very confident.

  “Now, as I’m sure you are aware, Ms. Muhammad, this position will be in our mergers and acquisitions department, which is a very demanding department to work in. Everything is always an emergency or high stakes. There is no room for mistakes or accidents.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And the lawyers you’d be working for are very demanding, and if they need you to stay at the office to work until two a.m., then you have to stay on until two a.m., or come in on weekends if need be. Would you be comfortable with that?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I am known for my work ethic. I am not afraid of working hard or staying late if that’s what’s required of me.”

  “Okay,” Craig said, but there was an odd note of doubt in his voice. He paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m just wondering if there would be any conflict with your, um, lifestyle choices that might interfere with the work we do here.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. It was illegal for an employer to ask someone about their religion in a job interview. My religion was evident in my name and it sat obviously covering my head, so I knew Craig was referring to my religion. But I didn’t understand what he was trying to get at circuitously.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “Well, I’m just thinking that there are certain things about your, um, lifestyle that would prevent you from giving one hundred percent here in the office.”

  Now I was really confused and, honestly, I was angered, too. Before I could take a minute to consider it, I just blurted out, “Are you saying because I’m a Muslim I won’t be able to do the work here?”

  Craig immediately threw his hands up as if to block the words that had just come out of my mouth.

  “No, no, no. I would never say something like that. I’m just thinking that maybe some of the late nights here or working with certain people might be uncomfortable or interfere with some of the things we do here. For example, I’m wondering if your head wrap is something you wear all the time, because we do have a company dress code policy that is really strict and you might feel out of place.”

  I was shocked. Why would I feel out of place? Why would being a Muslim prevent me from doing the work at a law firm? But this wasn’t a moment to get indignant if I wanted this job. I simply needed to explain what being a Muslim meant and what it didn’t. At this point in my life, I should have been used to explaining myself, and yet it always felt like an unfortunate burden.

  “Mr. Finch,” I said in a reassuring tone, “I have lived and worked and gone to school with non-Muslim people my whole life. I don’t feel uncomfortable in those situations.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Actually, he probably wasn’t worried that I’d be uncomfortable, I’m sure he was thinking that his other employees would be uncomfortable around me.

  After that, Craig Finch asked me more banal questions, like where I lived in New Jersey and what my favorite class at Duke had been and why. I knew my answers didn’t matter. It was obvious that he only saw my hijab, not me. I continued to answer his questions and kept a smile on my face, but I knew the interview was over. As we walked back to the elevator, I knew that would be the last time I ever saw Craig Finch, and it was.

  Following that interview, I continued applying for jobs. Now seven months since I graduated, my phone had stopped ringing. The whole experience was unsettling and completely demoralizing. I started to feel desperate. I wasn’t used to this level of powerlessness. As an athlete, I knew if I worked a little harder I would find the success that was eluding me. As a student, I knew if I struggled, I could find a tutor or take an extra class, and eventually I would catch on. But here we were in real life, and for all of my smarts and skills I couldn’t think of one single way to get what I wanted, a good job in corporate America. I even applied to Teach for America—the national teacher placement organization that places college graduates in needy schools in underserved communities. I hoped to have more luck outside of the corporate world, but I was turned away after the third round of interviews. I didn’t want to assume that my frustration finding a job was because of my religion, my last name, or because I wore hijab, but I wasn’t naïve. It was at least part of the problem.

  Ever since the September 11 attacks, Muslims in America were looked at differently. On the morning the terrorists struck the Twin Towers in New York, I was in the eleventh grade. The teachers turned the television sets on in our high school in Maplewood to watch the horror unfold, and all of the Muslim boys, including my brother, were rounded up and isolated in one single classroom for the rest of the day. School officials said it was for their own protection, but it sounded like punishment and discrimination to me when Qareeb came home and told us what had happened to him. I had no idea they had treated him that way because I was left in class to watch the carnage with the rest of the students in my grade. From that day forward, it was apparent that Muslims had become the boogeyman in America. Hate crimes against Muslims in America have more than quadrupled since 2001, and everyday activities like traveling through airports are fraught with tension. It was 2008, and I had been lucky enough to avoid any direct threats of violence, but now I had to wonder if the reason I wasn’t able to land a job was because of people’s prejudice against Muslims. At worst, I was a potential terrorist; at best, I was an outsider who wouldn’t fit into corporate culture.

  The day after the interview with Craig Finch I found myself back in New York City. I wasn’t looking for a job, though—I was going to visit the Peter Westbrook Foundation. After I left Craig Finch’s office, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions, I had walked around midtown trying to figure out my next steps, but with everything in my life dangling in limbo, nothing was clear and everything seemed out of my control. I couldn’t force anyone to give me a job. At least I could come back to the one thing in my life that had always been a constant: fencing.

