Student Spectrums

“I really like my life” are the only words that slip through my lips tonight. I feel alive under the warm summer breeze, the star-spangled sky, and the calm waves. I turn to my right and see my best friend by my side. We are at the beach after closing, in our Aéropostale shorts and yellow Hollister tops. Our arms are stacked with bracelets, and my eye lands on the matching seashell ones we bought at the gift shop.

I turn to Mariam, raising my hand. “This bracelet is a book, and each bead has a story to tell.”

She laughs at me and points to the sky. “The sky’s a book, and every star tells a story.”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but I utter the words anyway. “They are only a part of the bigger picture, but they attract all the attention. We often praise the stars, but rarely acknowledge the entire sky.”

Mariam turns to me as her eyes narrow and her brows raise. The words are on her tongue, and I am eager to listen. She breaks into a smile. “Oh my God, Nanny, we’re not in English class.”

“I am not Nanny,” I snap. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

She giggles, standing up to splash water at me. The cool water feels refreshing in the night’s heat, but I yell anyway. “MARIAMMM! You’re done. You’re literally done.”

Jerking up, I ram into Mariam. Before I know it, we’re laughing obnoxiously. “Okay, stop—stop—st-st-stop.” Laughing, I barely get the words out. We turn to the water and begin splashing like toddlers.

“Naailiahh! My shirt—it’s all wet!”

I am still giggling and splashing. “It’s not that serious,” I laugh.

It’s not that serious. Nothing’s ever that serious. We’re ninth graders; we’re young, and we’re just having fun.

Eventually, we cease drenching each other’s clothes in water. Sand sticks to my legs, and I retreat from the wet shore. The breeze flows through my hair, making it wave behind me like a flag. Curtain bangs frame my face as I tuck strands behind my ears. My ears are decorated with pearl earrings, and a dainty gold necklace caresses my neck. I felt great in my crochet top and my skinny arms.

But the satisfaction from ten minutes ago slides away with the wind. I ate an hour ago, and now I suck my stomach in to conceal the bloat. Everything feels perfect: my clenched stomach, my chokingly tight top, and my mini shorts. I am uncomfortable, but this is what all teenagers wear. Music hurts my head, but it makes me like everyone else. I deeply despise TikTok, but I keep up with trends. I feel better under the water; it covers and it protects. But the waves are only by the shore, and life goes far beyond the beach.

Mariam catches me under my cloud of contemplation. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, for sure. I’m fine.”

It’s been a week since our beach day, and today we plan to shop for clothes. My mom catches me at the door. “Where are you going, habibti?”

“Out with Mariam, Mama. We’re gonna go shopping.”

“You can go later. Me and your dad have something we need to discuss with you.”

“Mama, can it wait? I already told Mariam—”

“Naailah,” she interrupts, “I want to talk to you now.”

I let my mom have her way. As we walk to the living room, I text Mariam: Bro, my mom’s not letting me leave. I prob can’t come to the mall rn.

My mother takes a seat by the pool, rolling her pants up to lower her feet into the water. “Come,” she softly calls. “Sit by me.”

I sit beside her, swinging my feet alongside hers. “Do you remember how I went to Hajj last year?”

How could I forget? After that trip, my mom concealed her luscious blonde hair under a dull hijab. People at school asked about her and told me she looked different. I was mortified. At a point in time, everyone loved my mother. All my friends used to say, “I want to be like your mom when I’m older. How is she so pretty in her forties? You’re gonna get all the good genes.”

But after her decision, no one complimented her. When my mother asks me if I remember again, I look away. “Yeah, I do. What about it?”

“Well, it changed me as a person. I know you noticed that, and I know you might not be happy with my decision, but you respect it. I appreciate that.”

I smile at her.

“Out here in the States, it’s beautiful. California, San Diego, your friends. You have a blessed life. But I feel that as Muslims we get carried away in American culture.”

I sigh at the word Muslim. I have no problem with my religion, but I despise my mother’s attempts to change my lifestyle.

I sigh at the word Muslim. I have no problem with my religion, but I despise my mother’s attempts to change my lifestyle.

“I won’t force any change this time.”

I feel a wave of relief.

“I want you to understand something yourself. Some things only Allah can teach you.” She breathes in. “I am sending you to Saudi over the summer. Your grandma lives in Medina, and I think it would be nice for you to visit the holy cities. Reconnect with true life, you know?”

My heart sinks to my stomach. My pupils become hazel slits in my eyes. Saudi? I would never want to waste my precious Californian summer looking for some meaning to life in the Middle East.

“Mama, I’m not going,” I snap.

“Naailah, listen to me, sweetie, it—”

“No, Mama, I don’t want to go.”

