Cover Letter Dear Reader, Overall, I felt like I was able to explain what I wanted to say.

I am quite passionate about the topic I wrote about, and I made sure to emphasize that in my writing. However, It was a little challenging to tie the different events together without sounding choppy or off-topic. I am not so sure if the events flow coherently. Also, the fact that I am discussing such a vast topic might have made it a little confusing if the audience does not have background knowledge about my hijab. The first snapshot is set up like in scenes. It is almost as if I have four miniature snapshots within a snapshot. I do not know if this made the narrative more confusing or if it achieved the desired voice of explaining what it was like for me "fitting in." Another concern I had was whether or not I included too much information; I tend to go on and on when I discuss topics I am passionate about. I hope I did not go overboard. Finally, thank you for reading my narrative, I hope you find it unique and insightful. Yours, Somia Youssef

Somia Youssef Rebecca Agosta English 1101 September 23rd, 2013 Build Me Stronger Young and Beautiful with an Extra Touch of Attention Too frequently I reminisced about my days before I covered and dressed in Islamic attire. I thought about how I felt, and I recollected several scenarios of my beautiful past. Vivid images played through my mind as if I was watching the movie trailer of my own life story. I remembered observing my fingers weave through my long golden-brown strands, contemplating my reflection. As part of my daily morning routine, I was attempting to decide on yet another hairstyle. I did not put much thought into which pair of shorts to wear, neither did I care what was printed on my t-shirt; the only thing I cared about was how my hair looked. To me, that was what mattered most; my hair was my crown of beauty. The look-for-the-day ended up being: a scarlet blouse on navy shorts with one perfect French braid tied with a white gleaming satin ribbon. Everything seemed in check before I made my way to school. The images of my morning routine quickly vanished and were replaced by the memories of a different day, a day on the beach. I remembered feeling the salty tips of my wet hair slap against my face as a warm breeze blew by. I felt like a model on a shampoo commercial, living the moment. I loved being showered by my sun-warmed hair.

Quickly the picture in my mind transformed to a time at the beauty salon. I remembered feeling half of my hair falling into my eyes as the hairdresser made her way through trimming my tips. Confusion overcame me when she asked me what shade I used to dye my hair. A look of astonishment swept over her face as I told her that I never dyed my hair before. She complimented its various shades and told me that the color matched exotically with my olive complexion. I remembered the smile that had formed slowly and involuntarily along the ends of my lips. I remembered even the most insignificant comments I received. One time, at school, a classmate exclaimed, "Wow! Your hair looks really nice today, can I touch it?" I knew I was having a "good hair day" with all the extra attention. My self-esteem skyrocketed. I remembered being happy, being beautiful; being uniquely like everyone else. I remembered it all. The Big Decision It was mid-year sixth grade when I first thought about wearing the hijab. The hijab is an Islamic headdress that is worn by women when they reach the age of puberty. Mid-year sixth grade seemed like the most perfect time to make that decision. During that time, several sponsors who played a role in influencing my decision came at that particular moment. Many of my Muslim friends and cousins at that time began covering, and it seemed like I was the only one left. Although I had not yet reached the indicated age, I decided I was old and mature enough to take on the responsibility of representing the religion I loved so much. Besides, I looked older than my age; most people who saw me thought I was seventeen even though I

was only twelve years old. Other factors, and several key individuals were also involved in fueling my determination. My favorite teacher at school was probably the toughest and meanest adult I have ever known. Mr. Wallace, my non-Muslim, African American sixth-grade Social Studies teacher, could have very well been a military general training students for boot camp. I loved him because he seemed so genuine underneath his tough mask. I knew he was so difficult because he truly wanted to raise students who took their futures seriously, and who were passionate about being productive individuals in society. He wanted to prepare his students for the real world; it was a tough kind of love, but I managed to develop a strong student-teacher relationship with him. I spoke to him, and told him about my plans on covering. Not being Muslim did not hinder him from strongly encouraging me to show off my cultural and religious pride. He sponsored me into believing that the only things in life that mattered were my values and what I choose to stand up for. Another motivator was Amira Ghali. She is not only my mother, but also my role model and best friend. As a strong Muslim woman, my mother wore long traditional dresses and wrapped large scarves that draped to her waist. I aspire to be like her one day. However, my parents did not directly influence my decision because they neither encouraged nor discouraged me from the choice I took. They simply told me to make sure that I was ready for the commitment. I knew I was ready, besides I had many friends, and I was sure that they would support me and not judge me. Also, my best friend, Aisha, decided she too wanted to

