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  Both my parents believed in sports almost as a way of life. Abu subscribed to the belief that playing sports would give us a competitive edge, making us winners on the field and in life. He taught all of his children how to swim and play baseball, basketball, and any other sport he could get us involved in. And he had us competing against each other as often as possible. Races across the swimming pool, free-throw contests, tossing around a football—it felt like there was never a day without sports or an ultimate challenge from Abu. First place was always up for grabs; usually it was Qareeb who claimed the title because he was a bit stronger and faster than the rest of us. And Qareeb was not the type of kid to let his sisters win just to be nice, so if we won, it was a true victory.

  Mommy liked for us to play sports because they kept us active and engaged with kids from school and around the neighborhood. She saw keeping active as a halal, or kosher, way for us to interact with our friends. Rather than our hanging out after school and running the chance of getting into trouble, sports provided a space for us to grow athletically, develop our self-confidence, and learn to work well with others. In a nutshell, both of my parents believed that sports were the best way to keep all of us kids disciplined and continuing to learn outside of the classroom. I can’t remember a single time in my life when we weren’t expected to play a sport. Of course, the sport I loved the most wasn’t one I played.

  I loved football. Abu had played football in his younger years and was a huge Steelers fan. Abu’s love and passion for football was passed down to my brother, with Qareeb playing football from a really young age in Pop Warner youth football programs, a local league for young boys. Every Sunday morning during football season, our family ventured out to Underhill Field in Maplewood to watch Qareeb and his team play or in front of the television watching NFL games. Even as a young girl I could talk football plays and strategy with the best of them. Hanging onto every word, I loved listening to Abu’s commentary as we would watch the games, while Qareeb would yell at the television screen at every missed assignment or fumbled ball. Sometimes Abu would take Qareeb and me to the park and toss the football around.

  “Get the rec book, Ibtihaj,” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “You’re next.” It was a Saturday in early spring, and the new Maplewood Recreation booklet had just arrived in our mailbox. That meant it was time for all the kids in the family to pick sports programs for the summer. Qareeb was probably going to select baseball or basketball. He was also a part of the local youth track team, the Jaguars. Asiya, now seven, decided to try gymnastics.

  I grabbed the booklet from the coffee table in the living room and walked into the kitchen. I plopped down at the table while my mother started making lunch. We had just moved Koocah’s cage from the living room to the kitchen, where the family spent most of our time. As Koocah stretched her wings and soaked up the afternoon sun pouring in from the skylight, I flipped through the pages of the rec book. There were so many different programs to choose from, but I had already tried tee-ball and tennis. Both soccer and lacrosse were big sports in our town, but they didn’t really pique my interest.

  I pushed the booklet away with a sigh.

  “What’s the matter? You can’t find anything that you like?” my mother asked.

  “Nope,” I said. “Can’t I just swim and work in my garden this summer?” I had plans to try growing eggplant along with my tomatoes this summer. Even though I asked the question, I knew I was obligated to find a summer sport.

  Mommy also taught summer school for the extra money, so she couldn’t just leave five kids at home alone all day. She signed us up for the summer program at the Roseville Avenue mosque in Newark, which was a few blocks over from her school. Afterward, she would drop off us at practice.

  “What about track?” she asked, looking over my shoulder at the rec book. “You could join the Jaguars with Qareeb.”

  I started to get nervous. Even though Qareeb really seemed to enjoy running track, I wasn’t sure if I was fast enough to join the track program. But instead of admitting this concern, I opted for the obvious.

  “I don’t know, Mommy,” I said. “It’s going to be really hot.” Although the Jaguars practiced at Underhill Field, the same place where Qareeb played football, that wasn’t going to help me escape the scorching summer heat.

  My mother tried to ease my worries. “Oh, you’ll be fine,” she said. “We’ll pack you a water bottle. You’ll be with your brother, it’ll be great!” She turned back to finish preparing lunch.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I tried again. I was already thinking about what I could wear. I remembered going to Qareeb’s meets the year before. Everyone wore the same uniform, a tank top and shorts, with a yellowy gold stripe down either side. The girls wore black bottoms that looked more like underwear or bikini briefs.

  “Mommy, what would I wear?” I asked, wondering how as a young Muslim girl the team uniform could ever suit me. “Have you noticed what the girls on the team run in?

  My mom waved away that thought. “We’ll find you some leggings and a t-shirt to run in. I’ll talk to the coaches to see what colors they would want you to wear. Don’t worry.”

  I wanted to point out that running in leggings would simply make running in the heat even more unbearable, but I kept that thought to myself. Instead I asked, “What if I don’t like it?”

  She turned to look at me. “What if you don’t like what? The uniform?” she asked.

  “What if I don’t like running?” I said again. “You know running isn’t really my thing.”

  “You could have fooled me with the amount of time you and Qareeb spend running around this house,” my mother huffed. “You might as well expend all that energy at track practice where it belongs.” She walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out the rest of the food she needed. As she closed the fridge, I could tell there was no changing her mind. But she did have a point. Qareeb and I were a mess, constantly daring each other to do the craziest things. Clearly I didn’t have an adequate defense about not liking running. And I knew my mother had already made up her mind. It was a done deal.

