Abulublog

I’m tired of this. I am.

I mean, it makes for a great story, but I’m tired of it.

Perhaps its my scarf, perhaps it’s my walk, perhaps it’s my sex, perhaps its my talk. But people feel welcome and driven to comment.

Thank God, for putting a stopper on my tongue. Thank God for slowing my speech and blessing me with the feeling of shock and incredulity every time it happens. If I were a bit more witty, I might have ended up in a lot of trouble. If I were a bit more daring, I might have ended up with more than a swollen lip from biting down on it too hard.

Some are just plain funny, like that time in the parking lot when that guy yelled across to his girlfriend pointing and picking up his jaw from the asphalt, “HOLY COW, is that an A-Rab?,” To which I responded, “sort of,” – being only half, I knew not what else to say.

Some, I’ve realized are a bit traumatizing. My earliest memory of commentary was as a nine year old. I wore my scarf to our local Wal-mart and a bunch of kids pointed at me and call me “towel head.”  All I wanted was sour patch kids, and they ruined my day. I mean, I suppose I hadn’t perfected the fashion of scarf wearing, but I didn’t think it looked that bad.

I’d forgotten this memory up until recently when I was putting together my work Yahoo Avatar. I couldn’t find suitable headgear and I didn’t think the bald look suited me, so I resorted to the just out of the shower, literal towel head. I changed it soon after the memories flooded in.

Some are normal. The, “my you speak English so well,” and “where are you from?” comments are to be expected. They come with the territory and it always blows people away when you say “I’m from here,” “Yep, my mom’s American too,” “Yep, she’s Muslim, yep she wears this ‘thing on her head’ too, yep I grew up here, yep yep yep.” Altering paradigms has become a past time of mine. This doesn’t bother me.

This does.

I don’t need you yelling “JIIIIIIIIIHAAAAAAAAAD!!!!” from your car as you nod knowingly at me. I don’t need you surrounding me on the street with your buddies and saying, “Nice Babushka,” or “Hey look, a suicide bomber,” or “Hey woman!, get 5 feet behind me!” or “Go listen to your man, ALLAHUAKBAR- BOOOOOOOM!”

I don’t need that.

I also don’t need you making kissy faces at me, or asking if I’m married, or for my phone number all because you said Salam  to me on the street to which I replied “Peace be upon you as well.” I acknowledged you because you greeted me as a Brother, what else was I supposed to do?

It won’t stop, I know this. I’m baffled at how common it is though. I’ve analyzed my facial expressions, my walk, my skin color, my dress, my religion, my head scarf, my smile, and I still can’t come up with anything I’d like to change.

I’m cool with me, and I’m sorry if that bothers you. Keep ‘em coming, I’m learning to take it like a champ.