begin covering. The transition did not seem too difficult, and having a close friend as support made it seem even less intimidating. Finally, another important factor that influenced my decision was the date I chose. The holy month of Ramadan was approaching and I wanted to increase my spirituality to become closer to God. Wearing the hijab seemed like the perfect way to show my devotion to my religion. I began replacing shorts with pants, minis with maxis, and short sleeves with long sleeves. I then teamed up with my best friend, Aisha, and we both committed to wearing the hijab on the first day of Ramadan. All of those factors came together at that particular moment in time, and I can legitimately label it as the turning point of my life. Rough Reality The reality of being a covering Muslim girl living in the west was nothing I could have ever imagined. The image of the smooth transition I had envisioned and perfectly painted in my mind shattered in a mess of disappointment, fear, regret, and uncertainty. Friendly smiles were replaced with dirty stares. Warm welcomes were replaced with cautious greetings. Compliments were replaced with condemnations. Sometimes people would not even be willing to acknowledge my mere existence! I would be ignored if I spoke. I was judged before I was given a chance to leave an impression, both in school and in public places. Even close friends abandoned me at the time I needed their support most. I was disappointed at society for rejecting me when I was eagerly embracing it! I was only twelve years old. I had better expectations of society, and I thought the world was a more friendly and accepting place. I was utterly mistaken. Slowly my disappointment

began turning into fear. I was scared of people. Fear of the unknown controlled me. I was afraid, and I always felt alone no matter how many people surrounded me. Sometimes I regretted wearing my scarf because it was the reason why I was so miserable. I was much happier as a naive child. I blamed it for making me look different. I was a beautiful, young, American girl before, and now I am an ugly, oppressed, Middle-Eastern terrorist. I was uncertain whether the decision I made was right or not. As a result, I was slowly losing selfconfidence, and becoming more and more anti-social. Surely God would understand my circumstances and forgive me for my weakness; I live in the west, is that not enough of an excuse? I did not know. My parents were aware of my miseries and told me to take off my scarf. I just did not know what to do. No one understood, not even my mom. She spends most her days at home, how could she possibly understand?! I was helpless. I was drowning, but I had thoughts of swimming. Those were the thoughts that just barely kept me afloat. What Just Happened? January 4th, 2011 at 5:00 A.M. I woke up to my cousin's call, informing me of my dear grandmother's death. Only ten days before my birthday, Grandma did not make it to see me turn fifteen. Shock, horror, loneliness, and finally, depression took on their tolls. I remember the hardest part was telling my mom that her mother passed away. Never will I forget how the color instantly drained from my mother's face, as if the rushing tears washed the pigment away. The house was quiet, sad, and empty for several days after receiving the painful news. My friends attempted to cheer me up by surprising me with a birthday party. Although it was a happy shock, my emotions were yet unstable, and I burst to tears upon hearing the first

"SURPRISE!" A few days after Grandma's death, the Egyptian Revolution began. Constant fear, worry, and hopelessness overcame my household, as the television endlessly reported numerous attacks, deaths, and arrests. The news channels were never turned off. Although we supported the rebel movement to overthrow the corrupt Egyptian government, we were fearful of losing more loved ones in the turmoil. It was horrible watching our beloved Egypt burn up in ashes! Not being there was probably the worst feeling of all because all we could do was overestimate how devastating the events actually were. We felt guilty being away from home, and abandoning such a noble cause, but we had to deal with reality. That month was a month of depression, and I missed many days of school. I was excused for my circumstances, and I took advantage of every absence they gave me. While attempting to recover from all the traumatic news, I decided to go back to school. I needed support, and I needed more people in my life. The first day back I dressed in tight faded skinny jeans and a fitted black dress shirt. I lousily tossed a bright floral scarf on my head, allowing a few strands to "accidentally" fall out. I could have cared less; I needed a break. It was a dreary rainy day, and the school hours dragged on with its daily routine; I looked forward to going home. I was constantly unsure of what I wanted and indecisiveness dominated me. Finally, when the day ended, I left walking, as usual. The sky began to cry again, but quietly with light tears. All of a sudden, a white car driving past me slowed down. The windows were rolled and the seats seemed packed. I did not manage to figure out the exact number of the passengers. A threatening hand made its way outside the window to give me the finger, as the words: TERRORIST BITCH! rang through the quiet suburban neighborhood. Shock

