Today is the day. I am old enough now, old enough to wear this piece of cloth on my head. Hijab.

The first time I put it on, I had felt that perhaps I could hide behind it. But now, there is no hiding. It is a banner now, a banner I cannot take off.

I hate the way people turn and stare openly at me on the streets. I hate the taunt of classmates, the odd looks. The people who are now afraid to be my friends.

I hate the whispers of “terrorist,” as I walk the halls of my once-friendly junior high. The way mouths shut as I draw near, the way everyone sees me differently, yet will not approach me. I am not a terrorist, just like they are not all out to crucify everyone. Or maybe they are.

I hate the loneliness. The feeling that this piece of cloth is a separation, the symbol that says, “I am not normal.” But I am! I’m just like the rest of them. I’m just a girl, right? I guess not.

I hate all these feelings. But I don’t hate my hijab, because it’s part of me. I wouldn’t be the same without it.