Love from A to Z(34)

I swallowed a pang of homesickness and got busy finding my glasses in Binky’s folds.

As I propped my phone against the bedside lamp, Kavi peered at me. “WHOA. YOU’VE TRANSFORMED. Is that really you, Zayneb?”

I slid my glasses on, sat up on my knees, and twisted to look at myself in the mirrored cabinet door above the headboard.

My Fenty makeup was still on, subtle and flawless. My dark hair, echoing the dark frames on my glasses, lay sexy and curly around this perfection. I was in pajamas, but . . . still.

“Doha does this to you,” I said, sinking back into the bed, deciding to swallow the murky-water bitterness from earlier.

I’m talking to Kavi, my best friend, acceptor of the real me, messiness and all.

I tossed my hair. “Soak in the glam, Kav.”

“Tell me you’re at home. That you haven’t suddenly become a non-hijabi.” She squinted into the screen, trying to figure out my surroundings.

“Of course not, scarf for life.”

“That’s my Zay! Loudly, proudly Muslim!”

“You realize that that’s like saying ‘long dresses for life!’ or ‘boyfriend jeans for life!’ means ‘loudly, proudly Muslim,’ right? Covering your hair is just one part of believing in modesty in dressing, not the only part.”

“Right, you periodically give me these lessons, but I guess I remain a poor victim of cultural narratives popular round these parts,” Kavi drawled, accentuating her deep Southern accent that she’d almost lost after five years living in Indiana. She’d been born in Alabama. “Right. Hijab does not necessarily mean more Muslimy. It could mean more Muslimy, and it could mean not more Muslimy.”

“I’m sorry, but this really interests me. This discussion. Okay if I jump in?” Someone popped their head into the frame, in front of Kavi.

It was Noemi of the blond bangs, of the lacrosse team, of the muttered “asshole” directed at Fencer.

I hadn’t even known there was someone in the room with Kavi.

In our room.

Noemi did a double take at my hair, having never seen me without my scarf, and then waved at me. “How does all that hair fit under your scarf?”

“It’s a fine art. Which mainly involves the purchasing of the proper tools for tying it back and then stuffing it all suitably in.” I swept my hair away from my face, wound it into a bun at the nape of my neck, and secured it with the scrunchie tie I had on my wrist. “Like so.”

“Right, I feel so stupid.” Noemi rolled her eyes. “Of course that’s how you do it. It just hit me. It’s like if I’d asked you how you put on a jacket over your arms or something. Or how you get socks on over toes.”

I laughed. “Well, yeah, it’s just like another item of clothing. To cover yourself. Like no one asks people who wear pants to school, Why do you have to cover your legs? No one makes a big fuss when there are mall entrance signs that say ‘Shirts Required.’ No one acts like that’s oppressive.”

“So, wait. If a head scarf is just another item of clothing, why is there so much controversy around it?” Noemi leaned against the back of Kavi’s chair.

“Because it’s come to stand as a symbol of being Muslim. And that’s trouble because there are a lot of people who hate on Muslims like crazy.” I shrugged and undid my hair and let it fall onto my shoulders again, looking at Noemi, wondering if she was as genuine as she appeared to be. “There’s also another kind of hate from people, mostly from women who are into white feminism, who think they’re helping Muslim women by finding this way of dressing oppressive. They act like if they quote unquote free us from our religious teachings, which they believe they’ve become quote unquote smart enough to figure out are oppressive, that then they’re saving us.”

I waited. Was that too much? I’d said it in a rush.

Was she going to think I was blaming her? As a white person? Well, as a white woman?

Impulsive-klutz me.

Again.

“Okay this is the part where I admit I used to be one of those people. I’d see these pics from around the world, of women-not-like-me, and I’d feel so sorry for them.” Noemi sat back and propped her legs on the table in front of her. “I’d be like, I am such a lucky person I’m not her, when I’d see, yes, a girl or woman different from me. The Kool-Aid was full to the brim in me.”

I smiled. I was warming to this Noemi, she of the blond bangs, she of the open mind.

“Do you want to know what, or I mean who, changed my mind?”

“Kavi?” I asked, glancing at Kavi, sitting smugly with her arms crossed. “Because you became friends with the original, authentic Kavi?”

“No, though that’s been great. Hanging out with Kavi the last few days.” Noemi turned and smiled at Kavi. “No, it was Fencer. Who broke me out of my white feminism like oh snap.”

I blinked. What in the world?

Kavi nodded, patting Noemi on the shoulder encouragingly. “The moment has come for you, oh Noemi, to reveal to your hero, Zayneb, her true part in your blossoming.” She leaned closer to the camera and whispered, “Your suspension was Noemi’s awakening.”

“My master you are, Zayneb,” Noemi said, Yoda-like. “I am your Padawan.”

“How?” I leaned back against the headboard, eager for Noemi to continue.