I raise my voice. I get up from beside her and storm into the house. Pool water drips from my feet as warm, salty tears roll down my cheeks. My parents follow me into my room. Not wanting to listen, I flop face-down onto my bed.

“You’re leaving for Saudi next week, hon’,” my dad confirms.

“We’re only doing this for you, sweetie,” my mom assures me.

I don’t respond. The door closes behind me as I sniffle. I wait until my parents leave to begin bawling. With tears flooding my eyes, I dial Mariam.

“What happened, Naailah?” she asks, concerned.

“Mariam, my parents are sending me to Saudi over the summer,” I wail. “They didn’t even give me a choice. They just said I’m leaving next week.”

Mariam comforts me, tells me that everything will be okay. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just spend the summer, and everything will be the same after you come back.”

We talk for a while until I hang up. For the next few hours, I ponder Saudi. We are Arab, but I’ve never visited the country. I don’t want to live in the desert, or ride camels, or eat kabsa, I think. Eventually, I fall asleep.

The next morning, I avoid contact with my parents. My mom calls me for breakfast, but I bring my plate up to my room. I eat avocado toast while watching Netflix on my laptop.

“Naailah,” my mom says as she walks in, “you should go shopping today.”

I turn away from her. She sits on the bed beside me, but I scoot away, still refusing to look at her.

“Okay, I changed my mind.”

My head snaps back.

“You can either spend the summer in Saudi or begin wearing a hijab.”

I am shocked. I have no words in my mouth, no retort, no strength to even refuse. But before I can answer, my mom leaves the room.

“Think about it, sweetie,” she says as she walks away.

I sit in my bed, trying to choose the best of the two horrors. Thoughts swirl through my mind like fumes from a fire. Saudi or a hijab? Both seem equally awful. How would people look at me? What about my friends? I wouldn’t even be myself anymore. I remember last weekend at the beach—when I was free to wear whatever, do whatever, go wherever. But recalling memories in San Diego only increases my desire to remain in California.

After contemplating for an hour, I decide to wear the hijab. I walk into my mother’s closet and grab a brown jersey hijab. I return to my room, locking the door behind me. Standing in front of the mirror, I drape the soft hijab over my head. I avoid my reflection, but when I do catch it, my hands reach my head. My fingers violently rip the cloth from my scalp as tears surface in my eyes.

I take a sharp breath and try again. This time, I don’t instinctively remove it. Sunlight falls from the window onto my hijab. My curtain bangs slide out from beneath the scarf and shine under the golden light. The hijab, on the other hand, is starkly different. It’s dull and murky like swamp water. It’s funny how the same color is cute on a halter top but not on a hijab.

I hear a knock on the wooden door. I immediately rip the scarf off and shove it under my pillow.

“Did you decide?” my mother walks in.

“Yes, I won’t go to Saudi.” I avoid the sentence I will wear the hijab.

“That’s great. I’ll take you to the hijab store after Duhr. Then we can go shopping at the mall.”

“Okay,” I mumble.

I skim through my closet, searching for modest clothing. I pick out a pair of baggy jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. It’s tight, but it’ll do. I wear the outfit as usual, but something’s different this time. I pull my hair back and wrap it into a bun. Up until yesterday, I would’ve left the house like this. Today, however, I pull the murky scarf from under my pillow and drape it over my head. My curtain bangs slide out from the front. I scrunch the scarf around my neck until it’s a thin band of brown. I then pull it down to reveal some of my neck. I glance at myself in the mirror. I have minimized the hijab’s coverage, beating its purpose. I feel a wave of guilt pass through me. This isn’t how I should wear it.

I’m not even hijabi, so this is a big step, I assure myself, despite my scandalous style. I glide brown liner and gloss over my lips. Then I toss my phone into my purse, fling it over my shoulder, and leave my room.

“Look how pretty you look,” my mother whispers as I brush past her at the door. I don’t reply and take a seat in her Lexus.

“First we’ll go to the masjid.”

I ignore her again. We stop in an old parking lot and begin walking toward a small building. The air is calm and inviting, like San Diego, but it soothes my heart like no other beach. I enter the carpeted room and join a small row of people.

“Did you make wudu?” my mother asks.

I know what wudu is, but I haven’t made it since fifth grade. “Yeah,” I lie.

The jama‘ah stands, and I follow along, mindlessly reciting the surahs and the tasbeehs. After salah is done, I head toward the car.

“Why don’t you drive?” my mom asks. “You have a permit, don’t you?”

She is trying to reconcile. My heart feels oddly lighter and rested after salah, so I accept her apology. “Sure, Mama,” I sigh.