  Standing outside of the foundation building, my limbs tingled with a sense of familiarity, like they longed to get back on the strip. Fencing felt like the one thing in my life that I could actually control. I didn’t have a plan or a goal, I just wanted to be in a space where I knew what the rules were and where I didn’t have to prove myself. If there was even just a small part of the day where I was doing something for myself, instead of waiting for someone or something to make my life make sense, I was ready to give fencing another chance.

  Soon enough, I fell back into my old routine of going to the foundation four days a week. Not only was it nice to reconnect with my friends at the foundation, but it brought back some sense of regularity to my life. Now I didn’t just have to sit home and wait for my phone to ring.

  Most of the other students in my classes were in high school or still in college, and I was twenty-one, but I didn’t care. I liked losing myself in the physicality of sport where I didn’t have to think or plan for what was next. I just had to show up and work. On my worst days, fenc
ing was my therapy. If I’d wake up feeling aimless or uncertain about where my life was headed I’d train harder to be certain I was at least the best fencer that day. With all of my emotions charged up in the saber, I’d attack without mercy. I’m sure some of the younger fencers didn’t understand my tenacity or competitive nature during practice, but fencing was my only way to seek revenge on an enemy with no name. I couldn’t pounce on Craig Finch or others like him in their midtown offices. But on the strip, I ruled. I could slash and hit the target of my opponent. I could name my enemy and fight her. On the strip winners and losers, enemy and friends were clearly defined. In the real world, nothing was that clear. Nothing was that easy.

  It only took me a little while to get back in shape, and the physical exertion required during my training kept my mind off my failing job search. Soon, fencing became my number one diversion, so I did it as much as possible. When I wasn’t at the foundation, I would go to the gym close to our house and work out. I even went back to competing at some local and regional tournaments. But there was one small problem with my new lifestyle; fencing wasn’t free or cheap. The Peter Westbrook Foundation was no longer investing in me, because I had aged out of their training program without reaching the national or international circuit. The foundation only waived their fees when young athletes showed potential to distinguish themselves on the national and international stage. I hadn’t attained that level of status in my career and at my age, I was already considered a has-been. Peter and his coaches were happy to have me around, but mostly so I could serve as a training partner for everyone else. I was just another paying customer. I had to pay for my own club membership now. I had to pay for my lessons, competition entry fees, and travel. I also had to pay for my equipment. My parents were happy to let me live at home rent-free—my father expected all of his daughters to live at home until they got married anyway—but they made it perfectly clear that they would not be footing my bills when I had a college degree. In their minds, fencing was my new hobby, and they were not in the business of bankrolling hobbies, not when they still had to get Asiya and Faizah through the rest of high school and college.

  One day in a fit of desperation, or maybe it was just perverse frustration, I put in an application at the Dollar Store. I’d seen a help wanted sign in the window and applied right there in the store. I was hungry for a regular paycheck. Even the temp agency I had signed with had been unable to find me any type of consistent assignments, so I had no dependable income coming in. When I got the call from the Dollar Store that I had been selected for a part-time job as cashier, I actually felt a moment of elation simply because someone had been willing to hire me. But those feelings didn’t last long. Working at the Dollar Store was mind-numbing and humbling work. Customers were rude and dismissive and treated employees like we were insignificant beings to be tolerated. Sometimes I found myself cackling on the verge of hysteria when I was stacking bottles of no-name brands of dishwashing liquid. I would wonder why I had stressed over that research paper I’d written at Duke on the economic effects of Reconstruction if working at the Dollar Store was to be my life’s work.

  At home, I pulled the light-green Dollar Store uniform shirt off over my head, balled it up, and threw it in the corner of my room. I changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants and went downstairs so I could sit on the couch and watch television for the rest of the afternoon. I should have been scouring the want ads looking for a job that paid more than the Dollar Store or studying for the LSATs, but I couldn’t summon the energy to do anything except watch daytime talk shows until my mind went numb. I didn’t know who to talk to or ask for advice. I’d never been in a rut like this before. I felt so far from those days in Morocco when I felt I had a clear direction and plan for my future. Now I was adrift. Even Qareeb and Brandilyn hadn’t struggled like this to find work after college. Brandilyn had been independent since graduating from high school, and Qareeb’s job had recently transferred him to California.

  Two hours later I was still on the couch when my mom and Faizah came home. When they walked in the front door and saw me there, they both exchanged a look. I knew what it meant. It was the “poor Ibtihaj” look that I seemed to be getting more and more these days. I hated it. I hated being the object of pity in my own home. I pulled myself up into a sitting position so I didn’t look so pathetic. I rearranged my disheveled ponytail.

  “Hey, you guys,” I said, forcing myself to sound cheery. “How was school, Faizah?”

  My little sister came to sit next to me. “It was good. I had a fencing lesson with Coach Mustilli today. He said to tell you hi.”

