To avoid the relentless challenges, for some there is the temptation to “pass” by altering one’s appearance—for women, choosing not to wear the hijab (traditional Muslim head scarf), or for men, remaining clean-shaven rather than wearing a beard, or changing one’s name to something less ethnically identifiable. Commonly, people of Middle Eastern descent have dark hair, large facial features, and skin tones of varying shades of tan. In a study of Middle Eastern Americans, researchers Amir Marvasti and Karyn McKinney found that some Middle Eastern Americans “try to pass by trading their own ethnic identity with a less controversial one.” Moving to an ethnically diverse region allows a chameleon-like experience of blending in with others around them. Some of their respondents found that by living in South Florida they avoided some of the negative encounters with Islamophobic or anti-Arab bigotry because they were assumed to be Hispanic.202 Denying a core part of one’s own identity comes with a psychological cost, increasing the risk of internalizing the negative attitudes one is seeking to avoid.
Claiming one’s identity with pride, even in the face of hostility, is for some a much preferred stance, the outcome of a quest for identity of the kind Jean Phinney has described. This process is visible in the narrative of Amani Al-Khatahtbeh, author of Muslim Girl: A Coming of Age. She was in the fourth grade in 2001. She writes:
I’m not really sure I understood what was going on when 9/11 happened, but I was old enough to feel the world shift on its axis that day and change everything forever.… That day has become crystallized in my memory not just for how harrowingly scary it was—how we didn’t know what would come after that—but also because I deeply believe that my generation of millennial Muslims has, whether we like it or not, come to be defined by it.203
The child of Palestinian and Jordanian immigrant parents, she was bullied at school, and her parents were harassed at their workplace. Their New Jersey home was defaced with rotten eggs and water balloons. She was in the sixth grade when she first decided to deny her religion.
It happened one sunny afternoon on our yellow school bus, heading home from another exhausting day of middle school in which I constantly tried to blend away my differences and fit in, only to inevitably capture the attention of bullies in my classes, and even ones I didn’t know in the halls. I would get taunted for being a “monster” as I walked to class between periods, and all I ever wanted to do was disappear.204
A schoolmate on the bus asked her what religion she was. Not wearing a head scarf, she was not immediately identifiable as a Muslim. The question prompted a wave of panic, and after a long hesitation, she replied, “Oh, I don’t know. Something Mediterranean, I forget.” Rather than the relief she longed for, instead she experienced a deep sense of shame for denying something so much a part of her sense of identity. She writes, “I didn’t realize it at the time, but that decision would become a pivotal moment in my journey.”205
Amani captures the confusion she felt at that early adolescent period in her life. “I was so fractured by my Muslim identity and Western society that I was completely lost in this weird enigma of awkward girl puberty and unbearable racism that emerged as a total disconnect.”206 What she needed was the opportunity to immerse herself in an active exploration of identity in the company of supportive peers. That opportunity came when her father decided to take his family back to Jordan. Though the time spent in Jordan was relatively short, just nine months, it was transformational for Amani. “The culmination of my experience in Jordan, where I heard Muslim and Arab people’s narratives and diverse stories in their own voices, reignited my pride in my heritage and religion and prompted my desire to finally reclaim my identity.”207
With new and deeper knowledge of her family’s heritage, she began to redefine her identity as a Muslim as not a source of harassment but instead a source of pride.
I decided [then] that I wanted to wear a headscarf, as a public marker that I belonged to this people. I wanted it to be so that before people even knew my name, the first thing they would know about me is that I am a Muslim. I told myself that upon my return to the States, I would wear the headscarf with pride as my outward rebellion against the Islamophobia that had seized me and suffocated me most of my life. With that decision, I inherited the entire history to which the hijab has been tied, and carried it on my head like an issue for public debate.208
Amani’s assertion of her identity through the claiming of her head scarf, despite her earlier rejection of it, is reminiscent of the example of the Latina who reclaimed her Spanish and its importance to her identity in college after her childhood rejection of the language that had set her apart from the mainstream, again illustrating the similarity of the process of identity exploration among marginalized groups in the face of that marginalization.
