My understanding of my brownness has remained fluid over time, but it’s come to change rapidly as I progress through the white walls of academia. From a young age, I knew that my brownness was an aspect of my identity that would make me stand out. Whether it was for better or for worse, it would be a conversation starter, a label, an attribute that people would feel comfortable noticing and pointing out—it would irk them if they didn’t. Back then, I didn’t realize how this would later come to play a part in understanding my own identity.
My first day of preschool taught me a lot. Forced to leave the safe arms of my Ma and the warmth and comfort of home behind, that day was also the day I forever gained a new name—one that would for the ongoing years of my institutional persona to come, erase the name I was born and grew up with.
My name, Amal, is the Arabic word for ‘hope’, and it is a relatively acceptable name in America now, mostly with the help of Amal Clooney (I owe her a huge thank you). My name is pronounced “uh-mul”— this isn’t a perfect transliteration but it’s the closest English could do. It was the only version of my name I knew for myself, apart from the loving nicknames my sisters and father held for me growing up. It was all I heard in my home until my first day of school.
That day is one of my earliest memories of feeling oddly brown in a white world, in my own country.
My preschool teacher was an old, kind, sweet, white lady with short, blonde bangs. I don’t remember what my first day of preschool was like, but I have a feeling my mom dressed me in pink, and I’m assuming there were tears involved. I remember Mrs. Cook asking me what my name was— and I said “Uh-mul”, ever so lightly. “A mall?” she replied. Holding back tears, I nodded. And thus my second name was born and has lived on since.
Today, years later, I’ve definitely gotten many name jokes, as well as ethnicity-guessing and name-calling, and faced the brunt of stereotypes (the occasional, especially ego-hurting, “Aren’t you guys supposed to be good at math?”) along with the standard blatant racism. Experiences like these, while not as harmful as others, are still unforgettable and important for me to reflect on. Understanding my two identities in every system and institution in this country, and how they’ve been nuanced by the color of my skin and the roots of my blood, feels essential. It leaves an impact that I need to unpack in order to thrive in both my culture and single body. But, the whiteness of most institutions I face typically erases or rewrites the history of both my body and country, as well as their own.
College finally gave me a new perspective and voice. Creative writing and Critical Race Studies allowed me to explore my identity using language and tools I did not have nor was taught. I got to sit in a class with a group of students, mostly women of color, for the first time. I didn’t have to feel intimidated by the racism or authority perpetuated even just by the presence of white bodies. I got to read pieces of work written by Black, Chicana, and Indigenous women, writing about their history and experiences, not the white-washed history I was force-fed in school.
I finally had an open space to talk about experiences that my peers of color and I have been forced to swallow. I was validated that it’s okay to think twice about why you, as a professional intern, were considered a defendant as a woman of color in a courtroom, numerous times. It’s important to talk about that professor who likes to guess where you’re from or assume stereotypes about your culture. I don’t want to keep getting mixed up with other brown girls, and I don’t have to feel sorry for that. Why do we feel shrunken, or that we have to be quiet and fearful around our white peers or bosses? We are taught and reinforced that we are less than them, but we are not.
With the banning of Black studies across Florida and “anti-CRT” (CRT being short for critical race theory) laws across five states as of February of this year, the need for critical race and ethnic studies is ever important. I never realized what I was missing until I was put in the environment to learn the authentic history of the country whose land I occupy. Through relearning American history from the more realistic and authentic perspectives of Indigenous, Black, and other voices and struggles as well as global movements, I’m learning how I can put my education to action. At last, I feel like I’m being given the tools I need and am owed. I feel very grateful, and I am learning that I have a lot of work left to do. Although, at least now I’m being taught where I can start.
The need for critical race studies feels personal, and is also a necessity—to both students of color and not, in order to create a world that’s really for the both of us.