  “I guess I could try it,” I said, intentionally showing little enthusiasm.

  “Good,” my mom said. “I like the coaches over there. They’re all Black and great role models for both you and Qareeb. I’m sure you’ll make some good friends.”

  I didn’t share my mother’s excitement, but I knew I didn’t really have a choice. A summer without a sport was not in the cards for me.

  Because I was only ten and hadn’t hit puberty, I didn’t have to wear my hijab yet. My mom had me wear it to school sometimes, mostly on days when I didn’t have gym class. Luckily, I didn’t have to wear hijab to track practice. That would have been unbearable in the summer heat, especially with the spandex leggings I wore to cover my legs.

  I knew I didn’t want to run the long-distance events, and I wasn’t sure I was fast enough for the sprints, so I volunteered to run the 800 because it was a middle distance, not too fast and not too slow. The best part about track was the days when we had meets. Once I finished competing in my events, I would spend the rest of the day huddled in the bleachers with my friends chatting and laughing, or at the concession stand grabbing warm pretzels and nachos. The competitive part of me liked the feeling of winning, crossing the finish line, and coming home with a medal. Once I got a taste of winning, I could admit I liked the feeling, and it became a part of my being.

  In the middle of July, we had our first away meet in northern New Jersey. The coaches told us the meet was really important and said to make sure we got plenty of rest and water the night before. The weatherman had forecasted a record high for the day of the meet. I knew I was going to be extra hot in my shimmery spandex leggings, and I knew someone was going to ask me about them and I was going to have to explain why I covered my legs. I also knew I was going to hate that whole part of the experience, even if I came home with a million medals. Qareeb was so lucky in that way. He didn�
��t have to wear anything that made him stick out. He got to wear the same uniform as everyone else and didn’t have to carry the burden of explaining our family’s religious practices every time we went to an away meet. When people saw him in his uniform, he was just one more Jaguar. Me, I was different.

  The night before the meet, Abu pulled me aside before I went to bed. He couldn’t come to the meet because he had to go into work, but he wanted to give me some last-minute advice.

  “Ibtihaj,” he started, “it’s going to be really hot tomorrow, and running in the heat can be dangerous. If you feel faint or like you can’t breathe, it’s okay to stop. The sun can be brutal.”

  I nodded and wrapped my arms around him in a hug, breathing in his familiar scent, a mixture of the sweet, musky oil he used in his beard and laundry detergent. Abu and I tended to bond the most when it came to sports, so when he offered this extra bit of advice I soaked it up.

  On the day of the meet, the sun was bright, the sky blue, and the trees infinite as we drove down the highway. The ride to the meet was close to two hours. It felt like an eternity. Mommy drove as Qareeb and I stared out the window and Asiya and Faizah nodded in and out of sleep in their car seats.

  My mom turned on the car radio to the only station she ever listened to, the one that played smooth jazz. Anita Baker’s soothing voice filled the car, and my mom and I sang the lyrics together. When the song was over, I grinned at her. “I love that song.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I love anything Anita Baker sings.”

  “Mommy, how come we can listen to smooth jazz in the car, but we can’t listen to other music?” I asked. “Is smooth jazz halal?”

  She turned the radio off and popped in a Quran recitation cassette. She didn’t answer my question and kept her eyes on the road in front of us. I didn’t ask again. I took a cue from my brother, settled back into my seat, and looked out the window for the rest of the ride.

  When we got to the track, my mom told Qareeb and me to go find our coaches while she roused my sisters from their sleep. We both gave her a quick hug and then ran off to find our teammates. I had already worked up a sweat. It felt like it was 100 degrees.

  As we started off, I told my brother I was worried about the heat.

  “Don’t be a baby. It’s only like eighty-five degrees,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes but didn’t say anything. I trotted off to find my friends and left Qareeb to his own devices.

  When it was my turn to race, I prayed that I’d survive the heat. I heard other girls talking about the heat, too, and they weren’t even wearing long tights like I was. This did not bode well for me.

  BANG! The gun went off, and I sprang out of the blocks. I started off in the lead and felt good. I pumped my arms and lengthened my stride. The first 200 done. But the sun was so strong I could feel its rays on every inch of my body. The second 200 done. I only had to make it around the track one more time, but my legs had started to feel like they were made of lead. Two girls passed me, and then another. I tried to sprint to regain my lead, but I couldn’t make my legs go any faster, and my breath started to come in jagged heaves. Suddenly my father’s voice popped into my head. “If it hurts to breathe, you can stop.” I tried to pull in a breath, but there was growing pressure. So I slowed down, fell into a trot, and then just started to walk. It was no use. I felt sick to my stomach. Instead of heading to the finish line, I simply walked off the track. I scanned the bleachers and found my mother and my two sisters and slowly made my way over to them. I used the sleeves from my t-shirt to wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead and kept my head down to block the unforgiving sun.

  As I got closer to my mom, I noticed she did not look happy.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled before I even made it up to their seats.

  “Abu said if I couldn’t breathe I could stop,” I said, surprised by her tone.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “You can’t do that!”

  “Ma, but I couldn’t breathe!” I said.

