Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  “Remember, our coaches always say that fencing requires smarts and strength. We know we have the strength, so we have to be smart, too.”

  I knew Candace was right. I knew that I had been outmaneuvered and that I needed to figure out why and how. Sulking on a transatlantic flight back home wasn’t going to help me any.

  So, the next day, Candace and I got up early and headed back to the Whitgift School. Because we weren’t competing, we had to pay our own entrance fees to the competition. We came armed with notebooks and pens and were ready to spend the entire day transcribing every match and studying as many fencers as we could. For each athlete I watched, I made two columns, one for strengths and one for weaknesses. These were the same women I’d inevitably see at the next competition—women from Russia and China, Tunisia and Hungary—so I would be ready when I faced them on the strip. As I watched, it became clear to me that everyone had their own styles and techniques. I liked how all of the French fencers had strong parries and could easily score after successfully blocking their opponent. I admired the speed the entire Korean team seemed to have and how fearless the Russians were no matter who was on the other side of the strip. It was inspiring. As the day wore on and my notebook pages became filled with my frantic handwriting, I found myself eager and fired up to get on the strip again to apply what I was learning sitting in the stands. Candace was right: I knew I was fast and strong; now I had to learn how to fence a smarter match even under pressure.

  CHAPTER 10

  Just believe in yourself. Even if you don’t, pretend that you do and at some point, you will.

  —VENUS WILLIAMS

  Ms. Muhammad, can I go to the bathroom?” I looked up from my desk where I was reviewing the lesson plan I knew I’d never actually get to teach, and considered my answer. Obviously, I should say no because class had only started five minutes ago, but if I denied her request, Tiffany was going to go to the bathroom anyway and probably curse me out in the process. It wasn’t worth the fight.

  “Yes, Tiffany, you can go.” I sighed. I had less than a minute before the copycats began.

  “Can I go, too, Ms. Muhammad?” two other girls called out, not even bothering to raise their hands. I tried not to let the frustration show as I excused them, too.

  I told the students that as long as they were reading and/or sitting quietly at their desks, I wouldn’t force them to actually do the work they had been assigned. It hurt my heart to see that for most of the kids in the classroom, reading meant playing with their cell phones or sleeping on their desks.

  I would always bring in a couple of books by African and African-American authors that I hoped some of the students might be interested in, or I would make photocopies from the art history textbook hoping to entice them with short, digestible pieces of information. There were maybe three students, out of thirty, who eagerly devoured the materials I brought in, and they were the reason I was able to come back every day. Those few kids and the fact that I wanted to fence kept me teaching.

  Now that my fencing career was on an upward swing, I wanted to dedicate the majority of my time to training, but aspiring world-class athlete doesn’t come with a paycheck, so I had to keep my teaching job. The fact was, now that I was training and competing internationally full-time, I needed even more money than before. Between tournament fees, airplane tickets, hotel costs, and food, the average cost to compete in one World Cup competition was around $2,000, and there were eight World Cups a season. What a disaster it would have been not to be able to compete because I couldn’t afford the fees. That would have killed me, so I continued to hustle, working at the school and I also picked up a second job coaching the fencing team at Columbia High School. Sometimes I wanted to tell Tiffany and her classmates about my fencing aspirations, but I held back. The one time I’d started to talk about fencing, one of the boys interrupted me and said, “Wait, you build fences?” Everyone thought that was funny and laughed, and I didn’t bother to correct him. Since most of my students seemed profoundly uninterested anyway, I felt guilty sharing my good news because I knew my main motivation for working at their school was to feed my own passions, not because I had aspirations to be a teacher.

  It was hard not to compare what I was witnessing every day in Newark with what I observed back at Maplewood’s Columbia High School where I was coaching. Granted, coaching suburban kids in a sport that they enjoyed was a completely different animal than teaching art history in a struggling inner city high school, but the difference between the students was glaring. And this wasn’t just a case of Black and white. Most of the kids at Columbia were white, but they were still rambunctious and silly, and I had to repeat myself over and over and over again to get them to do what I asked on the strip, but they were eager to learn. They wanted my advice and directions. They didn’t roll their eyes at me when I demanded more from them. I wished I knew how to inspire the students in Newark, to get that kind of hunger from them, but I didn’t know where to begin. So I did my best and hoped that by showing up, at minimum they knew I cared.

  As a coach, I could give my fencers all of my knowledge, energy, and enthusiasm. I knew what tools to equip them with because I’d been exactly where they were. I could use my personal experiences as an athlete to train and inspire this younger generation, truly making a difference in their lives, including in the life of my sister Faizah.

  Even though she was six years younger than me, Faizah had closely followed in my fencing footsteps. She admitted she had initially resisted fencing because she really didn’t want to fight in my shadow, but Coach Mustilli helped develop her talents and made her a fierce saber fencer. Before I left for college, Faizah had been a little girl of twelve. I loved her and I just thought of her as my baby sister. Now, she was seventeen and dominating on the high school fencing circuit. As a high school fencer, my little sister was already better than I had ever been. She had an almost undefeated record and frequently found herself in the folds of the New Jersey Star-Ledger, identified as the best female saber fencer in the state. Of course, I didn’t play favorites while I was coaching, but she really made me proud, and it was through fencing that Faizah and I morphed from sisters to best friends. Now I had someone to talk to who could understand my world. And she had someone to talk to who could guide her in the sport.

