Proud

by Ibtihaj Muhammad

  I would never complain in public about my fashion dilemmas, but I felt perfectly okay pouring out my frustrations to my brother on one of our regular weekly phone calls. Qareeb was happily living in Los Angeles with his wife and toddler son. We didn’t see each other that much, but we talked on the phone often.

  “Why don’t you make your own dresses?” Qareeb said.

  “I don’t know how to sew,” I said. I’d been scrolling around online for an hour looking for a dress for an event I had in a few weeks, and absolutely nothing looked right.

  “No, silly,” Qareeb said. “You should hire someone to make your dresses for you so you don’t have to do this every time you’re looking for something appropriate to wear.”

  I laughed. “Qareeb, I don’t know what you think my life is like, but I’m not trying to hire my own private seamstress.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Ibti,” Qareeb clarified. “You should start your own business making the types of dresses you’re talking about. I’m sure there are plenty of Muslim women like you in the same boat. I know a manufacturer out here if you wanted to have some dresses made.”

  My first thought was that my brother sounded crazy. How was I going to start my own clothing line while in the midst of trying to qualify for an Olympic team? I could barely find the time to sleep, but still, I heard myself open my mouth and ask my brother, “So, how would it work?”

  I could hear my brother’s smile through the phone. “You, Asiya, and Faizah come up with some designs, and the next time you come out here I’ll take you shopping for fabric. We can bring the sketches and fabrics to this manufacturer I know out here in the garment district. She can make you some samples and see how you like them. Once you okay the samples, we can have them produced and upload them to a website. You could do everything online. And just like that, you’d be in business.”

  Despite the fact that I was so tired that I often fantasized about taking naps, I actually started to think it was possible to start a fashion company. My brother made it sound so easy. “Okay, Qareeb, let me think about it,” I said.

  “All right,” Qareeb said. “And I don’t think I need to remind you that you can’t fence forever. You gotta have a backup plan.”

  Once I hung up the phone, I stared at the clothes on my laptop screen. I was lying on my bed with my computer balanced on my pillow. There were so many dress options online, yet the few that fit the definition of modest were painfully dull and matronly. Why was it so hard for designers to understand that being fashionable was not antithetical to being modest? I was growing tired of spending time and money trying to cobble together a wardrobe that satisfied my aesthetic and my religious beliefs. There had to be a solution to Muslim women having to layer their clothes to achieve their modest look. I knew there was an opportunity to fill a void in the United States’ market, and if no one else was going to do it, I would have to do it myself. That had always been my motto.

  A few years earlier, my mother had said she was tired of the tile backsplash behind the stove in the kitchen. When she told me the ridiculous price the contractor had quoted her for replacing it, I went online to find a tutorial on how to lay tile. Then I went to the hardware store and bought the materials I needed, busted out the old tiles, and replaced them with beautiful new ones. It took me two full days to complete the project, but I did it all by myself, and everyone loved it. If I saw a problem that needed fixing, I generally just handled it. And that’s why I ultimately decided to take my brother’s advice and start a business that would satisfy not only my desire for affordable modest fashion, but thousands of other women’s desires as well.

  Soon after that conversation with Qareeb, my sisters and I brainstormed ideas for the types of clothes we wanted to make. Full-length long-sleeved dresses. Long-sleeved jumpsuits. Pants sets and tunic tops. All the components a woman needed and wanted to put together a stylish and versatile wardrobe. And we wanted all of our pieces to be affordable so that being fashionable was accessible to all, not just the wealthy. Asiya and Faizah were just as excited as I was to launch this company because they struggled with the same issues of finding modest clothing options as I did. But unlike me, who wore sweatpants to work, they needed these clothes for daily wear to work and school. This crazy idea Qareeb and I had cooked up was truly becoming a full-on Muhammad family project. Even my mother got involved.

  With Qareeb doing most of the legwork in Los Angeles to figure out the production side of the business, my sisters and I focused on researching fashion trends for design inspiration and finding the perfect designer to create our website where we would sell everything. We wanted our store to be fully e-commerce-based so it would be accessible to everyone. Thanks to Qareeb’s hard work finding a manufacturer, there was a quick turnaround for our dress samples. Once we were able to hold the clothing samples in our hands, samples that had started off as sketches on a notepad, things felt real. “This is really happening, you guys,” I exclaimed to my sisters as we sat around our dining room table and passed the dresses and tunics around between us.

  Before we could truly embark on this journey as small business owners, we needed investment capital to help launch the business. We decided my mom’s sister, Aunt Diana, or Auntie, as we liked to call her, would be the perfect person to pitch our business proposal to. Auntie and my uncle Bernard had always been more like grandparents to us kids; over the years they had helped alleviate some of the financial burdens on my parents by helping out wherever they could, like paying for extracurricular activities. Because Auntie and Uncle Bernard didn’t have children of their own, they always said that helping us succeed made them feel like their money was being put to good use. But like my parents, Auntie’s money only went where she saw potential and passion. After she heard my pitch for our company—I had her sit through an entire PowerPoint presentation so she knew how serious we were—she too was all in.

