"CHOOSING AARDVARKS OVER PRINCESSES AND EMBRACING YOUR DIFFERENCES"
I didn’t spend last Saturday afternoon doing math homework, studying for an upcoming test or even working on this newspaper. Instead, I was at a party — a tea party, to be precise. Surrounded by mini cupcakes, cheese cubes and floral teacups, I found myself in the company of eight hyperactive first-graders, each clad in a poofy princess dress in celebration of my cousin Syma’s seventh birthday.
My jolting transition from textbooks to tiaras was confusing enough to blur my memories of the Disney princesses, much to the girls’ chagrin. With too much amusement for my liking, they declared me the Beast to Syma’s Belle.
Syma’s birthday parties have always been full of glitz and glitter; number seven was no different, though she had finally graduated beyond the Elsa and Anna theme that usually characterized her festivities. The whole ordeal was the epitome of a stereotypical “little girl.”
Those of us banished from the ladylike proceedings sat in the living room, watching the partygoers giggle around the table and dribble their drinks onto their napkins. I turned to my aunt.
Me: “Will we see you guys tomorrow?”
My aunt: “Maybe we’ll stop by your house after Sunday School.”
Cinderella (gasping from the other room): “Hey, I go to Sunday School! Syma, YOU go to Sunday school too??”
Syma (ruefully): “Yes. But mine is different.”
Syma then turned away, her expression showing that she was in no mood for more questions. Cinderella got the message loud and clear.
Syma has always been one for dramatics, so her response wasn’t anything surprising. Something about what she said caught my attention, though: the word “different.”
When I was seven, I seized every opportunity to be unique. I happily ate strawberry jam and cheese sandwiches every day for lunch, wore my favorite striped poncho throughout all four seasons of the year and dressed up as Arthur’s sister D.W. for Halloween — an aardvark, not a princess. In my elementary school’s rendition of the Beauty and the Beast, I was cast not as Belle, but as Maurice, Belle’s aging father. Syma did not approve when I told her the story: I marched on stage and recited my lines with a pillow under my shirt, a bald cap on my head and cotton balls glued to my eyebrows (the pictures of that day have since been burned and destroyed). I was carefree, unaware of judgement.
At the delicate age of seven, Syma already so acutely feels “otherness” in the fact that her Sunday School is at a mosque, not a church or synagogue. She knows that the few hours each week she spends reciting the Arabic alphabet, learning about the prophets and chatting about Eid plans could single her out as “different.”
To be fair, when it comes to tricky identities like religion and race, being different — being in the minority — is far more complicated than having strange food or TV preferences.
Taking on the role of “the token” member of a group isn’t exactly desirable; in some cases, especially for kids who are still forming their own identities, it is an enormous burden. There is constant pressure to represent an entire group of people, an unfair expectation that assumes all people who share a label are exactly the same.
Conversations about Islam, especially in current events, often put me on edge. Even if I’m not sure that anyone else knows that I’m Muslim — or even cares, for that matter — I feel the urge to jump up and shout, “I promise, that person doesn’t represent all of us!” Every developing news story has me anxiously waiting to find out more information about the perpetrator.
Despite this unease, it is important to embrace and discuss the identities that set us apart in controversial ways. When someone mentions Islam, I want my friends to think not of the awful stories they hear on the news, but of me. I want them to feel like they can ask me questions, and I want to be prepared to answer them. Even though it can be overwhelming, I carry this responsibility with pride.
Let’s be honest; Syma’s friends probably wouldn’t have understood her description of Sunday School, nor remember the information when they were old enough to understand. Syma’s response was typical for a first grader. As she gets older, however, I hope that she’ll learn to embrace her identity; after all, we could use a Muslim Disney princess.
My jolting transition from textbooks to tiaras was confusing enough to blur my memories of the Disney princesses, much to the girls’ chagrin. With too much amusement for my liking, they declared me the Beast to Syma’s Belle.
Syma’s birthday parties have always been full of glitz and glitter; number seven was no different, though she had finally graduated beyond the Elsa and Anna theme that usually characterized her festivities. The whole ordeal was the epitome of a stereotypical “little girl.”
Those of us banished from the ladylike proceedings sat in the living room, watching the partygoers giggle around the table and dribble their drinks onto their napkins. I turned to my aunt.
Me: “Will we see you guys tomorrow?”
My aunt: “Maybe we’ll stop by your house after Sunday School.”
Cinderella (gasping from the other room): “Hey, I go to Sunday School! Syma, YOU go to Sunday school too??”
Syma (ruefully): “Yes. But mine is different.”
Syma then turned away, her expression showing that she was in no mood for more questions. Cinderella got the message loud and clear.
Syma has always been one for dramatics, so her response wasn’t anything surprising. Something about what she said caught my attention, though: the word “different.”
When I was seven, I seized every opportunity to be unique. I happily ate strawberry jam and cheese sandwiches every day for lunch, wore my favorite striped poncho throughout all four seasons of the year and dressed up as Arthur’s sister D.W. for Halloween — an aardvark, not a princess. In my elementary school’s rendition of the Beauty and the Beast, I was cast not as Belle, but as Maurice, Belle’s aging father. Syma did not approve when I told her the story: I marched on stage and recited my lines with a pillow under my shirt, a bald cap on my head and cotton balls glued to my eyebrows (the pictures of that day have since been burned and destroyed). I was carefree, unaware of judgement.
At the delicate age of seven, Syma already so acutely feels “otherness” in the fact that her Sunday School is at a mosque, not a church or synagogue. She knows that the few hours each week she spends reciting the Arabic alphabet, learning about the prophets and chatting about Eid plans could single her out as “different.”
To be fair, when it comes to tricky identities like religion and race, being different — being in the minority — is far more complicated than having strange food or TV preferences.
Taking on the role of “the token” member of a group isn’t exactly desirable; in some cases, especially for kids who are still forming their own identities, it is an enormous burden. There is constant pressure to represent an entire group of people, an unfair expectation that assumes all people who share a label are exactly the same.
Conversations about Islam, especially in current events, often put me on edge. Even if I’m not sure that anyone else knows that I’m Muslim — or even cares, for that matter — I feel the urge to jump up and shout, “I promise, that person doesn’t represent all of us!” Every developing news story has me anxiously waiting to find out more information about the perpetrator.
Despite this unease, it is important to embrace and discuss the identities that set us apart in controversial ways. When someone mentions Islam, I want my friends to think not of the awful stories they hear on the news, but of me. I want them to feel like they can ask me questions, and I want to be prepared to answer them. Even though it can be overwhelming, I carry this responsibility with pride.
Let’s be honest; Syma’s friends probably wouldn’t have understood her description of Sunday School, nor remember the information when they were old enough to understand. Syma’s response was typical for a first grader. As she gets older, however, I hope that she’ll learn to embrace her identity; after all, we could use a Muslim Disney princess.