I was four-months-old when our father died — he worked at a gas station and was shot during a robbery.After that, the four of us moved into the basement apartment of my mom's mother's house, where my sisters and I shared a room. She was rebellious and loved pop music and makeup, which my grandmother and mother couldn't stand.
I was so angry about being there that I wasn't even excited to see my sisters.
I couldn't believe that they'd left me all those years before. But by the end of that first evening, I relaxed with them. " They thought that if he'd been Muslim, I wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble.
I remember being in the store and pointing them out and being stunned when she nodded yes, then paid for three pairs at the register.
They were the only things I owned that made me feel like a normal kid. My mother was holding a garbage bag and my grandmother had scissors. All I had left were one pair of baggy jeans, which I hated.
We were raised Muslim, and while my mom didn't make us wear hijabs — headscarves — to school, we did when we went to mosque on the high holidays.
Every other day, we wore long-sleeve shirts and pants or knee-length skirts.I even told them what happened with my Chipotle date, and they started teasing me, like, "You're such an idiot! I wasn't so sure, but it still felt good to laugh with them about it.About two weeks into our stay, my sisters sat me down and started doing my hair and makeup.But right before middle school graduation, I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother and grandmother rummaging through my closet. They were cutting my skinny jeans into pieces and throwing them away. When I asked my mom why, she said, "They're inappropriate and revealing. For the first time in middle school, I was relieved to have a uniform.grade, I started pestering my mom about enrolling me in high school.I was 6 years old when my two older sisters went to Palestine to "visit family." At least that's what my mom told me.