froze my thought process. A millisecond later, I woke up to fear, and ran in the direction of home. I heard mocking laughter behind me as they screamed, "Run! Run far and go home, we don't want people like you here!" The car instantly disappeared in the foggy mist. No one was home. I felt alone and vulnerable. It was not my first encounter, as a matter of fact, I had been through much worse instances. Yet, this one hit me the hardest. I knew I did not "look like a terrorist," if that was their definition of terrorism. What I was wearing that afternoon did not please the ignorant of society, nor did it please my lord. According to Islamic teachings, the proper dress of women must be neither transparent nor showing form by any means. The only body parts that may show are the face and palms. I was not in full accordance in attempt to be "moderate" and give society a chance to accept me. I felt shallow and ashamed of myself. I felt that I lost everything. I displeased society, and above all, I displeased my lord. I never knew eyes could carry that many tears, for I released a tremendous amount that afternoon. It was a mixture of grief from the loss of Grandma, worry over the fate of Egypt, and my internal struggle of establishing my Muslim identity in America. It was too much to handle, and I hated so much. The most I hated was me. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger. Beautiful. Define it! I dare you. Consider this: the absence or enclosure of beauty discloses the most beautiful appearance. Therefore, my beauty increases as the exposed quantity of it decreases. The plain draping dresses and scarves liberate me more than ever. Oppressed they said, terrorist they repeat, freedom I reply.

I had previously blamed many people for being ignorant and for misunderstanding the Muslim appearance. Ironically, it turned out that ignorance had been affecting me because I misunderstood myself. As I was developing my literacy of dressing in modest fashion, I established a new character within me. The weak, uncertain, regretful, and fearful me is gone forever with the skinny jeans and tight shirts. I proudly cover as much as I can, and although I have not yet perfected my literacy, I know I have developed the appropriate mentality that will allow me to achieve more. Certainly, it is difficult to accept the unusual appearance of Islamic dress, let alone understand its purpose. I was lacking that knowledge, and therefore I struggled with maintenance. I never understood the true purpose behind why my religion required that I cover. It all became apparent to me in January, 2011 with the incidents that changed my life. I chose not to surrender to society's stereotypes; instead I strove to find grounds for them. What I found may appear contradicting until the true meaning is derived. I remember one time asking someone what made them think of me as a terrorist. Did my behavior indicate so, or was it built upon a stereotype? The person replied telling me that I simply looked like terrorist, and when they imagine a terrorist in their mind, someone who looks like me filled their imagination. Regardless of in what form my hijab is worn, ignorant people who think that way will always have those inaccurate ideas. As a result, I must condition myself to ignore unnecessary comments and carry on with what I do. Certainly, not everyone is like that; even if most people seem afraid to approach me, I need to approach them and be very open with my reasons. The same way my image reflects a negative stereotype in many

people's minds, I want my accurate Muslim image to reflect the vice versa. I want my behavior and character to change the misconceptions in the face of Islam. I want to express what a true Muslim looks and acts like, according to the teachings of Islam. Those who call me oppressed and dominated by the male gender offer me their sympathies, the sympathies I long to return. They do not know that I have reached the maximum level of freedom. I get to choose what YOU see of ME, and YOU cannot control what YOU want to see of ME. I dress the way I do to cover my beauty in order to achieve a higher and more pure level of beauty. Beauty that goes farther than just skin deep. Beauty that I work hard for. Beauty that I achieve and create. Beauty that I develop and innovate. Describing my physical appearance as beautiful, to me, is an insult. My appearance is a characteristic that I neither worked for nor achieved, rather it was merely given. My beauty lies in the core of my character and how I define myself as a woman through my actions, choices, and accomplishments both to myself and to society as a whole. I want people to see me for who I am. I want them to see a heart not a face. I want them to see a character not a body. I want them to know that I am free. My modesty protects me even from the most venomous words. I know I will not despair any longer. Those words will not kill me; they will only build me stronger.