We head towards the hijab store, and I feel slightly excited.

“Assalamualaikum,” the clerk greets us as we enter. My mom replies to the salam while I shoot a smile.

I browse through the different materials, each instilling a new feeling, a new sense of self. The colors and the myriad shades are like rainbows arranged in rows. The patterns curve and twist like my thoughts, eventually coming down to repeating elements: fear, anxiety, acceptance, excitement, and, finally, satisfaction. Together, they make up the hijab.

My hand lands upon a watercolor pattern, swashes of dye messily laid, cramped together, and overlapped. I pull it out of the rack and rest it on my arm as I scrutinize other patterns. I pull another hijab—this time in shades of blue and white, swirling, twisting, and turning.

“Roahi, try something… calmer,” my mother suggests as she leads me to the plain-colors section. She picks pale green, dusty pink, and washed-blue hijabs.

“Try these,” she says, handing them over.

I drape each hijab over my head, inspecting the color, the pattern, the way it frames my face. It’s different from the way my hair flows from my scalp and caresses my cheeks. My mom steps away as I experiment with different scarves. I turn to a box labeled “under caps.” For the first time, I do the hijab justice. My hair tucks away under the cap, my neck hides beneath the mesmerizing pattern, and my insecurities diminish under the empowering threads. I notice myself no longer sucking in my stomach, subjugating myself to trends, or listening to vulgar music. The twisting, turning thoughts in my mind become clear elements—like the pattern. I try a plain color. This is it. Under my resentment, a seed of acceptance and gratitude begins to grow. My lips melt into a smile, my eyes soften, and my breath draws deep.

“It suits you,” the clerk asserts.

A Jazākallahu khayran slips from my tongue. My mom and I head toward the register and purchase our picks. As we exit, I tuck my curtain bangs behind my ears and widen the brown strip across my neck. The hijab now flows over my shoulder and waves in the slight breeze.

“Mama, I’ll drive,” I say as I take the driver’s seat.

At the mall, we stop by Aéropostale, Zara, and H&M. I contemplate purchasing the long-sleeve shirts. They’re tight, but no skin shows… right? I return it to the rack and replace it with a loose button-up.

“Anything else?” my mother asks.

“No, I wanna go to Hollister.”

We check out and head toward Hollister. I look through shirts—most of them cropped or sleeveless. If I had come shopping yesterday, I would’ve purchased them. I would’ve felt great in them until I ate a meal, then I would’ve insecurely clenched my stomach and controlled my diet. Why was I ashamed of normal bodily functions? Why did I expose myself despite the discomfort?

Under the button-ups, baggy jeans, and hijab, however, I feel different. I embrace a sense of modesty and understand that beauty isn’t in attention or revealing clothes. As I gain these valuable insights, my heart stops at the sound of laughter behind me. My breath draws short, shallow, and quick. I turn my head to find Mariam behind me. I pray she doesn’t notice me, but we lock eyes. My cheeks burn with shame, and my relaxed brows furrow again.

She halts in her tracks. She is encircled by girls from our school—our friend group. She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap crochet top with low-rise bootcut jeans. Her hair flows over her shoulders, and the seashell bracelet embellishes her wrist. I am suddenly aware of myself—my long-sleeve shirt, my brown hijab, and my baggy jeans. The same bracelet curves around my wrist. Lowering my head, I storm out of the shop. I feel the hostile eyes of the same girls I spent last weekend with.

“Is that Naeela?” I hear as I walk by.

I am mortified as I leave the mall, but I continue walking and don’t turn back. My mom catches me in the car.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” my mom gently asks.

“I’m fine, Mama… can we just talk about something else?”

The ride back home is tense and awkward. The still air strangles my throat. At dinner, my dad reminds me of how proud he feels about my decision.

“I know you are capable of making the right choice,” he asserts.

After dinner, I go down to the beach. I pair the button-up I purchased today with an old white skirt. I drape a pale-blue hijab over my hair and wear my Birkenstocks. I walk down to the beach and sit by the shore. My skirt is drenched by the gentle waves, and my arms curl around my knees. The bottom of my hijab turns a deep blue under the sand and water. The breeze is the same as last week; the air is just as warm. I sit alone.

“Alhamdulillah,” I whisper under my breath.

A shadow moves closer toward me. I turn my head to see her moonlit face. She is wearing baggy jeans, a loose long-sleeve T-shirt, and a soft rosy hijab. She takes a seat next to me, and we look at each other—our moonlit faces, our narrow eyes locked together.

“This is what I wanted to tell you,” Mariam says, “that night at the beach. But you beat me to it.”

She smiles, and I smile.

“I really like my life” are the only words that slip through my lips tonight.