Hijabi Style: The Surprisingly Average Life Of A Teenage Muslim Girl

Hamzah

First impressions last forever. They give you your first look into a person; a chance to see how someone can help you or hurt you. And sometimes, they can make you feel a lot better about yourself.

If there wasn't enough going on with seeing the latest "it couple" practically everywhere I went at school, things were about to get interesting at home too.

It's a Sunday, and I'm avoiding homework, as usual. Abba had cooled down since the whole "dating non-Muslims" fiasco, so when he calls me downstairs from my room, I'm not worried.

As I bound down the stairs, I become aware that there are people-visitors- standing in the front hall. I hear the voices as soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs. My hair is a mess (and uncovered!) and I am wearing a ratty wife beater with leggings. I can't face guests like this!

Before I can turn to run back upstairs, one of the guests turns to me and laughs quietly. I see that it is a teenage boy, and that the adults haven't noticed my presence yet. I hurry to my room to change.

After coming down the stairs a second time, I enter the foyer, where my parents, Deena, and the guests have moved.

"Yasmeen," Abba rises as he gestures to the guests. "I want you to meet some friends."

I say my salaams to the teenage boy and a man who appears to be the boy's father.

"This is Mr. Jalal Hamzah. And that is his son, Hakeem." Ummi says.

"You can call me Hamzah," the teenage boy says.

"Jalal and I grew up together, back home. We haven't been in touch much since we came over from Palestine. But Jalal and his family are moving here from Montana. So, Allah willing, we will see a lot more of each other." Abba tells us.

"Yasmeen, why don't you take Hamzah up to your room?"

Wait, what? Prior to today, Deena and I weren't even allowed to let boys enter the house, let alone up to our rooms.

I widen my eyes at Ummi and she nods. "Go on, habibti."

"Um, okay." I stand and start toward the stairs. Hamzah follows.

"Why'd you change?" Hamzah snickers as we get to my room.

"You know why," I narrow my eyes. "I have to be presentable for guests."

"A guest? Is that all that I am to you? Our fathers have dreams of getting us married."

"WHAT?"

"Don't worry, I have no interest in being anything more than your friend."

"Well, thanks." I mutter sarcastically.

"That came out wrong."

"Right."

"So, I was wondering if you could show me around school on Monday? Connecticut's a lot different from Montana." Hamzah says to me.

"Sure, I guess."

Things are quiet for a bit before Hamzah speaks.

"I'm really glad to meet you, Yasmeen."

"Really? Why?"

"I've always been the only Muslim. At school, in my town. Probably in all of Montana."

"Is it just you and your dad?" I ask.

"And my little sister, Sabi. She's eight. Our mom passed away a few years ago."

"I'm really sorry for your loss."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm glad to have met you."

"Are you mostly saying that because I told you my mom died?"

"Mostly." I earnestly admit.

Hamzah laughs. "At least you're honest."

"Hamzah, we're leaving!" Mr. Hamzah calls from downstairs.

We head down the stairs together towards the front door. Our parents are talking outside, in the driveway.

"Hey, what's the situation with people calling you by your last name?" I ask before he turns to leave.

"Uh, you know, the word "hamzah" in Arabic can be used to mean "strong"." he says, looking me in the eyes.

"I'm aware," I roll my eyes playfully. "I do speak Arabic, you know."

"Well, I like to be called Hamzah because I need to believe that I'm strong. Every time I am called, it reminds me that I need to be strong for those I love."

I look at him with empathy, and he nods curtly. His jaw clenches and he pats my shoulder just once.

With that, he slips out of the door, and into the world.