  “Look, the sun is strong, but you cannot stop in the middle of the race,” she insisted. “I don’t expect you to always win, but I expect you to give it your all. You have to give a hundred percent. I didn’t drive all the way out here to watch you give up.”

  “But Abu said that if I had trouble breathing…” I said, pleading my case.

  Then Qareeb came over to us with a look of confusion on his face. “Why’d you stop running, Ibtihaj? You were winning!”

  I was now embarrassed and realized that maybe stopping wasn’t the best thing to do. I looked over at my teammates with tears in my eyes. The other girls had finished but I hadn’t.

  I couldn’t look at Qareeb, so I turned back to my mom and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t ever going to win the race, Ibtihaj,” my mother said. “You have to work for the win,” she said, “even if it hurts.”

  It was then that I realized that winning wasn’t going to come easily; I never wanted to see that look of disappointment on my mother’s face again. I never wanted to give her a reason to think I was wasting her time or that I didn’t know how to work hard. I promised myself that next time I would do better and I would never give up. And that became my mantra as an athlete.

  CHAPTER 3

  My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive.

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  Why are you wearing that tablecloth on your head?” Jack Bowman sneered.

  I gritted my teeth and tried really hard not to let the tears that were pressing hard against my eyelids fall. I kept walking to my class and pretended not to hear Jack’s irritating voice. Every time he passed me in the hallways at school, that kid would pick on me. I was always on high alert as I moved from class to class, praying I didn’t cross paths with him. Middle school was hard enough without having to worry about this kid harassing me.

  Now that I was wearing hijab to school every day since I’d officially hit puberty, and I was in seventh grade, my life had gotten complicated. Middle school is typically about fitting in, and that’s all I wanted to do. On the one hand, I was a good student, I had a few close friends, and most of my teachers loved me, but on the other, it was impossible for me to ever blend in with the crowd. I’d never be just like everyone else. Because of my hijab, I was different. You wouldn’t think a simple headscarf could cause so much commotion, and yet I’d frequently have to look over my shoulder to see if Jack or one of his friends was lurking nearby. Some days, I’d have to dodge insults being thrown at me walking down the hallway. Certain girls in the cool club acted like I didn’t exist. And the thing was, I never knew if it was because they didn’t like me, or they didn’t like my hijab.

  My hijab was part of me, though. I didn’t see why it made me any different than the other kids. So I wore a scarf to cover my hair—why was that such a big deal? Other people projected that difference on me, because I didn’t ask for any special considerations simply because of what I wore on my head. My hijab was a sign of my maturity and faithfulness to Allah, but I didn’t need anyone at Maplewood Middle School to recognize that. I just wanted my hijab to be a nonissue.

  One of the biggest issues Muslims in America face is that they often are misunderstood. People don’t know that Islam is one of the three Abrahamic faiths, Christianity and Judaism being the other two. They don’t know that Muslims recognize Moses, Abraham, and Jesus as prophets. They don’t believe that we worship the same God as Christians and Jews do; we simply refer to that same God as Allah. The truth is, if people knew what it takes to be a Muslim—believe in one God, pray five times a day, give to the poor, make a pilgrimage to Mecca, and fast during Ramadan—they’d probably rethink their attitudes about my religion. Of course, there is far more to learn about Islam than the five pillars, as we call them, but those are the foundations of Islam. Those are the beliefs and practices on which we base our life. As a child, I understood we are to live our lives following the example of the prophet Muhammad.
And as such, we do things a little differently than some people, but I never understood why that was justification for others to be cruel.

  There was this one kid, Jeremy Jackson. For some reason, Jeremy wouldn’t accept that I belonged at Maplewood Middle School just like all the other kids. He teased me whenever possible. My friends told me to ignore him, which I tried to do, but it was hard because I never knew where or when he’d show up.

  One day I was in art class, and we were working with oil paints. I was excited to get started because I loved painting. I’ve always been considered the artistic one in my family, just like my dad. Abu taught me the basics of drawing, and from there I moved on to painting and sketching—I loved anything where I could be creative with colors. Sometimes I would sketch designs for new clothes for my Barbies to wear. Once I learned how to use a sewing machine in Ms. Deeds’s home economics class, my imagination really took off. I started making clothes for my dolls and even patchwork pillowcases for everyone in my family. My creative expression also extended to my own personal fashion, often color-coordinating my hijab and sneakers.

  Now that I was in seventh grade, art class had gotten far more sophisticated, and I looked forward to learning new creative skills. We had moved beyond Magic Markers and watercolors and were using oil paints on real canvas. I was trying to paint a bouquet of purple and orange flowers but the teacher, Ms. Murphy, wanted us to only use primary colors, so I blended the paints to get the colors I wanted. I had to really think about how to get the colors just right, so I didn’t notice the shadow creeping up behind me. Suddenly I was blinded by a huge pain in my left arm.

  “Ow,” I cried out. Jeremy Jackson was standing next to me with a smirk on his face.

  “Sorry,” Jeremy said, but he obviously didn’t mean it. He’d punched me as hard as he could in front of everyone, and I could barely see straight from the pain and the humiliation.