After I hung up the phone, I smiled and took a moment to reflect. Here was this very successful white Los Angeles television producer telling me that she wanted her own children to meet me because she thought it was amazing how I had defied so many of society’s expectations for myself as a woman, as an African American, and as a Muslim. Kara wasn’t Muslim or a woman of color, yet she still felt an appreciation for my personal experiences, though our lives were seemingly worlds apart. It was a powerful realization about the importance of our individual lives, the impact we have on each other, and the diversity of the human family.
Being on The Ellen DeGeneres Show was beyond a fun publicity opportunity. Ellen had the most popular television show in the country and a massive global audience. She epitomized the attitude I wanted to emulate, to be true to yourself, even when the costs are high, while simultaneously uniting people through love and laughter. That’s what her show is all about. While a daytime television show may not be groundbreaking, I think Ellen is helping to make the world a little bit more tolerant and accepting in her own way. It was my hope that my appearance, as a Black Muslim woman in the sport of fencing who was on her way to the Olympics, would help alleviate anti-Muslim sentiment in mainstream America. I imagined that seeing a Muslim American in hijab who wasn’t on screen to talk politics or terrorism but rather something positive and awe inspiring like my Olympic journey had to have a positive effect.
Once I was on my flight to Los Angeles to tape The Ellen DeGeneres Show, though, I forgot about my noble cause and started to feel more nervous excitement about meeting Ellen. For the segment, I would be interviewed by Ellen and then do a fencing demonstration with one of her producers. When I walked on stage and sat opposite Ellen in her comfy chairs, all of my media training went out the window. I forgot what I had planned to say, but Ellen was so funny and easy to talk to that our conversation seemed to end before we could really get started. It was a great experience I’ll never forget.
I never thought so many amazing opportunities would be placed in my path after qualifying for the Olympics. It was amazing on top of amazing. I appeared on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert and even challenged him to a fencing match. At Team USA’s “100 Days Out” celebration held in New York City, I had the opportunity to teach First Lady Michelle Obama how to fence and even got to meet with President Barack Obama a few times during his presidency. In April, I was named one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people in the world. I also had features in women’s publications like Glamour, Refinery29, and Allure, where I was able to talk about my own self-confidence and beauty ideals. I was thrilled to be part of these distinctly women-focused conversations and bring my perspective as both an athlete and a woman of color, because historically society’s standards of beauty did not include people who looked like me. It was empowering to help dismantle the definitions of beauty that too often erased women of color and almost never included hijabi women.
In many ways, I felt vindicated for all of the naysayers in my life, who had made me feel that, because of my race or my religion, I would never find success. It turned out the opposite was true. Despite society’s misconceptions about my abilities as an African-American Muslim woman who wears hijab, I defied the odds. My success wasn’t only measured by wins on the fencing strip, but also by the number of people I was able to touch and inspire by sharing my story of triumph.
Although it was tempting to get caught up in all of the media attention, I knew what was really important.
I was still fencing and taking lessons six days a week at the Westbrook Foundation; still cross-training at the gym with Jake, who ramped up the intensity of our sessions in anticipation of the games; still getting up in the early hours for morning runs; and still studying the videos of the women I would likely compete against in Rio. And on top of this hectic schedule, I was still competing for seeding at the games.
The insanity of my life had become nonstop. But in order to be truly prepared for the Olympics, there is a level of crazy required. You have to want to be successful more than you want to breathe. At least that’s how I felt. In the final weeks leading up to the games, there were moments when the thought of my competitors training would wake me from my sleep and have me lacing up my running shoes for a sunrise run. I used every spare moment to train or recover from training. Sometimes, I would feel so panicked just watching television that I would throw myself on the floor of my bedroom for a core workout, pushing myself until my muscles cramped in pain.
Some days I would come to practice, and the exhaustion would just be dripping from my pores. A foil coach at the club, Buckie, saw me on one of these days and pulled me aside. His face was a mask of concern.
“You should go home,” he said. “You look exhausted.”
I tried to make a joke of it. “Do I look that bad?” I said with an attempt at a smile.
