Please lay off my faith, I thought angrily as I sat on the toilet seat inside the ladies room on the second floor of the university library. A couple of white chicks were talking trash about some Hijabi friend of theirs, her style of dress and Islamic faith apparently the focal point of their mockery. That's Canada for you. People up here smile to your face and pretend to be your friend but they're often vicious and bigoted.
I finished my business, flushed and wiped and then readjusted my clothes. A lot of people don't think Yoga pants and Hijab mix, but I don't give a fuck what they say because my style is definitely my own. I emerged from the stall and went to the washroom counter, and washed my hands. Immediately, the two white chicks hushed, and looked at me uncomfortably.
"Stop talking trash about my religion if you know what's good for you," I said calmly, and they stared at me, stunned by my words. I looked from one bitch to the other. The first one was tall and red-haired with freckles, and the other one was short and plump, with dark hair. The kind of ordinary twenty-something white chicks you might see in any locale across North America. Ah, the banal face of bigotry.
"Whatever," said the ginger-headed one and then she exited the washroom, followed by her friend. I washed my hands and my face, then adjusted my Hijab. I checked my reflection in the mirror, smiled at my eclectic fashion stance. A black leather jacket over a long-sleeved red T-shirt featuring Rob Zombie, black Yoga pants and black leather boots, with a modest ebony Hijab, that's how I left my place this morning.
Satisfied, I clean my eyeglasses and put them back on, then nonchalantly exited the ladies room. Just another ordinary day at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. My name is Elmira Sheripov, and I was born in the City of Argen, Chechen Republic, on October 30, 1989. Proud Scorpio, ladies and gentlemen. Best sign in the Zodiac!
In 1999, my parents, Ram and Albika Sheripov left Chechnya for Ontario, Canada. A lot of Muslims from eastern Europe have been moving to Canada lately, due to political and economic issues in our part of the world. I remember our homeland of Chechnya fondly, in spite of the wars and the conflicts between the predominantly Orthodox Christians of Russia proper and the proud Muslims of Chechnya. Home is home, I guess.
I have lived in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, for most of my life. Still, I doubt the place will ever truly feel like home. I am an eastern European woman, but I am also a proud Muslim. The way that white Canadians treat my fellow Muslims, especially those who happen to be visible minorities, irks the hell out of me. I am the daughter of two worlds. Europe and Islam don't mix, according to the public discourse on such things, or do they?
I walked to my first class in the Loeb building. I'm in my third year in the criminology program at Carleton, and things are getting hectic. When the professor told our class that we would have a take-home midterm, we rejoiced. Well, I didn't realize how tough a thirty-page written assignment ( not counting the cover page, bibliography and citations ) was. Everything had to be done right, MLA format, otherwise thirty five percent of my grade would be flushed down the drain. Needless to say, I was frustrated and a tad bit worried.
"As Salam Alaikum sister, what's up?" a cheerful feminine voice said loudly, snatching me out of my worrisome musings. I looked up and saw my good friend Laila Johnson coming up from the stairs leading to Loeb Café. I smiled and happily greeted Laila with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Good to see you Laila," I said joyfully, and Laila grinned and looked me up and down. This young woman has been my best friend ever since I enrolled at Carleton. We met even before our university days. I went to Laurier Academy and Laila went to Louis Riel High School. We met while playing volleyball, and have been cool since.
My best friend Laila is six feet tall, with light brown skin and curly black hair, not to mention the most startlingly beautiful golden brown eyes. Born in Kingston, Ontario, to a Haitian immigrant father, Antoine Johnson, and a white Canadian mother, Jacqueline O'Neill, Laila is a biracial beauty that's definitely easy on the eyes. I met Laila's family a while back, and they're nice people. Sometimes I envy Laila, seriously.
You see, my folks and I are estranged, ever since they discovered certain things about me. Alright, I'll stop beating around the damn bush at this point. I am queer, alright? I'm a lesbian. A woman who loves women. I am sexually and romantically attracted to my own gender. I am a gay chick. A same-gender-loving female. A dyke. A lesbo.
All those terms people use to delineate women like myself. Some of them cool, others very unflattering. Whatever. I don't let it get to me. I struggled with my sexual orientation for a long time, partly because I thought being queer and being a Muslim woman didn't mix. Now I know better. I live my life my way and only Allah can judge me. Got it? Cool.
"What's going on through this fuzzy brain of yours?" Laila says, putting her arm around me, and I smile and shrug. Although I keep my cool, I'm glowing inside. Laila is the most beautiful and physically perfect human being I've ever seen. Oh, and on top of having an angelic face, the type of body that an Olympic athlete would envy, and an ass to die for, Laila is actually a nice person.
"You don't want to know," I replied sheepishly, and smiled up at Laila. I'm five-foot-four, skinny and short, with mousy brown hair that I always tuck away under my headscarf, and dull gray eyes. Look up ordinary mortal in the dictionary and you may find a picture of me. Or then again you might not, since I am so mundane.