  Faizah was only in eighth grade but was already taking private fencing lessons with Coach Mustilli in anticipation of being on the high school team. After watching my success in the sport and knowing her girls would be covered, my mother had practically begged Asiya and Faizah to try it. Asiya had refused and took up basketball instead, but Faizah was fencing and excelling at the sport. I was really proud of her.

  “Did he ask anything else about me?” I blurted out, worried my sister might have told my former coach that I was working at the Dollar Store. For some reason, it mattered to me that Coach Mustilli thought of me as successful. He’d made me believe I could do anything. I was the captain of the fencing team for two years; I went off to fence at Duke. I didn’t want him to see me as a failure now.

  My little sister gave me a look. “No. He just said, ‘Hi.’”

  I smiled, relieved. “Oh, good. Well tell him I said ‘hi’ back.”

  “You could go tell him yourself and see his new club,” Faizah said. “It’s so much nicer than when you had to fence in the cafeteria,” Faizah added with a grin.

  I had to smile back. Faizah was so sweet, and I knew she just wanted to get me out of my depression, but I didn’t think I could face Coach Mustilli until I had a job. I pretty much felt that way about everyone. I didn’t want anyone who knew me or knew my family to know about my current circumstances. That’s why I was happy I was working at the Dollar Store in Irvington: I was less likely to be seen there.

  I hauled myself off the couch and padded behind my mother into the kitchen. She told Faizah to go upstairs because she needed to talk to me. I figured another pep talk was imminent. My mother was a doer. She hardly ever sat still, and I knew seeing me on the couch every afternoon was making her crazy.

  “Have you fed the bird?” Mom asked. Before I even had a chance to respond, she was already grabbing the birdseed from the cabinet and filling Koocah’s bowl. Koocah rewarded her with a hearty screech.

  “Sorry, I forgot to feed her,” I mumbled, but my mom acted like she didn’t even hear me.

  “Ibtihaj, I was talking to some of my colleagues at work, and they all think you should apply to be a substitute teacher,” she said, while pulling pots and pans out for the evening meal. “You’re so smart and you’re good with kids, and it will pay you a lot more than the Dollar Store.”

  I scrunched up my face because of the way she said “Dollar Store.” “Substitute teacher? I don’t think that’s what I want to do,” I said.

  My mother stopped what she was doing. “Excuse me. The last time I checked you were working at the Dollar Store, and last month you still needed to borrow money for your phone bill, so I wouldn’t be turning my nose up at substitute teaching.”

  “I wasn’t turning my nose up at anything,” I cried. “I just don’t really see myself as a teacher.”

  “Do you see yourself as a cashier at the Dollar Store?” mom retorted.

  “No,” I said and crumpled into my chair. “I didn’t see myself not being able to find a job with a degree from Duke,” I said sadly. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What you can’t do is give up,” Mom said. “You have to keep trying things until a job turns up.”

  “I’ve been trying,” I said, bordering on tears. “And nothing is working. As soon as they see my name on that résumé—”

  My mother made a soothing no
ise in the back of her throat. “Baby, you’re going to be okay. I promise.”

  “I don’t just want to be okay. I don’t want to be a substitute teacher or a cashier. I didn’t work that hard in school and college to just be okay.”

  My mom turned away from me and went back to preparing dinner. “It’s your life, Ibtihaj, and you’re going to have to live it. I left the paperwork to apply for substituting on the dining room table.”

  I sat up and wiped my eyes. I could tell my mother didn’t have time for a big baby. She had two other kids to take care of besides me. She didn’t need any more of my moping around the house bringing everyone down. I quietly left the kitchen and went back to the living room. I plopped back down on the couch and turned the volume up on the TV. My favorite show was about to come on.

  A few weeks later, I found myself at Coach Mustilli’s new club, the New Jersey Fencing Alliance. Coach Mustilli had grown his program and his footprint in the fencing world. He now had his own fencing club where he gave private lessons and where he trained the Columbia High School team. The high school team now got bused to his club after school, a short five-minute ride away. The new club was also only about ten minutes from our home. Ever since Faizah had told me that Coach Mustilli had said hi, I’d been nostalgic about how simple things were in high school. That was a time in my life when I knew what I was doing and why I was doing it. I felt invincible and self-assured. I felt appreciated and supported. I would have given anything to feel like that again.

  I quietly slipped into the club and was thankful that it was mostly empty on this particular weekday evening. There was a coach giving a lesson on the strip. I could immediately tell it was Coach Mustilli. His unmistakable compact frame and booming voice yelling commands at his opponent immediately made me feel at home. I sat down at one of the tables in the waiting area and watched Coach finish up the lesson he was giving. When he was done and the kid ran off the floor to the locker room to change, I stood up and gave a nervous wave. “Hey, Coach,” I said with a small smile.