When Amani’s family returned to New Jersey, she stuck to her decision to wear the hijab, though other women in her family, including her mother, did not. It was not easy. “On my first day back to junior high school in New Jersey, I had a panic attack.” Afraid of how her classmates would respond to her head scarf, she was awash in anxiety. Her father assured her that she could take it off but said, “Just know that if you are able to commit to this, then there’s nothing else in your life that you wouldn’t be strong enough to commit to.” With that, she went forward with her hijab still on. For her, the wearing of the head scarf is a physical symbol of the intersection of both her gender identity and Muslim identity. “The headscarf is not only intertwined with our respective cultures, but it has also become the strongest emblem of our distinct identities as Muslim women. And how could it not? It is hyper-visible and unmistakable.”209
Back in New Jersey, she yearned to be part of a community of young women like herself, and in 2009, still a teenager, she created a virtual “cafeteria table” for herself and other young Muslim women by launching the website MuslimGirl.210 Reflecting on that time, Al-Khatahtbeh writes:
I acutely identified that I was leading a unique and trying experience as a millennial Muslim, the daughter of an immigrant and a refugee, born and raised in the United States—ostracized through bullying, heightened Islamophobia, and the difficult task of growing up as a young girl in a misogynistic and hypersexualized society. My life, and the lives of others like me, reflected a deeply entrenched double jeopardy to which Frances Beal first introduced us: the intersectional concept of being subjected to racism, and then further being subjected to sexism within that racist framework. While it refers to the unique and incomparable oppression of black women in the United States, Beal’s concept of double jeopardy can unfortunately be applied in varying degrees to the exacerbation of many Muslim women’s struggles in a post-9/11 era. Not only do we have to battle today’s modern assault on our religion, but we also have to defy its sexist application to us both inside and outside of our own communities, all on top of the preexisting anti-black racism that black Muslim women suffer from Muslims and non-Muslims alike.
I knew that there had to be other girls who were going through these experiences, who also wanted to have conversations that were directly relevant to our Muslim lifestyles in today’s society. I wanted to find them.211
Realizing that the opportunity for connection was missing, that there was a void, Amani realized she could do something about that. “I thought, Why not? I would make a new community entirely.” MuslimGirl evolved from a teenager’s refuge to a cultural phenomenon, garnering attention from mainstream media outlets and giving its founder a platform and eventually national visibility as a media commentator.
The empowerment that comes from connecting with others who have shared experiences and concerns is critical for those whose identities are challenged by stereotyping and the bigotry of others. Like Amani, Zahra, the Somali Muslim quoted earlier, found that the opportunity to connect deeply with Muslim friends in college reduced her sense of isolation. She said, “I had friends from all sorts of backgrounds, but my closest friends—the ones I spoke to about serious and personal t
opics… whom I related to as if they were family—were three Muslims.”212 They understood why she didn’t want to go to alcohol-heavy campus parties and why she chose to wear her hijab. Her family members had feared that in college she would lose herself, feeling forced to conform in negative ways. Zahra found the opposite was true. “On the contrary, I believe that the more I discovered who I am and what my relationship is with the world around me, the stronger I became academically and professionally. I could be me—African, American, Muslim, a woman… it took all the life experiences I have had thus far to bring me to this point, where I am feeling most content.”213
It is also critical for allies—those who are not the targets of anti-Arab racism and Islamophobia—to raise their voices in support of those who are. Though most mass shootings in the US have been committed by US-born White men, it is rare (if ever) that those shooters are identified by their religious affiliations. They are viewed and talked about as individuals, not as representatives of a racial, ethnic, or religious group. When an attack is carried out by someone who is a Muslim, the acts of the individual or extremist group are projected onto a global population of 1.6 billion Muslims (3.3 million in the US), the vast majority of whom live peacefully in their communities, just as most White men do. The repeated representation of Muslims as a dangerous presence in American society has served to legitimize anti-Muslim feelings and has fueled the rise in anti-Muslim hate crimes. According to the FBI, in 2015 there were 257 reports of assaults, attacks on mosques, and other hate crimes against Muslims, a sharp increase of about 67 percent over 2014. Not since 2001, when in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks more than 480 attacks occurred, have there been so many anti-Muslim hate crimes.214
Muslim women are particularly vulnerable because of their identifiable religious attire. Sadly, male members of the Sikh religion, who are typically from India and also wear religious attire—turbans—have also become hate-crime targets, mistakenly identified as Muslims.215 The anti-Muslim rhetoric that fuels such violence escalated during the presidential campaign of 2016 as Donald Trump proposed a ban on Muslim immigrants. In the first weeks of his presidency, Trump issued an executive order halting immigration from seven majority-Muslim countries, stranding travelers, young and old, with visas in hand, suddenly unable to enter the US.216 At this writing, it is unclear whether this is just the beginning of presidential actions impacting the American Muslim community. As difficult as this situation is for the Muslim community, Al-Khatahtbeh has seen signs of goodwill.
Amid all the chaos, I witnessed one interesting development for the first time in my entire life since 9/11. When Trump’s words rang around the country, many Americans were roused to rise to the defense of their Muslim neighbors. Social and broadcast media highlighted heartwarming stories of extended hands between Muslims and non-Muslims, images popped up on my feed of non-Muslim Americans going the extra distance to make Muslims feel safe here in their own hometowns, and my Muslim friends from across the country recorded moments of increased acts of warmth and kindness towards them—seemingly as though our fellow countrymen were making an effort to remind us that this was our country, too. It was as if, through Trump’s outrageously hateful rhetoric, America had awoken to the reality that now was time to defend and protect a minority community that needed it. Even though Trump represented the racist underbelly of a nation, light rose to the surface, even through the most negligible of cracks, to resist it.217
Spreading the Light
What can concerned educators do to support Middle Eastern, North African, and/or Muslim students, recognizing that sometimes these identities intersect and sometimes they don’t?