  “What are you going to call the company?” she asked me when I finished pitching the idea and was seated next to her on the couch in her living room.

  “We were thinking about calling it Louella by Ibtihaj Muhammad,” I said. “Louellashop.com for the website,” I clarified.

  “You mean after your dad’s mother?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful name, and I thought it would be a great way to remember her. She was such a source of inspiration and strength for me, and I wanted to have her memory live on this way.” I thought about our last days together in Newark and how much she wanted to see me succeed. I was so sad she hadn’t lived long enough to see me make Team USA. This felt like a way to keep her memory alive.

  “That’s really sweet,” my aunt said with a smile. “You know family was the most important thing in the world to her.”

  “I know,” I said, thinking back to all of the family gatherings we used to have at her house over the years.

  Without hesitation, Auntie Diana said she would have a check ready for me the next day.

  Louellashop.com was a certifiable success. Within the first year, we quickly expanded our offerings from our initial ten items to more than fifty, and were already making a profit. I wasn’t surprised at how well received Louella was by the community. All of my research on Muslim purchasing power indicated that if we created a product that appealed to and satisfied the needs of Muslim consumers, the company would be successful. Louella was new and bringing something different to the fashion industry that specifically focused on the needs of Muslim women. Our customers loved that our dresses were full-length and came in variety of vibrant colors. We also took pride in the fact that most of our items were $100 or less, and that all of our clothing was made in the United States. Even though I was still busy fencing, it was so much fun bringing Louella to life because I knew there was such a strong need for it within the Muslim community. People were so grateful that we were making clothing that was simultaneously modest, fashionable, and affordable. A pleasant surprise was discovering that our clothing
appealed to non-Muslim women as well. Our customers came from different backgrounds and even different countries, but all had one thing in common: appreciation for modest fashion.

  As someone who had matched her hijab with her sneakers since she was in middle school, I was thrilled to have this creative business venture that was also helping other women look and feel good. Running a small business was a heavy load to take on, but I loved working on Louellashop.com so much, it didn’t feel like work. This was truly a passion project for me. But in order to fit it all in, I knew I had to squeeze every minute out of a twenty-four-hour day, and my family was working just as hard as I was to keep things running smoothly. After training all day, I would come home and review sales for the day and respond to customer emails. My sisters and my mother were busy managing orders and researching new design options for the next season. There was never a spare moment. I used my time commuting to and from New York City to upload content to Louella’s social media accounts, like Instagram or Twitter, urging people to shop Louella. Everything about running an online clothing company was new to me, but I loved the challenge and the added perk of never being at a loss for what to wear. But perhaps the best part of starting Louella was that it gave me balance, something outside of fencing I could focus on. I was now looking at my thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon, and I often thought about life after sport. I always knew I wanted to have something in place that I could easily transition to once my fencing career ended. Qareeb and I often spoke about building something for our family together. For me, Louellashop.com was that something, and I looked forward to seeing her thrive well into the future.

  CHAPTER 15

  Be careful what you set your heart upon—for it will surely be yours.

  —JAMES BALDWIN

  By the beginning of 2015, I knew the time was approaching, time for me focus 100 percent of my energy on Olympic qualification. No sooner had Louella proven itself a success than I had to abandon the day-to-day operations of the company and let my family handle the business full-time. I didn’t fully let my baby go, but I did have to loosen my grip significantly. I cut out all distractions from my life so I could focus only on fencing, and yet alarming current events continued to dominate the headlines, making it very hard to stay focused.

  On February 10, three young Muslims, Deah Barakat, twenty-three; his wife, Yusor Abu-Salha, twenty-one; and her sister, Razan, nineteen, were shot execution style in their home in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The assailant was a neighbor who claimed the killings were motivated by a parking dispute he had had with the students. But every Muslim and plenty of non-Muslims saw the murders for what they were, a vicious hate crime, pure and simple.

  Islamophobia was on the rise in the United States, perpetuated by violent stereotypes and religious extremism portrayed in the media. And as a result, Muslims were being marginalized and discriminated against in record numbers. The senseless murder of these three young Muslims hit me hard. They were killed in their own home by a neighbor. Is anyone safe in this country? I wondered. My travels on the speaking circuit took me to different corners of the United States. Would a crazy, gun-toting nutcase like the murderer in North Carolina put me on a list? These thoughts ambushed my mind, and I couldn’t fight the cloud of sadness that descended over me. But as I watched the coverage of the story unfold, I was angered to hear that the Chapel Hill police weren’t considering the murders a hate crime. In response, a community of activists spoke out against the Chapel Hill police department’s decision on mainstream media outlets, citing the constant fear Muslims in the United States were living in with incidents like this happening far too often. With so few Americans having a favorable opinion of Muslims, Islam had grown to be one of the most stigmatized religions in the country. Like the activists who were taking their messages to the media, I, too, wanted to do more to help change the perception of my faith. With my growing platform, I could be a voice for those who lived in fear. I could stand up and demand fair and just treatment by law enforcement and our elected officials. But first I had to shrug off my own fears and push the sadness aside. I knew that making the Olympic team was the best way I, as a Muslim American athlete, could help dismantle stereotypes and provide a vision of hope and inspiration. So, I dug deep for courage, sat firmly in my faith, and promised to work as hard as I could to make the 2016 Olympic team.

