Love from a to Z

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.”

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“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

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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.
It was evident that she was an interesting person.
“For the past couple of months, I’ve been doing this art project on sexual
assault, high-profile cases. It’s called Buried, and it’s focused on that word
and how it ties in with sexual violence. Like how stories about girls getting

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hurt are buried, how even victims’ testimonies are buried, or how they’re