Acknowledge their presence institutionally. During the years I served as president of Spelman College, I made an effort to recognize the presence of Muslim students on our campus. The school was founded by two Christian missionaries in 1881, and its motto, “Our Whole School for Christ,” is directly linked to that history. Yet my goal as president was to ensure that all of our students, regardless of religious affiliation, felt welcome and included in our campus community. One tangible way to do so was to host an iftar (a special meal commemorating the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting) at the president’s residence on campus for Muslim students, faculty, and staff and their invited guests.
Another important act of affirmation of our Muslim students was to invite a Muslim student to participate in the baccalaureate service on commencement weekend. Just as we had a student read from the Hebrew scriptures (Old Testament) and a student read from the New Testament, we also asked a Muslim student to read a text from the Quran as an integral part of the service. When we had Baha’i students, a reading from that faith tradition was included as well. In these ways, we signaled to those who might otherwise feel excluded in the midst of a majority-Christian environment that they too were an important part of our community. Everyone wants to feel included. Though I have described here relatively small acts, the impact was meaningful for community members who too often were accustomed to being treated as either invisible or dangerous in the wider society.
Educate yourself. Though I identify as a Christian, I had the wonderful opportunity to learn something about Islam when I was a student at Hartford Seminary, an academic community that is committed to fostering interfaith dialogue. Not everyone will take a course on Islam, as I did at Hartford Seminary, but all of us can learn more about Islam and the MENA region from reliable sources like the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee and Teaching Tolerance, both of which offer educational resources for teachers. Get beyond the stereotypes. Seek out ways to include the voices of MENA and Muslim students, but don’t ask members of these marginalized communities to speak for their whole community.
Speak up against Islamophobia. Anyone can interrupt an offensive joke, challenge stereotypes, or offer assistance to someone who is being harassed or is fearful that they might be. If you don’t know how best to be helpful, ask and then listen. Use your own privilege to question policies that are discriminatory. Be public in your support for those who are targeted, so they will know where to find help when it is needed. In a time of darkness, we all have to generate more light.
NINE
Identity Development in Multiracial Families
“But don’t the children suffer?”
WHENEVER I GIVE A PRESENTATION ON THE RACIAL IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT of young people of color or White youth, I am inevitably asked, “What about the identity development process for biracial children?” It is a hard question to answer quickly because there are so many factors to consider. What racial combination are we talking about: Black-White, White-Asian, Asian-Black, Black–Native American? What does the young person look like: visibly identifiable as Black or Asian, apparently White, or racially ambiguous? What is the family situation? Are both parents actively involved in the child’s socialization? If not, what is the racial membership of the primary caregiver? What racial identification have the parents encouraged, and is there agreement between the parents about it? Are the extended families accepting of the parents’ union and of their biracial child? Where does the young person live: in a community of color, a predominantly White neighborhood, or one that is racially mixed? Are there other multiracial families in the vicinity, or is being biracial an oddity in that context? Is the racial climate one of harmony or hostility? The answer to each of these questions is relevant to the identity development process for biracial children.
Constructing our identities is a complex and multidimensional process for all of us, but for some there are more dimensions to consider than for others. The multiracial population has grown substantially since 2000, the year that the Census Bureau began allowing people to designate more than one racial category on the census form. Between the census of 2000 and the census of 2010, the number of biracial Americans describing themselves as White and Black more than doubled, and the number describing themselves as White and Asian increased by 87 percent. The percentage of multiracial babies
born in the US has grown from 1 percent in 1970 to 10 percent in 2013. In 2013, the US Census Bureau found that nine million Americans chose two or more racial categories to describe their race.1 Among this group of multiracial Americans is the forty-fourth president of the United States, Barack Obama, the son of a Black father from Kenya and a White mother from Kansas. Just as the population has expanded, models of multiracial identity development have evolved to capture the dynamic process of identity, that sense of self “that evolves and changes, based on the interaction and changing level of salience of numerous factors.”2 In order to understand the contemporary meaning of claiming a multiracial identity, it is useful to review briefly the history of racial categorization in the US.
The One-Drop Rule: Racial Categorization in the United States
It was 1967 when the Supreme Court in the case of Loving v. Virginia overturned the last remaining laws prohibiting interracial marriage of all types.3 The growing acceptance of interracial relationships in the United States since the civil rights era has created a new context in which children of those relationships can define themselves. Yet even as the context is changing, the history of racial classification in the United States is an enduring legacy that plays a large role in the identity development process.
As discussed in Chapter 1, race is a social construction that has little biological meaning. Though populations from particular geographic regions can be distinguished from each other by commonly occurring physical traits such as hair texture, skin tone, facial structure, or blood type, most biologists and physical anthropologists tell us that there is no such thing as a “pure” race. All human populations are “mixed” populations. However, in terms of social realities, boundaries have been clearly drawn in the United States between those who are considered White and those who are considered non-White.
Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? Page 33