Buckie nodded. “You look like you need to rest,” he said firmly. “Go home.”
“But I have to practice,” I said, panic making my voice rise.
Buckie shook his head. “Ibti, I’ve seen this a hundred times—training to the point of exhaustion day after day. You have to listen to your body. Rest and recovery are just as important as training itself. Think about how long you’ve been fencing. One day of rest isn’t going to undo anything. In fact, your body will thank you for it later.”
I could feel a knot in my throat. I didn’t want Buckie to think I was weak. He was giving me permission to rest because I wouldn’t allow myself, no, couldn’t allow myself, to take a break. I started to say something more, to plead my case further, but he turned to start his lesson. The conversation was over, and I had my orders.
That day I went home and took a nap. When I woke up, I took a slow walk around Maplewood and then I helped my mother make dinner. Usually, whenever I missed practice or a session at the gym, I felt guilty. But Buckie had been right. After one simple day of rest, I felt so much better when I showed up at the foundation the next day. Clearly allocating a specific day for rest during the week wasn’t such a bad idea.
Eventually, I learned to incorporate recovery methods into my routine that would help reduce fatigue and bouts of exhaustion. I became very aware of my body and how I was feeling. If I strained a muscle during practice, for example, or felt fatigued after a long trip competing overseas, I would not hesitate to take time off to give my body and mind a rest. I also started using acupuncture to treat old injuries and weekly massages and ice baths to help prevent new ones. I was doing everything I could to compete at the Olympics as healthy as possible.
Every night when I went to bed, my body and mind were both completely depleted from the day’s relentless activities. It was the hardest season of my life, but I didn’t regret a single moment of it. I knew it would be over far too soon, so I embraced the pain. I embraced the sacrifices. I embraced the opportunities and reminded myself along the way that every part of the journey was part of the dream.
CHAPTER 17
The bottom line is, if you stay home, your message stays home with you. If you stand for justice and equality, you have an obligation to find the biggest possible megaphone to let your feelings be known.
—JOHN CARLOS
Polluted air, bacteria-infested water, and the Zika virus. That’s what we were told awaited us in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, as we prepared for the 2016 Olympic Games. It was my first Olympics, so there was no way I was letting anything stand between me and traveling to Brazil to represent Team USA. I was far too focused and excited to be competing in my first games to let anything ruin a once in a lifetime experience.
Still, the horrifying stories about mothers trying to console their babies born with microcephaly and other tragic birth defects were heartbreaking. The images definitely made a lot of people reconsider their commitment to traveling to Brazil, and for my family, the high cost of attending the games was also a big factor. My parents never wavered on their promise to come to Brazil, but they knew it would be a fi
nancial hardship for the rest of my siblings. So my dad, with his entrepreneurial spirit, planned a fund-raising dinner at a local hotel, inviting some well-known speakers from the community as entertainment. I also participated by giving a speech. It was a brilliant idea, because it allowed me to connect with and thank many of the people who had supported me for years. The dinner was a great success, and coupled with another online fund-raiser that was created, eight members of my family—my parents, Asiya, Faizah and her husband, Qareeb and his wife and son—traveled to Brazil to cheer me on in my quest for Olympic glory.
Instead of booking a set of hotel rooms in Rio that were charging premium rates, my parents rented two apartments within walking distance of Olympic Park, located in the Barra da Tijuca area of Rio de Janeiro. Many Rio residents left the city during the games and rented out their homes for more reasonable rates than the hotels charged. For my family, this not only meant they would have convenient lodging, but they would also have access to a kitchen and laundry machines. They were all happy with their accommodations and were able to do a lot of sightseeing around Rio in between Olympic events. What they didn’t get to do, however, was see much of me.
For starters, like most of the athletes competing at the games, I stayed in the Olympic Village. Going into the Olympics, I didn’t know what to expect for accommodations, based on the alarmist media reports about Brazil’s lack of preparedness, but our home away from home for the next two weeks put the media reports to shame. The Olympic Village was actually made up of more than thirty white high-rise apartment buildings meant to house the 18,000 Olympic athletes coming to the city. The buildings were constructed specifically for the games, with modern conveniences and accessible facilities for the Paralympic athletes who would be competing as well. I heard some of the apartments weren’t completely finished, but my accommodations were perfectly comfortable. It was a relief to have a peaceful place to rest at the end of the day.