  Even though I felt like I had broken through so many color barriers while I was in high school, seven years later my little sister was still facing pushback and discrimination as a successful Black female fencer. Whether it was comments from other fencers or their parents or being given a hard time by coaches or referees, Faizah had to deal with it all.

  “Ibtihaj, they say I can’t fence because of my hijab?” Faizah came up to me breathless, her large brown eyes wide with emotion. She was supposed to fence in ten minutes, but a referee was questioning her paperwork. I had been in the middle of a pep talk with the foil fencers, but I turned my back on them to deal with my sister. We were at the Santelli Tournament, the largest high school fencing competition in the nation, where all of the state’s teams competed for a chance at the coveted championship title.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “I already filed the paperwork for your hijab.” Every time Faizah fenced, we had to have official paperwork from the New Jersey Board of Education with us, which stated her hijab was for religious reasons and she was eligible to compete. Knowing this from my own days of being a hijabi high school athlete, I always made sure to submit Faizah’s paperwork early, at the start of the season. There must have been some mistake.

  Sadly, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to her. This was her senior year, and she was legendary in New Jersey fencing circles. Most people applauded her wins, but there was always someone lurking in the wings who didn’t want to see her succeed. “They said they don’t have my paperwork, and if they don’t have it, I can’t fence,” she said again, panic creeping into her voice.

  “Don’t worry, Faizah,” I said. “Go over to yo
ur strip and just get ready to fence. I’ll take care of it,” I said, and I meant it. After witnessing this type of behavior before, I always came prepared to our competitions. I had an extra copy of Faizah’s paperwork in my bag, so I grabbed it and tracked down the referee in question. Sometimes the refs gave me a hard time as well, for reasons I can only assume had to do with me being only one of the two non-white and female fencing coaches in the state.

  I approached the bout committee with the warmest smile I could manage. “My athlete says you don’t have her paperwork,” I said, with my hand outstretched with Faizah’s documents.

  The man, who looked to be in his early fifties, took the paper and put on his glasses before studying the paper carefully. Even though it was a standard letter of only about ten lines, it took him an extraordinary amount of time going over it. Finally, fearing he was going to make Faizah miss her bout, I interjected, “Is everything okay? It’s the same letter we’ve been using for the last three and half years without any problems.”

  Finally the referee looked up at me. He didn’t smile. “Okay, she’s good. But make sure you get this stuff in before we start next time. We need to have it in early.”

  I wanted to argue but I held my tongue. I didn’t want any confrontation to affect Faizah’s outcome on the strip. Since saber fencing is so subjective—the referee ultimately decides every contested point—I didn’t want to give him any added reason not to award points to my sister during her bouts. So I just smiled, said thank you, and ran over to tell Faizah that everything was okay and she could fence. My sister thanked me profusely.

  “Don’t thank me,” I told her. “Just win.”

  And of course, she did.

  When I look back at the hectic schedule I was leading—teaching, coaching, and training—it is a wonder I didn’t burn out from exhaustion. But I was on a winning streak, and the better my results, the more I wanted to try for even better results. I looked at every competition as an opportunity for the unmatched feeling of exhilaration when I scored the perfect touch. Akhi was right there with me, continuing to meet me at the foundation every day, working with me, fine-tuning my technique, and pushing me to work even harder than I already was. I felt like I had finally found the missing piece of the puzzle to help me chase my dreams.

  Because all of my wins thus far had been at domestic competitions, Akhi now wanted to see how competitive I could be on the world stage under his tutelage. We both had our sights on the upcoming World Cup event, a Grand Prix in Tunisia. My London showing earlier in the season had been disappointing, but the last six months of training had made a difference. I was getting stronger, and I had stepped into my confidence and belief in my own abilities. Akhi and I were working hard to bring his goal of turning me into one of the best fencers in the world to fruition. A solid performance in Tunisia was the next part of our strategy.

  Besides the World Championships, a Grand Prix was worth double the points of a World Cup, and therefore a valuable opportunity to improve one’s world ranking. It’s basic math: the better a competitor’s result, the more points she’s awarded, and the higher her ranking becomes. The national points standing list included points accumulated at both domestic and international competitions. My national ranking was steadily climbing, but I had yet to really break through on the international World Cup circuit. I’d become more consistent in winning my pool matches and a few direct elimination bouts, but nothing to brag about. The Tunisia Grand Prix felt like an unofficial debut for me. If I could remain consistent and advance to the second day of competition and win my first few direct elimination bouts, I’d have my first major international result.

