It’s just a scarf, isn’t it?

remember the first day of fifth grade. It was September 9^th, 2002, two days before the one-year anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center. I should mention that I am from New York. It was the first time I wore a hijab, a headscarf. I cannot seem to forget that day, perhaps, because it was then that my best friend at the time walked past me without greeting me, after just one glance. We have not spoken since.
            There was no particular reason why I began to wear my hijab. That morning, before I left to go to school, I asked my mother if I could wear a hijab and she handed me one. Perhaps, I wanted to try something new or please my mother or be a “good Muslim.” Even under the pressure of classmates (and friends) and the weight of September 11, I kept my hijab on. The only times that I did not have it on were in the comfort of my own home (sometimes at homes of family members or friends), on Eid (Muslim holiday), graduation, and prom.
There were people that would ask me whether or not I had hair or if I would shower with my hijab on. Till this day, I do believe that these questions were genuine. 
Wearing a hijab had its implications and strings attached. I was no longer allowed to reveal most parts of my body or skin. Through the burning hot summer days and the warm spring nights, I wore long sleeved shirts and pants that would not reveal the shape of my body. For most Muslims, a more conservative mode of dress is intended to affect behavior and become internalized as a mode of thought. Wearing a hijab implied that religious and cultural principles and rules applied to me more than they did for my friends without hijabs. For a girl with a hijab on, praying only two times a day or having a boyfriend was just not acceptable. I always had to think like a Muslim hijabi because if I did not, I would have to face the torment of the Muslim society.
Keeping my hijab on was also my choice, but it was more than an act of religion. My hijab was a force that kept me away from several of my childhood and teenage desires, and as a result, kept me focused on my education. It earned me respect from fellow Muslims, which encouraged me to keep my hijab on. Wearing a hijab helped filter out the judgmental and uninviting people in my life. At a young age, I learned that there were some who judged based on appearance, and as a result, they would treat me differently or unfairly. I remember the day that a bully had attempted to take off my hijab. Luckily, a teacher had happened to walk by at that moment. It was a horrific moment, one that still haunts me.
For most of my childhood, I tried to strive against judgment and harsh treatments. It became a priority to be and to have supporting, honest, and loyal friends. But, I cannot say that I was always successful.
Six months ago was the last time I wore my hijab. I am currently a sophomore at Brown. Wearing a hijab limited available actions and dictated decisions, which sometimes took pressure of making certain choices. But, this was not always the best reason. For example, I knew not to involve myself with teenage indiscretions, not because it was against my religious and cultural values, but because it was wrong for a girl with a hijab. Wearing a hijab helped me understand that there is more to happiness beyond appearance, but instead of making me feel more confident about my appearance, wearing a hijab made me feel as if I had to hide my appearance. It became my shield from my physical insecurities and new experiences. I began to mistake my beauty as flaws and then used my hijab to hide what I deemed to be physical flaws. I carried the image of a girl who can do no wrong because I had the weight of religion behind me. I just wanted to let my hair show.
Because of my hijab, I am at a stage in my life where I can make decisions without relying on my hijab, giving a sense of agency, which is ultimately one of the reasons why I stopped wearing it. I assumed that not wearing my hijab would be easier and more comfortable than wearing it, but I have to admit, I was wrong. Those who used to give me scornful looks now welcome me with smiling faces, while those who used to acknowledge me with respect (including those that do not wear a hijab) now refuse to look at me. Even with my hair out for the world to see, I still find myself hiding. Though my mother has her suspicions, and though she did not wear a hijab until she was married, I still cannot bear to tell her of this change because she would disapprove for religious reasons and deem me to be weak for not fighting the urge to take off my hijab.
Now that I have chosen to no longer wear my hijab, the rest of my apparel is also more revealing, which welcomes more stares. In the eyes of other Muslims, having a love for fashion is not a good enough reason for this change. I do not have any less faith in or respect for Islam, but I am labeled as one who does. To many, I am no longer considered a “good Muslim” because of this change.
Over the past year, prior to ultimately taking off my hijab, I wore it to class and back home, but not in social surroundings. I wanted to maintain this cycle, but it was considered to be hypocritical and confusing by both Muslims and non-Muslims. Some would not greet me because they would not recognize me while others did not know how to respond. Because it was difficult for others to accept this lifestyle, it was difficult for me to maintain it.
My interactions with others around me shape the way I act and affect my view of both society and myself. Though I may like to think that looks do not play a role in my interactions with others, the truth is that they do. Covering my hair with a hijab earns me disdainful, curious, and respectful looks from others for several reasons: Some people may treat me poorly for having a hijab on because they associate it with Muslims, then with the Middle East, and finally with Al-Qaeda’s attack on the World Trade Center. Some may look at me with fascination, wondering why I wear a hijab and whether or not it is my choice. And some may choose to greet me saying, “Assalamuyalykum,” meaning “hello” in Arabic, because my religion seems evident, proudly proclaimed, which invites a sense of familiarity from strangers. These interactions with others are the reason for my need to both share with and hide from the world.
Without my hijab, I feel uncomfortable with myself, even around those who never judged me. I thought that without the hijab, I would finally be rid of stares, but now it is precisely the absence of the hijab that draws stares. And now, the people who stare at me are friends confused by its absence, people who recognize me as a Muslim, and strangers fascinated by my long hair and tan skin. I am not accustomed to facing others without my hijab, and thus, without that shield, I feel exposed. These looks affect me internally and shape the way I act and respond.
Placing an object that would cover my hair changed my interactions with others, both self-inflicted and socially inflicted. But taking this object off my hair did just the same. I kept my hijab on to show the world that covering my hair was more than an act of religion; it was an act of choice that exemplified my strength. Giving it up is a different kind of strength, one that is still a choice. I do not know which I prefer and what is the better option for me. For now, this should not be my main concern.