AUGUST 1–5
Every minute of my time during the Olympics was scheduled, from the moment I woke up in the morning until the blissful moment when I could lay my weary head down to rest at night. Both Ed and Akhi expected me—and my teammates, of course—to train every day. The games didn’t officially start until August 5 following the opening ceremonies, but we arrived on August 1 to acclimate to our new home for the next few weeks and to everything in Rio that awaited us. I was enchanted by the city, the warm tropical air, the diverse faces of the locals, the bright pastel colors covering many of the buildings, the swaying palm trees that flanked the streets. Thanks to the miles of sandy beaches, Rio felt like a grand tropical island instead of a major city in South America’s largest country. But as an athlete there was very little time to explore this enchanting, bustling metropolis before competition started.
In addition to training sessions twice a day, we had to sit for media interviews from the gaggle of media outlets—both national and international—camped out in Rio. Our first interview as a team was on the Today show the day after we arrived. We were one of the first team interviews on the Today show’s beach set on the picturesque Copacabana Beach. That appearance felt like our official welcome to the games. And from there the interviews kept rolling. And as the United States’ first athlete to compete at the games in hijab, I received a lot of additional media requests for interviews by myself.
Back home in the United States, Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump continued his campaign, all the while pushing his anti-Muslim agenda. He was so determined to cast a negative light on Muslims all over the world, not even a fallen American war hero—Humayun Khan—was spared in Trump’s Twitter tirades. As the most recognizable Muslim American at the Olympic Games, my opinion on the current presidential campaign was in high demand. It was a lot of pressure to be at the center of so much attention, especially when the stakes were so high for Muslims in the United States. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing or inflame already high tensions, but I felt a responsibility to use my platform to combat the negative ideas about Muslims that Trump kept feeding to the American people.
Sometimes the responsibility felt overwhelming, but I couldn’t stop using my voice to fight bigotry. Though I embraced my simultaneous roles as athlete and activist, there were times at the games when I craved time outside of the spotlight. On nights when I would meet my family for dinner in Copacabana, I didn’t wear US Olympic apparel and prayed no one would notice me. I couldn’t believe my life had come to hiding from the media and trying to avoid yet another microphone thrust in my face. It wasn’t always a pleasant part of my Olympic experience, but it was one I felt a duty to embrace. To not speak up and defend who I was as a Muslim American and what I stood for was not an option. Still, it was surreal. But I wasn’t complaining. I knew I wasn’t the only athlete who wanted to avoid the press. I’m sure people like Michael Phelps and Simone Biles, athletes whose stories had dominated headlines far before the games even started, were in heavy demand in Rio as well. So, if this was part of the price to pay to participate in the greatest sporting event in the world, I was happy to pay my dues. And really, the rewards compared to the cost were undeniable. It seemed like every day, despite the grueling schedule and media interviews, another gift was bestowed upon me.
August fifth was the day of the opening ceremonies. I finished a close second to Michael Phelps in the vote to determine who would carry the US flag at the opening ceremony. The flag-bearer was determined by a vote by my US teammates across all sports, and I was honored to even be in the running with world-famous athletes like Carmelo Anthony, Serena Williams, and Allyson Felix. I applauded Team USA in that moment, because their decision to vote for a Muslim American woman in hijab was a powerful rebuke to Trump’s rhetoric. It was our collective act of resistance. It warmed my heart to be on that list because Team USA easily could have played it safe from the beginning and decided that a Muslim woman in hijab wasn’t an ideal choice to carry the country’s flag. In that moment, my teammates reassured me that they welcomed the diversity of our team and wanted to show the world what the United States truly stood for: inclusion and diversity.