  Unlike my trip to London with Candace, this time I traveled with Akhi, and I wasn’t nervous. I was excited. I felt confident in my abilities. Akhi kept reminding me that believing in myself and being in the right head space when stepping on that strip was just as important as being in prime physical shape. “You can do this” looped through my mind repeatedly, serving as a mantra for any challenge during competition. It helped we were competing in a Muslim country surrounded by people who looked like me, so I didn’t have to worry about how I would be received.

  After a fifteen-hour journey, which included a three-hour layover in Istanbul, we landed in Tunis. Despite the long travel time, Akhi insisted that I stay awake when we arrived. “You have to try to acclimate as soon as possible to the time difference so you can be at your best when you compete,” he said.

  While stifling a yawn I said, “Okay.”

  Akhi didn’t look convinced. “Look, put your stuff in your room and meet me in the hotel lobby in twenty minutes,” he said when the taxi dropped us off at the hotel. I promised I would, and after getting my key to my room, I headed to the elevators. Twenty minutes later, showered, clothes changed, I was back in the lobby. I quickly spotted Akhi in his navy-blue Team USA sweatsuit standing near the water fountain. I walked over to him.

  He looked at me and smiled. “Well, you look much more awake. Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to go check out our surroundings,” Akhi said. “This is going to be your home for the next four days, and you need to know how to get around, where to go for food and water, and how to get to the venue. We don’t wait to do those things on the day of the competition.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Of course it does, that’s why I’m the coach,” Akhi said with a knowing grin. “Let’s go.”

  And with that, I followed my coach out of the hotel into the dry heat of Tunis, an ancient city with remnants of its colonial French past evident in the language, Roman rule in its architecture, and distinctive Middle Eastern flavors in its food. We spent the day wandering around the neighborhood, finding restaurants and cafés where we could eat for an affordable price. We caught a cab to the fencing venue, so on game day I would be familiar with the layout. The last stop on our tour was at a small market where Akhi had me buy a package of plain crackers, bottled water, almonds, and two bananas. I showed off a little and used my basic Arabic to thank the storekeeper when we were done. Akhi raised one of his thick, bushy eyebrows in my direction.

  “Impressive. I know who to call if I’m in a pinch here,” he said.

  “I won’t be that helpful, because I have the vocabulary of a second-grader in Arabic,” I admitted.

  Akhi laughed as we headed back to the hotel. He pointed to my bag of provisions. “This will keep you hydrated tomorrow during practice. The last thing I want is for you to collapse because you’re malnourished,” Akhi said.

  I paid close attention to his words of advice.

  “You’d be surprised how much traveling takes out of you,” Akhi continued. “When you’re competing in different time zones and you’re asking your body to work harder than it normally does while fending off jet lag, you have to be extra mindful with your nutrition and hydration, and you can’t take anything for granted.”

  I promised I would watch what I ate and drank. As we walked back into the hotel, I thanked Akhi for hanging out with me.

  “Hey, I may be new at this as a coach, but after traveling so much as an athlete, I have learned what to do when I land someplace new for a competition,” Akhi said. “This is my routine wherever I go. And it should be yours, too.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

  Even though it was only seven p.m., we both said good night. I had now officially been awake for twenty-seven hours, and I was dying to go to sleep. As I rode up the elevator I realized how nice it had been to stroll around a Muslim country in my hijab and receive nothing more than warm smiles of recognition from the people on the street. Tunisia reminded me so much of Morocco, such that walking around all day with Akhi, I never once felt like I was different. There were no stares or questions. I was just another familiar face blending into the crowd. With a clear mind and a happy heart, now I could fall asleep thinking about one thing—winning.

&
nbsp; Like the majority of the other fencers registered in the competition, I began the first day of the Grand Prix warming up for pools. Before I went off for my first bout, Akhi reminded me to be confident and remember the game plan, and that’s exactly what I did. Three hours later, Akhi and I were exchanging high fives because I had gone undefeated in the pool round, winning all six bouts, directly advancing on to the second day of competition. I was so pleased with my performance, I already felt like a winner at that point. But now came the tough part—advancing through the bracket of sixty-four. But I decided that whatever happened on day two of the Grand Prix I would simply remember my mantra, “You can do this!”

  The following morning, I rose early, even before the sun, to perform my morning prayers in my hotel room. I took an extra moment to thank Allah for allowing me to reach this moment, but also to help me find the strength and courage to win the matches still ahead of me. As I sat on the floor near the hotel window, I thought about my mother, who had agreed to pay for half of my plane ticket and hotel fees. Even though I continued working my two jobs, I still didn’t have enough money to fully support my quest for glory. Fencing ate up everything I earned. Having the financial and emotional support of both of my parents made me so thankful because their support allowed me to keep my focus on fencing. I knew it took courage for them to invest money in my pursuits, considering there wasn’t an immediate, tangible return on their investment. Plus, Faizah had recently confided in me that some people back home were giving my parents a hard time because of my traveling schedule, so they had to deal with that nonsense as well.

  “Mommy said some of the sisters at the masjid were asking about you,” Faizah had told me. She whispered even though we were up in my attic bedroom.