The next morning, social media is ablaze, and pictures of my mural are everywhere. It gives me the boost of courage I need to get out of bed. There are no messages from Alexis or Jamie. Not that I expected anything from Alexis, but I was hoping Jamie would say something.
My face feels too tight—my black eye is worse, and even my nose is a bit swollen. I take out an old foundation bottle that belonged to Amal and is the wrong shade for me, but there’s not much else I can do.
I apply it with a feather touch that still feels like I’m punched inthe eye all over again. It hides most of the bruising, and anyone passing by wouldn’t notice unless they were standing in front of me.
My arms won’t move to slip my shirt on, but I force them to.
It’s Friday. The weekend is just hours away, I tell myself.And there’s just less than two months left for school.
Braxton had a unique study set up where the curriculum for final and AP exams was done a few weeks before exam season started. We were now in review mode, where our teachers were going over the important chapters.
So, technically, I survived Braxton.
I put on my uniform and stare at myself in the mirror, then at my hijab lying innocently on the bed. This all happened because of my name and what I wear on my head.
I think of how different my life would have been if I’d lived in Syria my whole life. If Syria were free. If Syria were mine. My parents would not have moved here. My freedom here is not true freedom. My freedom here is borrowed time; it’s me apologizing for existing. I don’t have freedom in my countries, and I don’t have freedom here.
But if I were in Syria, the real one that was always promised to her children, I wouldn’t have a black eye or a bloodied nose. Baba would have built his house right beside Seti’s, and I would wake up to her singing Fairuz’s songs. He would have been an esteemed engineer, and Mama an artist famous in the Arab world. I wouldn’t be a stranger in my country. I would know every ancient nook and cranny and where the sweetest honey was. If my countries were allowed to thrive, I would holiday in Palestine and Iraq and walk the pathways my ancestors forged. I wouldn’t be standing here, watching my hijab with a wary expression, doubts filling my mind.
I open the door quietly to make sure Baba is either asleep or gone. He’s not home.
I pull up Amal’s phone number, my thumb hovering over the callbutton. Maybe… maybe she can help. Maybe she won’t judge me for the thought that has spawned in my head.
Then I remember how she never backed down at anything in school, at work, in her life.
I exit the screen and, without overthinking it, take my hijab and stuff it into my school bag before leaving the apartment. It’s sudden, and the colors squirm uncomfortably against it.
The weirdness of it all is striking, and I hate it.
I hate the feel of the wind on my hair. I hate the emptiness where my hijab should be. I fidget and tie my hair into a ponytail. It’s blunt, short, but a bit better than having it untied. I hate the sickening feeling in my stomach and heart, knowing this was a choice forced upon me.
To conform or to be hurt.
The sun is too hot on my head, and I feel like everyone’s staring at me, knowing exactly what I’ve done.
How I caved in.
I told Jamie this hijab is a part of me. It’s infused with my soul, and now I have torn my soul apart.
Ihateit all.
And still I walk, hoping this will appease them. That this will make them stop.
It’s only when I’m sitting on the subway, getting closer to my stop, that I feel like an idiot.
What am Idoing?
I put my hands over my head, trying to hide as much as I can and cursing myself for not wearing a hoodie. I was drunk on this absurd idea and just acted.
As soon as I get off, I rush behind one of the large columns and fish out my hijab and undercap. Once I have them on, I feel like myself again. My lungs expand with air, and the colors sharpen, hugging me, when before they were blurry and hazy.
Still, my courage is increasingly wispy the closer I get to the school. Glimpses of my mural bring a smile to my face, and I miss Mama more than I thought possible.
The few stubborn reporters still at the gate crowd me with questions again.
“Hello! Were you the injured girl yesterday? Rumors are going around that a girl in a headscarf got hurt? Could you tell us what happened?”
“Do you know who’s behind the mural at this school? You could just describe them!”
