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Honorable Mention: A Book By Its Cover by ShabTuSubah

Every single pair of eyes is on me.

And yet, I can do nothing but stand frozen in place, my throat dry and stinging, my skin crawling, sweat prickling my palms, and my heart racing. It's hammering so fast and so painfully against my chest that I almost wince, afraid that others, too, can hear its derisive thrashing. It is almost as if it's agreeing with my frantic, remorseful mind and chanting, over and over again, with every acutely agonizing and deafening beat, "You really shouldn't have done this, you really shouldn't have done this, you really shouldn't have done this."

It didn't happen over the course of a day, or a week, or even a month. It was a process. And a very painstaking, careful, and tedious one at that. But, when it came to fruition, it was in my junior year of high school—11th grade. However, the decision didn't come about without a lot of serious thought, most of which took place on the bus ride back home from school every day. As I used to stare out the window, headphones in, music playing, and hair styled in whichever way I was feeling most that day, I would always feel a strong, unshakable sense of something. It wasn't until I was a sophomore—in 10th grade—a whole year after beginning high school, that I was finally able to pinpoint what exactly this feeling was. Guilt.

My entire freshman year, and most of my sophomore year, I was unable to bury the guilt I was experiencing. Anywhere I went, anything I did, there was always that nagging, clawing feeling of shame hanging over me, casting its ugly shadow across mine and teetering on my shoulders, always there in the back of my mind. I knew I was doing the wrong thing. I knew I was going against what my religion, my faith, my beliefs, my family, my upbringing, my parents, my God were telling me— wear the hijab, the head covering worn by Muslim women—and yet at the same time that I wanted to do it, I couldn't.

Why? Because I was afraid. Because, before I arrived at such a pivotal decision, I always felt a strong sense of fear at the world's reaction to my new appearance. My hands would sting with sweat and my stomach would churn at the mere thought of walking into a room wearing the infamous "towel" or "hat thingy" or "turban" as everyone calls it, on my head. When I tried to imagine everyone I knew—all my friends, my teachers, my classmates, even the lunch ladies—staring at me with freshly judgmental eyes and unspoken, criticizing new opinions of me clouding their thoughts and prior beliefs of me, my heartbeat would begin to race, filling my ears with its violent thrashing and leaving me deaf and dumb.

I didn't want to lose my friends, become the outcast, or make any enemies. I just wanted people to see me as normal, I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to come to school every day with my hair spilling down my back and over my shoulders and have people compliment it all the time like they used to. I wanted to be able to tie it up in a quick bun during gym glass like all the other girls rather than struggle to adjust a hot, thick scarf around my head in a way that wouldn't debilitate or embarrass me in front of everyone. I wanted to be able to sit in a classroom and blend in without worrying, for once, about being the first person everyone turned to when the class was discussing a particularly "religion-sensitive" topic or even briefly mentioned ISIS or Al-Qaeda or Osama Bin Laden or 9/11. I didn't want to feel alienated.

When I was still in the process of deciding whether or not I wanted to do it, whether or not I wanted to put myself through these grueling situations, I would try and picture what in my mind what people would say, the spiteful conversations they would have behind my back.

"Do you know what that thing on her head is? Why is she even wearing that?"

"I don't know, I think it's because she's Moz-lem or Izlam or something."

"Or it could be that she's just a terrorist."

I knew not everyone would react that way, or portray such cruel attitudes towards me, but to me, that's what it felt like going into it. I had always thought that by adopting the hijab, I was practically setting myself up for it, for the ridicule and the dirty looks and the curious side glances. And, not surprisingly enough, no matter how dark, monotonous, and ordinary the headscarves I wore—and still wear—are, they still do not fail to capture the attention of everyone and flood me in color. And I was—and still am—terrified of being colored, because most people always paint me in the wrong shade.

Eventually, however, after a long and slow process of going back and forth with myself, sparring with my conscience and my fear, my beliefs and my immaturity, my insecurities and my confidence, I finally resolved that I was going to do it. I was going to begin wearing the hijab. Luckily for me, I had the whole summer between my sophomore and junior year to try it out and see how it felt, see how I felt, see if I even liked it enough to start wearing it full time, even during...(gulp) school. In the end, the experience was enough to make me commit.

I won't lie and say it was incredibly simple, that I just waltzed into it and everything went smoothly, without any bumps or mistakes along the way. There were definitely moments during that summer that I will never forget. The heat was definitely one of them. Learning to cope with a stifling cloth around your head and neck, keeping in all the warmth, is hard. Sometimes, I felt like I was suffocating or was going to pass out from feeling so lightheaded all the time. Other times I just wanted to rip it off my head and let my hair breathe. But, I resisted. I trained myself to get used to it, to accept it as a friend rather than an enemy, a comfort rather than a burden. And soon enough, it became a habit, a reflex, a subconscious thought, and something that I will now never feel truly and wholly comfortable without.

Sure, it was difficult at first, and even more challenging when I first began wearing it to school. To this day, I will still never forget how I felt that first day I walked into class with it on. Even my teachers and closest friends were left stunned and speechless as they stared at me, most likely wondering what had happened to me that past summer. And even though it has been a whole year since I have begun to wear it both as a religious and a personal choice, I still have challenges that I continue to face—whether they be through a hurtful remark or a sharp glance. But, even though this is something I cannot expect to fully change, there is one thing that has, and that is my way of perceiving the hijab. It no longer seems like a pothole in my path or a struggle I must bear. Rather, it now serves as a lesson, a lesson that brushes against my skin each day as I'm choosing the soft cloth I want to wear. The single sentence murmurs quietly into my ear as I slowly tie the scarf around my head every morning before school or whenever I go out, every fold I create reinstating in my memory the power of the quote I remind myself of everyday. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

And although I am not a book, I do have a cover. It hugs my head snugly, hiding my hair, my ears, my neck, and my chest, protecting me just as a book's cover guards the story inside against the damaging, rough hands of its many readers.

But, this is not to say that I am no longer scared. Despite everyone—my friends, teachers, and other classmates having accepted me, new look and all, I still manage to become insecure sometimes. I am still terrified of being accused and insulted of things I could never imagine doing. And I still have to deal with people constantly turning to me when certain things are mentioned. But, then I remember why I started, why I made the decision to wear the hijab and who I am doing it for and suddenly, my fear, my insecurities, and all my doubts subside.

Now, whenever I tie my hijab on, I feel nothing but blissful contentedness. I have grown to love the familiarity of the cloth against my fingers and no longer flinch from fear, anxiety, or insecurity as I pin it in place. I realize it is the factor in my story that sets me apart, the cover to the Book of Me. It keeps safe in its folds the special fragments that string my tale together, and whenever I look at it or somebody comments on it—good or bad— I remember the phrase I always try to live by. You should never judge a book simply based on its cover, but always read past it to understand the full story, because it is usually those stories that turn out to be the best.

Thank you Wattpad for making reading such a special and wonderfully unique experience. I honestly wouldn't love books as much if it wasn't for you. <3

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This story is originally published here: https://www.wattpad.com/151392237-a-book-by-its-cover-scholarship2015-a-book-by-its