Day 5 - Feeling Vulnerable

This morning I went out for a walk in my little town of Bay Village, wearing the hijab, of course. Although I noticed more curious looks, I met mostly women out on my walk and most of them smiled and kept walking, as they usually do. One man, driving a landscaping truck, seemed to look long and hard at me, as if he couldn't quite match a woman wearing a black and white hijab with what he usually sees in Bay Village, but nothing came of it. I didn't quite know what to do with my eyes; Muslim women are modest in both dress and demeanor; so, should I stare back or should I just ignore? I stared back, until he broke his gaze and turned the corner.

I was mostly aware of how vulnerable I felt in my own neighborhood; in a place where I've walked hundreds, maybe thousands of times at this point. Everything was the same--except for me. I was wearing something that said to the outside world "I am not you...I am not the same faith as you, I don't dress like you, I am the "other." It was an intensely uncomfortable feeling. In fact, I felt nervous at what "could" happen. I didn't like standing out so much and feeling like I was the only one. Now I know --in a way I didn't before--why people of color would not move to Bay Village unless there was a critical mass; where the shift from predominantly white to multicultural was 50% or more. The feeling of being alone, separate, wondering if others will be judging, asking questions in their minds "is she really going to fit in here?" was overwhelming. I know that this drama was all being played out in my own head; there was no one yelling at me to "go back to Iraq" or any such thing, but standing out made me feel like I had a target on my back.

I cannot imagine what Muslim women and men of color must have felt like after 9-11. The paranoia; the fear of being targeted, must have been very intense. It's no wonder that people want to live in communities where there are others like them; instead of, as a colleague wrote, just "add people of color (ethnic, class, etc) to the mix and stir..." Successful multicultural communities don't work that way.

However, I have to be honest here. I have never lived in a truly multicultural setting. When I visit my friends in Chicago, in Hyde Park, it's a multicultural feast; with African-American, Indian, Slovak, Polack, Jews, students, seniors, joggers, strollers, hawkers, tricksters, hustlers, Muslims, preachers, teachers, toddlers and teens all running or strolling or playing or talking in the public spaces that spill out into neighborhoods and it feels like the way the world should be. It's noisy, sometimes messy, always fascinating. I feel very alive there. When I come back to my neighborhood, I love it--it's quiet--it feels safe--and yet, I wondered, as I wandered this morning, where did the fear come from? Just the awareness of what it means to step into another's hijab? Is it feeling what people of color must feel every day of their lives? I also noticed how much energy it took to stay grounded and focused with the fear of what might happen--as irrational as that fear is. It took a lot of energy to just do my normal day to day routines while wearing the hijab in public. I kept waiting for the shoe to drop--the comment--the look--the nudge--the mark that sent the final message "she's not one of us."

It never came. Yet.
Tomorrow is another day.
Blessings to you all as we approach the 10th anniversay of 9-11.
A hard, heart day, indeed.
Kathleen