  The Olympic qualification period culled points from competitions held between April 1, 2015, and March 31, 2016. As I had in the past, I completely compartmentalized my life and prioritized fencing above all else. I’d learned that mental training was just as important as physical training, because despite our team’s upward trajectory in competitions, my teammates and coaching staff were intent on standing in my way. This had become abundantly clear ever since a competition in Seoul, Korea, earlier in the year when for the first time ever, I beat Mariel at a competition.

  The Seoul Grand Prix was the last competition before the Olympic qualifiers began. I had a tough bracket, but had successfully knocked out some of the world’s top fencers, including Ekaterina Dyachenko of Russia and Azza Besbes of Tunisia. I advanced through to the finals and found myself facing off against Mariel in a semifinal round to determine who would fence for gold against the Ukraine’s Olga Kharlan. It was always a bit awkward to fence against one’s own teammate, but it was a casualty of war. Once I put my mask on, my mind switched over to one thing, and that was winning. We were competing in a large venue in central Seoul, where Peter Westbrook had captured Olympic bronze nearly twenty-seven years earlier. There were more spectators than normal as they held the men’s and women’s finals at the same time. I fed off the crowd’s energy and focused my concentration fully on taking Mariel down. I knew it would be tough, but after being teammates with someone for so long, you learn their strengths and weaknesses. Mariel and I had fenced countless times before. In a lot of ways, I was more prepared to fence Mariel than any other fencer I’d seen that day. Still, Mariel was the most decorated fencer in United States history for a reason, so I knew she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  I said a prayer and stepped into it.

  For the first quarter of our bout, Mariel was winning decisively. After I scored the first point of the match, I think she was out for blood. She managed to stay ahead of me by one or two points for a while. But I could tell I was getting under her skin. I could tell she felt threatened with how close I was keeping the match. She had to stop to check the laces on her shoes. She repeatedly asked the referee to verify if the score posted on the machine was correct. It was apparent Mariel didn’t believe I was able to keep up with her. Maybe it was gamesmanship to try to throw me off, but it wasn’t working. I was closing the gap between her score and mine. At the half, I was ahead by a score of 8–7. At that point, I think she started to get nervous. The lead kept going back and forth between us. I’d score a point, and then she would. I heard her hiss “Lucky” once after I scored. She didn’t believe in my ability to beat her. But I believed in myself. We were tied at 12–12 and then 13–13. I wanted that win more than anything. I wanted to show her that underestimating me was a mistake.

  With Mariel leading with a score of 14–13, I parried her next attack and scored a point of my own. The score was now 14–14. Whoever scored the next point would win.

  At the start of the last point, I came out of the blocks fast. Mariel used a false advance to get me to fall short in my lunge. Most fencers would have felt their backs against the wall on defense, but this was actually where I felt most comfortable. Mariel staged her attack, pushing me down the strip, and as she accelerated with her arm a little behind in speed, I was able to hit her in preparation of her attack.

  Point for me! 15–14. I won!

  I was so happy I ripped off my mask and jumped in the air. Mariel threw her mask, too, but she looked pissed. The grimace on her face when she put her hand out for the customary end of the match handshake said exactly what she couldn’t say out loud.

  I
had advanced to the final and was guaranteed that I was going home with either a gold or silver medal, my best finish yet at a Grand Prix. People in the audience clapped and cheered; even the referee applauded my efforts. As I passed by Ed I was sure he would acknowledge how well I had just fenced, but I didn’t even get so much as a pat on the back from him. It was like I had done something wrong by beating Mariel.

  Instead of congratulating me, Ed ripped into Mariel.

  “What were you doing out there?” he demanded of her. “How could you let her beat you?”

  Mariel looked hurt. I almost felt sorry for her.

  “She got lucky,” she said. “They were all lucky touches,” she protested, still unwilling to admit that I was a damn good fencer.

  I walked away. I wasn’t going to let them steal this monumental moment from me. I didn’t want to listen to them belittle my hard work and talent yet again

  The line in the sand had been drawn. We were not the team I desperately wanted us to be.

  After that moment, I was clearly seen as a threat to Mariel’s chances of making the Olympic team. Now I became an obstacle, not a teammate, and the treatment I received from my coach and the rest of the team grew increasingly harsh and cruel.