What I Thought I Knew

I remember still, the bus ride I took from our youth camp to the abandoned mill town. The memory came to me as we walked passed the line of school buses in the bus loop of my son’s middle school. I remember sitting down in the large bench seat, tattered blue with no seat belt buckles. I scooted close to the window and left the end of the seat open to anyone who wanted to share a seat. I was very used to sitting alone and, in fact, had on most busses I had ridden.

I never considered myself ugly, just a skinny girl, with golden blonde hair, light freckles, and a gap-toothed smile. I was shy and introverted, but kind to everyone, no matter their ethnicity, their home life, or whether or not they wore the latest pair of Air Jordan’s. I could never afford Jordan’s, but I usually found the best pair of sandals or dress boots from the clearance racks, thrift stores, or yard sales, and no one seemed to pay me any mind. It was tennis shoes that people looked for the name brand. I was hardly picked on, and for that I was grateful.

When she first sat down next to me, wearing her head garment, I stared in astonishment. She was a Muslim. A Muslim girl wearing a hijab. I had never sat next to a Muslim before, in all my 16 years of life. She turned her head to me with soft brown eyes, as if sensing my unsettled state and smiled. My eyebrows arched, and I felt my lips curve slightly upward, while the rest of my body went numb from nervousness. I was a Christian girl sharing a bus seat with a Muslim girl.

The engine came to life with a rumble and we were off on our excursion. Only a moment went by until the girl turned back to me and smiled again. I returned the smile, genuinely, with a little more ease than before and then she spoke.

“Hi.” She smiled, showing a perfectly white smile.

“Hi,” I said, keeping my lips close together, as usual, hiding my gap.

“I’m Aalina.”

“I’m Hannah.”

The bus doors closed, with squeaky metal hinges that desperately needed to be oiled or greased. Aalina turned her head to the front and so did I, as the chaperone stood in the center aisle, doing a quick headcount before sitting and writing on her clipboard. Aalina looked back over at me.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she offered sweetly. Her accent was neat.

I could feel the tension in my body subsiding. She could speak English and be nice. I had never spoken directly to a Muslim girl or boy before.

“You too,” I offered, not being able to help my smile now.

“First time sitting next to someone like me?” she asked, grinning.

“It’s that obvious, hunh?” I asked, heat rising up my back and neck.

She grinned, blinking slowly, then nodded.

“You’re not as obvious as others have been,” she offered. “I once sat next to a black boy who wouldn’t even turn his head and look at me in the eyes. I could see his eyes moving left and right but he wouldn’t turn his head.”

“Oh, wow,” unsure of what else to say.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, but that’s awful.”

She shrugged her shoulders, which drew my attention to her headscarf.

“Do you like wearing that?” I looked to the top of her head.

She looked up too as if she could see the covering on her forehead.

Smiling, she said, “It’s called a hijab and I like it, I mean I wear it every day.”

“Because you have to?” I interrupted her to ask.

“No, not all Muslim women wear them. Some do, but some don’t.”

“Oh,” I realized I almost sounded disappointed; what I thought I knew, had proven wrong.

Aalina’s perfectly defined and arched eyebrows arched with confusion.

“You thought we did? Tell me,” she turned a few inches in my direction. “What all do you know about Muslims?”

I giggled, nervously.

“Um, you read the Qur’an and call God, Allah?” I said in the form of a question. I had no confidence in what I knew anymore.

She grinned, nodding.

“I thought all women had to wear the hijabs but weren’t right about that. You can’t wear make-up though, right?”

“Nope, we can. Some choose not to, though.”

I smiled, embarrassed, and looked at my fidgeting fingers in my lap.

“Do all Christians wear the same clothes? Do all Jewish people? Hindus?” she asked, surprising me.

I looked up, and around and then slowly met her eyes.

“No,” I laughed. “I suppose not.”

“I see. And do you have more than one name for God?”

I thought to myself, quietly. God. Jesus. Messiah. Jehovah. Then nodded to her.

“Allah, is just another name for God.”

The bus came to a squeaky halt, arriving at our destination, but she continued on.

“We believe in Jesus, like you, just that he was a prophet and not the son of God. Do you read the Bible?”

I nodded.

“I read the Qur’an. Our Jewish brothers and sisters read the Torah, Nevi’im, and the Ketuvim. You read the Bible. What if what we’re all reading is different interpretations of the same God? Who here on this Earth could refute or prove that any one person’s beliefs are true?”

I looked at her, dumbfounded, taking in her words. I started shaking my head but then stopped. Was she right? How did she know what the Jewish people read? Why didn’t I know this?  

As the children stood at once and jumped in front of one another, and the line of kids passing finally came to end, she stood and stepped out into the aisle. Her robe hung down to her thighs, revealing dress pants and black dressy sandals. I really liked those sandals.

“It was nice to meet you, Hannah.”

I smiled, more grateful to her than she would ever know.

“Same, Aalina.”

Now, here I stood, with my husband at my son’s 8th-grade graduation ceremony. The auditorium was packed with proud and eccentric parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, and guardians of all sorts. We arrived late because my husband left work too late and got stuck in rush hour traffic. So we were left standing in the back, with no open seats together. The audience cheered their kids as one by one, they walked up and across the stage. Along with my husband, I clapped for all the kids, though not with much gusto or glee.

Then the principal announced a student’s name and brought my attention back to the front of the auditorium. More than that, back to the memory I had walked into the building with.

“Aalina Houssain.”

I watched as a younger, 8th-grade version of my old bus mate, walked up the stairs and onto the stage. She wore a black hijab under her graduation cap, with a long, bedazzled, black, and silver robe. I tore my eyes from her in astonishment and looked for the woman who stood but mere feet away from me. The woman turned to face me, feeling my eyes on her. And after only a moment, she smiled and nodded at me, while applauding her daughter. I remember still, those same soft eyes, and that brilliant smile. While not looking away, I applauded her daughter with all my energy. I applauded her. I applauded our memory.