Proud: Chapters 8–10

People were notorious for not being overtly friendly.

I knew Craig was referring to my religion. But I didn’t understand what he was trying to get at circuitously.

Why would being a Muslim prevent me from doing the work at a law firm? But this wasn’t a moment to get indignant if I wanted this job.

After that, Craig Finch asked me more banal questions, like where I lived in New Jersey and what my favorite class at Duke had been and why.

As an athlete, I knew if I worked a little harder I would find the success that was eluding me.

Hate crimes against Muslims in America have more than quadrupled since 2001, and everyday activities like traveling through airports are fraught with tension.

It was 2008, and I had been lucky enough to avoid any direct threats of violence, but now I had to wonder if the reason I wasn’t able to land a job was because of people’s prejudice against Muslims.

After I left Craig Finch’s office, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions, I had walked around midtown trying to figure out my next steps, but with everything in my life dangling in limbo, nothing was clear and everything seemed out of my control.

One day in a fit of desperation, or maybe it was just perverse frustration, I put in an application at the Dollar Store.

I should have been scouring the want ads looking for a job that paid more than the Dollar Store or studying for the LSATs, but I couldn’t summon the energy to do anything except watch daytime talk shows until my mind went numb.

I’d never been in a rut like this before.

I rearranged my disheveled ponytail.

Even though I trusted Coach Mustilli with all of my fencing aspirations, I didn’t think he wanted to hear about the existential life crisis I was currently living in, questioning my very purpose in the world.

I was shocked by the student’s blatant disrespect and, honestly, I was a little bit worried too by the naked hostility emanating from these teens.

My parents bought my sister Asiya and me a car to share so that we could get ourselves to our respective jobs and school without having to rely on public transportation.

“But I’ve been working with Sam for almost six months now, and every lesson is the same,” I said. “I just feel like I’m stagnating, and it’s pretty obvious Sam isn’t interested in my development.”

Leaving the foundation would have repercussions beyond losing the support, camaraderie, and good will of my friends—I felt like I’d be considered a traitor to the unspoken brother/sisterhood of Black fencers.

When participating in a sport that is so overwhelmingly white like fencing, it did make a difference to have a strong support system made up of Black fencers who understood the rules and nuances of the sport and could help a younger fencer navigate the game both on and off the strip.

She was from a generation of Black people who avoided hospitals like the plague—she birthed all twelve of her children at home—and nothing I said or did would convince her to seek medical treatment beyond visiting her primary care doctor, who could only offer palliative care.

On some of my weakest days, when I wanted to give up on those loud, rambunctious kids, or when Sam pressed all of my buttons and I just wanted to quit everything, I would witness firsthand my grandmother’s resilience and strength, and it made me dig deeper into my own reserves of strength.

If she could carry on, so could I. I just had to remind myself that all the work I was doing to become a better fencer would eventually come to fruition.

I relished the idea and couldn’t wait to get started.

So I showed up early to every lesson, gritted my teeth through the arduous group classes, and was always the last one to head home.

Although it didn’t take away from all the suffering he had caused, I did feel vindicated.

My spirit came alive under his tutelage.

To say things changed dramatically after I started working with Akhi would be an understatement.

The imposing brick buildings on the campus looked like castles.

My face must have shown the fear and apprehension I was feeling because Candace smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Ibtihaj. You’re going to do fine.”

After finding my pool number and strip assignment, I looked at which women from which country I was slated to fence and tried not to psych myself out.

These were the same women I’d inevitably see at the next competition—women from Russia and China, Tunisia and Hungary—so I would be ready when I faced them on the strip.

We were at the Santelli Tournament, the largest high school fencing competition in the nation, where all of the state’s teams competed for a chance at the coveted championship title.

My sister thanked me profusely.

“You have to try to acclimate as soon as possible to the time difference so you can be at your best when you compete,” he said.

While stifling a yawn I said, “Okay.”

“We’re going to go check out our surroundings,” Akhi said. “This is going to be your home for the next four days, and you need to know how to get around, where to go for food and water, and how to get to the venue. We don’t wait to do those things on the day of the competition.”