Kiana Ahmadi: The Hooded Hero - Prologue

September 2009

Mom pulls me into a hug and nearly crushes me with the force of the gesture. Waves of anxiety radiate off her, but I don't understand why. It's my first day of fifth grade! She should feel just as excited as I do. She offers a small smile and cups my face. The butterflies float out of my stomach, and I forget my worries. "Have a good day, Kiana," she says, fiddling with her hands. I offer her a grin so wide my cheeks ache and wave goodbye. I sprint away happily, excited for my first day.

The school is bustling with other kids, so shining with enthusiasm as they rush to their classrooms, some slumped over in dread. A few students cast strange looks in my direction, but I barely notice. I adjust the fabric around my face. I'm not quite used to the hijab yet; it's my first time wearing it to school.

I find my classroom and rush inside. The interior is decorated with an assortment of bright and cheery artwork that only elevates my optimism. I find my place next to a girl I remember from last year. I don't remember her name, but she smiles at me warmly. I return the expression and take a seat.

The teacher is a young woman with short, curly hair, and skin that's darker than mine. I've never seen her at the school before. She must be new. She talks too quickly, but I like the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when smiles. The teacher dismisses us for recess after she shows us around the classroom, and I file out to the playground with all of my classmates.

I chase after a group of girls, and we all race around playing tag. Some boys join in, and we all shout and laugh until our cheeks turn pink and our breath is ragged. We all flop on our backs in the grass, giggling.

I thought we were all having fun, but I guess not.

I rise, still panting. "We should play another game," I announce. Some of the other kids nod in agreement, but a girl stands and moves in my direction.

"I don't think you can play with us," she says, her nose turned to the sky. "It's too hot to be wearing that thing on your head.

My grin wavers. "I'm not too hot to play. I pinky promise." I hold out my pinky, and my whole arm quivers like my smile.

The girl stares at my outstretched hand and scowls. "You'll get tired, and then you won't be able to run as fast," she snarls.

I fold my arms over my chest, indignant. "I'll still be able to run faster than you."

The girl huffs and flips her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. "You can play with us when you take that thing off your head," she puffs.

I shake my head in refusal, and she reaches out to push me. I push her back, and she stumbles away before running at me and shoving me to the ground. She falls to her knees beside me and tries to pull the hijab from my head. I dodge every attempt while simultaneously lashing my little fists out. I hit the girl a few times on the arms, but she doesn't get off me.

"Take it off!" she shouts in between laughing. The other kids giggle and point, and soon we've gathered a crowd.

It feels like she's been on me for an eternity when she relents. Her taunts move away from directly above me, and an older kid moves into view. All I can see before I slam my eyes shut is a wavy mop of black hair and thick eyebrows that crinkle together in concern.

I accept the hand of the older kid, and he pulls me up. I keep my eyes clenched shut. I don't want him to see the angry tears that threaten to spill out.

By the time the day is over, the sunshine is gone, and my Brooklyn elementary school is shrouded in rain clouds as dark as my mood. I scowl as I trudge along to the bus, wondering if I was imagining the bright skies earlier in the day.

I ride the school bus home, and even though I'm was a bit calmer than before, I'm still fuming about my day. The sound of my sneakers stomping angrily up the stairs echoes through the empty stairwell. I burst through the door to my floor and storm down the hallway, too preoccupied with my fury to feel winded from the five-story ascent. I slam the door of our tiny apartment. Our only family photo rattles on the wall, threatening to fall. I ignore it and make straight for my bedroom, not bothering to stop and talk to Mom even though I hear her rattling around in the kitchen.

I'm about to turn around and lock the door when I felt a ginger hand on my shoulder. "Kiana," Mom says gently. "What's wrong?" The lines around her warm brown eyes crease in concern, and I release the tension in my shoulders.

"Nothing, Mom. Don't worry about it," I mutter, shrugging her hand off. I try to turn away, but she catches my hand.

"You do not get to walk away from me like that when I am talking to you," she warns. Her eyes remain soft, but the bite in her tone is enough to dissolve my desire to leave.

I surrender control. "I'm sorry, Mom." I sigh deeply and lead her into my room. I sink into the edge of my bed.

"Mom, why do I have to wear the hijab?"

Now it's Mom's turn to sigh. The corners of her lips turn up in a sad smile, and she grazes my cheek lovingly with her fingertip. "So, the kids at school made fun of you today? I thought that might happen."

I nod in response. "I was so embarrassed. They pushed me to the ground and tried to take it off me." I feel my cheeks tinge pink at the memory.

"Kiana, you choose to wear the hijab, do you not? I asked you if you wanted to try, and you agreed. Why are you changing your mind now that a few children teased you at school?" Mom questions. Her tone is gentle, but the words stir up annoyance in my chest.

A nasty thought comes to mind, and it doesn't go away when I try to ignore it. Who is she to tell me how to feel? How can she know? She wasn't there.

Mom must notice my fists clenching.

"Do you want to take it off?" she asks. The soft lines of her face go blank, and her tone loses expression. "If that is what you would like to do, then do it."

I lower my gaze to my lap where my hands lie in my lap. My mind floods with guilt. This shouldn't be a quick decision. I purse my lips and shake my head.

"It shouldn't matter what the kids at school think," she says, but that doesn't undo the knots of anxiety in my stomach.

"I just don't understand what's wrong with me. Why did they make fun of me, Mom?"

Mom's face assumes a crestfallen look for a split second before she resumes her rigid posture and sets her jaw. She pushes my shoulders back, forcing me to do the same. "They just don't get it, Kiana. So, I guess you are just going to have to teach them."

I throw my hands up. "But I just said I'm the one who doesn't understand!"

Mom frowns slightly, but I know she doesn't mean it because of the twinkle in her eyes. "You must teach them what is really important," she explains. I tilt my head inquisitively. "What really matters is that you do what you think is right. The kids in your class, they don't know how to do that, but you do. You wear the hijab because it is right for you. You just have to show them how you do it."

"I have to show them how to do what? Wear the hijab?"

Mom laughs at this, but I don't understand why. I wasn't trying to be funny.

"No, that's not what I mean," she chuckles.

"Then what do you mean?" I inquire.

Mom releases a sigh and rests her hand on my knee lightly. "You have to help them to know what is right."

I bite my lip and mull this over for a moment. "So you're saying that it's my job to help people?" I furrow my thick brows and look into her eyes. Her full lips turn upwards in a smile. She reaches out and pulls me into a cozy embrace and kisses me on the top of the head.

"That's exactly what I am trying to say," she whispers, her face still pressed against my head.

I sit in a small wooden chair next to the windowsill once Mom leaves, deep in thought as the sun sets. My arm is slung over the wood ledge, and my chin is settled on my arm. A tiny potted plant rests next to my head in a clay pot. I blink serenely and swish my finger up and down through the air, smiling as bits of earth crumble and shift around the base of the green shoot.

...

Author's note

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