To which I croak, "What if I'm planning to go to California this Wednesday?" It is early Tuesday morning.
"You probably shouldn't go. Or if you do, take a strong decongestant. And wear a face mask."
Viral pharyngitis, it is called, a fancy throat cold. After my throat had swollen and restricted my breathing, I'd ended up here. My dad, who had picked me up the morning of an early work day, sat nearby. What a guy.
While packing for California the next day, I have no such face mask. I manage to wrap a scarf around my head and mouth, revealing my forehead, eyes and the brim of my nose. Although it somewhat resembles a hijab, a head piece Muslim women often wear, it isn't accurate. Despite this, I feel like I'm pretending to be someone else, but I figure it's better than infecting an airplane of blissful vacationers.
(Here is a link of head piece types for anyone curious. Because I expose some of my hair, I don't truly resemble any:
http://www.cbc.ca/news/interactives/muslim-headdress/ )
My suitcase grumbles behind me as I walk towards the University Ave, where the airport shuttle bus will come to pick me up. I stand out. And I never usually do (unless I wear my bright yellow pants, which I confess is often. I was also wearing these pants. And although well covered, these pants and my jacket are snug.) I can't clarify how people look at me, but I immediately sense that it is different. Maybe I'm just feeling subconscious! I try to tell myself. I check my watch again. The shuttle bus is late. A man passes me with a look. A watching more than simply looking glance. His eyes focus on me slightly longer, but the rest of his face stays as straight and empty as a sheet of paper.
Soon after, another man passes me, waving and smiling excitedly. He could be Middle Eastern, and his eyes say, I know you, hello, welcome, and startled, I smile back with mine. His acceptance warms me. It feels nice to feel known, even if it's mistaken, even if it's for only a moment.
Before the shuttle bus arrives, two men call out from a car parked nearby, "Do you need help finding anything?" One also has darker colored skin. I thank them and say I'm alright. I can't say I've experienced the same helpfulness on this street before.
The shuttle driver eventually asks me, "Where is your home?"
"Oh, I live near campus."
"Where are you from?"
"Oh, that home?" And I say I'm from Bothell, which is only a half hour away. After I long pause, I realize that he is confused. He is trying to understand the scarf without acknowledging the scarf.
While in line at the airport, a little boy in front of me asks, "Why are you wearing that?" followed by, "What languages do you speak?"
Security: the first woman asks me to remove my headpiece to verify my I.D. "I need to see your face. Is that okay?"
The next woman says, "You're wearing a head (slight pause) piece... I'll need to pat that down."
Later, I try to order fries.
"Sprite?" The cashier squints.
"Fries," I squeak again through my cold.
Then I go to Starbucks. Or, at least I think it's Starbucks, but I end up across from the Starbucks. (I am slightly out of it, considering my sickness and medication, not to mention the suddenly limited peripherals of the scarf. Not to mention that it feels about 10 degrees hotter with the scarf.) I hand them a gift card to pay.
"Um...we're not Starbucks."
In which, I suddenly have become, once more, a confused foreigner in my own city.
Foreigner? Yes. I even find myself looking for people who look like me, even though how I look isn't really me. Kind of confusing, right? I remember one of my Indian classmates once said, "What do you do in a foreign country? You look for people like yourself." And for me, being white, Protestant, and from mainstream American culture, I don't often think in this mindset. I don't have to because people like me are often all around me.
In the bathroom, while adjusting such scarf, my eyes leap out at me. My eyebrows too. Until this moment, I had never realized before how expressive eyes really are. Chills rushed through me. Really.
Have you ever seen the famous photo of the woman from Afghanistan?
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2002/04/afghan-girl/original-story-text
Covering my face up didn't make me any less vulnerable or readable. That saying about eyes being the window to the soul? Yeah. There's definitely something to that. Eyes might be our vessels for language and emotion. Try wearing a scarf for a day and you'll see what I mean.
If you're wondering, I did eventually make it to California. I half-ripped the scarf from my head. It felt great to breathe fresh air and let the sun warm my cheeks.
Still a foreigner? Maybe.
I called my grandpa later, and he hung up on me. He couldn't recognize my voice or hear me well, and thought I was Chinese. I couldn't stop laughing, and finally called him back.
Maybe this post can prompt some reflection. Do you "stand out"? Have you? And if you're feeling daring, try something. See what it's like to be someone else. I was almost (but not really) Muslim for a day, and although I've enjoyed getting to know some Muslim girls over volleyball, I never knew what it might be like to be in their shoes. Maybe today was a small glimpse into that.
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