The support didn’t stop with the vote. As we marched into Rio’s Maracanã Stadium that evening, I ended up walking in the front line only a few feet away from Michael Phelps and the American flag. Dressed in my white pants, navy blue blazer, and white hijab, waving to the cheering crowds, knowing that more than three billion people were watching all over the world, I truly felt all parts of my identity were being applauded. The indescribable sense of pride I felt in that moment was enough for a lifetime.
AUGUST 8
My first day of competing was the individual competition on Monday, August 8. Unlike our World Cup format, the individual event at the Olympics was held on one day. There were only thirty-two fencers competing in women’s saber, using a direct elimination tableau, so there was no first day of pool rounds. Years of preparation and anticipation would come down to one day for individual events. The warm-up hall was adjacent to the main competition hall. It was small and cramped, with the thirty-two competitors, their coaches, officials, medical staff, and volunteers crowding the space. It was hard to find adequate space to run and stretch and even harder to find a quiet corner for my breathing and mantra ritual. Before my first bout, I stepped outside the venue for a brief moment alone. As I stood under the warm Brazilian sun, I reminded myself to fence from a place of happiness and gratitude. Competing at the Olympic Games was a gift beyond my wildest dreams, and no matter what happened I was proud of myself for making it this far. I came into the games ranked eighth in the world, and no matter what everyone else expected of me, I wanted to win. I always wanted to win and here on the world stage, I wanted to taste Olympic glory more than I ever had in my life.
My first match was against a Ukrainian named Olena Kravatska. We had fenced many times before, both in individual and in team matches, at World Cups and at World Championships. Any of the women from the Ukrainian team would have be
en a tough draw, and Olena was no exception. She was about six feet tall and a strong, relentless attacker. I’d already consulted my notes to see what information I had compiled about Olena over the years from previous bouts. What I discovered was that she used a lot of feints and depended on speed in her attacks, so I knew I would have to be patient and trust my technique and instinct in order to win. I wanted to fence my bout and execute my plans precisely. Before I stepped on the strip, I recited a quick prayer and reminded myself to fight to the end.
Olena was a strong opponent, but I managed to stay in the lead of our bout for the first few points. By the halfway point, she’d surged ahead to lead by two, 9–7. I was so nervous that I wasn’t fencing my game. I was falling short in my attacks and getting hit in preparation of my attack. She was fast, and I needed to slow her down. One of Olena’s strengths is her tenacity and unwillingness to give up. I would score and take the lead, and then she would follow up aggressively winning a point. Back and forth we went, exchanging the lead. Her primal screams, which sounded like an angry mountain lion, would ring throughout the stadium and then be answered by my own screams of triumph. We were deadlocked 13–13. I only needed a few more points to be declared a winner and move on. One of my fencing strengths has always been my sense of timing and my ability to use the distance and false actions to trick my opponent. My mind blanked in nervousness. When the referee said, “fence,” Olena flew from the start, launching a long attack. I made two advances to close the distance, and matched each of Olena’s advances with a retreat. I kept my blade out in front of me and could sense that Olena was holding back a bit. I unexpectedly shifted my weight to my front foot, while ducking, and hit Olena on her right arm. Oleana couldn’t block my blade, and she slipped and fell to the ground without getting her light on. The point was mine! I now led 14–13. I only needed one more point. A win was so close, but there was no time to think. I was back at the starting line, saber raised. The sounds of the cheering crowds, the sweat rolling down my back and pooling in my armpits, the smell of my own breath filling my nostrils behind my mask were all inconsequential. I shut everything down except the instinct to score. I waited for the signal to begin. Olena came at me and just as before, I used the same action to score, ducking to avoid her blade, leaving Olena unable to get her light on. I did it! I couldn’t contain my joy. My arms raised in triumph, I did a quick lap around the strip. I pulled my mask off and screamed in absolute joy and relief. The only sound louder than my screams at that moment were my brother Qareeb’s shouts from the stands. He was so excited for me that he had everyone in the stands cheering, “USA! USA!” I turned around and saw my whole family on their feet fist-pumping, hugging each other, and shouting my name. I ran over to them and just let their happiness wash over me. I could not believe I was now going to the table of sixteen.
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