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between the Iranian women and the government. Hijab, when it is forced upon a person, is somewhat like when a mother forces a bedtime on a child; initially, the mother has good intentions, but most children will want to escape from the restraint, and that specifc bedtime may not suit the child. In addition, we now live in such a sexualized world where the media advocate bridging away from modesty, where confdence and strength are synonymous to sexy. Terefore, any modern woman must look a certain way to be considered powerful, and by covering up the many aspects that contribute to being considered "sexy" you become — as the media like to look at it — oppressed, and we all know what a woman would rather be between the two. I, still a child, was oblivious to the many conficts that came with forcing hijab upon a person. At that age, the struggles that many Iranian women went through never crossed my mind. However, hijab was a symbol of adulthood — something that I was longing for — and by choosing to wear hijab I would no longer be seen as a child. Hijab was my attempt to convince myself and the people around me that I was mature, a woman. However, wearing hijab was not that simple. After spontaneously announcing that I wanted to be a "hijabi" — slang for one who wears hijab — at dinner, my uncle, a more religious man, was ecstatic. He insisted on throwing me a takleef, an Arabic term referring to a ceremony thrown for a girl before she begins wearing hijab. My parents, on the other hand, were startled and confused by my impulsive decision, but also happy, despite the fact that they were not sure of my intention. I remember my father repeatedly asking, "You know you still have to wear it when we get back to America, and this is a lifelong decision that you must commit to . . . you can't say you'll wear it now but take it of later. OK?" I was too excited about my party and presents to consider the outcomes of my choice. So every time I would smile, nod my head, then answer, "Yea, I'm positive, Dad," and walk away. My takleef was small; my relatives were the only guests. I have a hard time remembering the details, but I dressed up, ate cake, listened to Quran (the Islamic holy book), and hung out with the family. It was overall a good time. I also received a bunch of presents — the majority of which were new clothes and scarves. I remember this particular scarf that one of my cousins gave me. It was a luminescent blood-red scarf with fowers sewn on the edges; it was honestly the ugliest thing I had ever seen at that time. I also received many small accessories that could help me cover up. Tough many people, even some Muslims themselves, see hijab as only the scarf, as only covering your head and hair, it is actually much more. Now that I had decided to wear hijab, I could no longer wear clothing that was too tight, that revealed the shape of my body or that showed too much skin. My favorite accessory was arm sleeves, which are just sleeves that one could wear with a T-shirt or a short-sleeve shirt when it was too hot to wear an actual long-sleeve shirt underneath. Nevertheless, after the party was over, after the daily shopping sprees for new clothes and scarves ended, and after we left the hijabi-flled country and returned home, I was forced to face reality. I was forced to face the continuous looks from strangers, the unwelcoming comments from some friends, and the never-ending questions from everyone — questions that I had yet to fnd answers to. So I began my quest to understanding the concept of hijab, starting by asking my mother. We were coming home from our weekly grocery-shopping trip. My mother was wearing a black and white paisley scarf with a hint of raspberry red, and as she was driving she had her phone in between her scarf and ear, using the hijab as a phone holder — which wasn't an odd sight for me, but it always humored my American friends. After she said her goodbyes, I awkwardly blurted out, "Mama, how am I supposed to explain hijab to my friends when they ask?" She paused and then answered with an innocent but biased analogy. "You see, habibti (feminine form of habibi, which means "my love"), when your friends ask, tell them that hijab is like a candy wrapper. If you saw two pieces of candy and one was covered up with a wrapper and protected from germs and bacteria and another was unwrapped and who knows what has happened to it, which one would you rather eat?" I nodded my head because the answer was obvious; I would eat the wrapped one. Duh! And for a brief four and half seconds what my mother said made perfect sense. All my questions had been answered. Until I began analyzing this so-called analogy. What was my mother implying? What was wearing less-ftted clothing and a mere cloth around my head protecting me from, and what was my mother saying about women who did not wear hijab? Were they just unprotected, unwrapped pieces of candy? Of course my mother wasn't attempting to degrade non-hijabis but rather to elevate the signifcance of hijab. Still, I had to fnd better answers. My father, who had anticipated that I would be asked constant questions, had already showered me with books and documentaries far beyond my comprehension level right when we came home from our trip. I'd looked at them for about two seconds and then threw them under my bed. So I pulled them out and began investigating. Some explained the philosophies of hijab; others were more pious and focused on how God is all-knowing and therefore we should not question him but rather trust that all he asks us to do will only better us. My favorite documentary, called I've Got It Covered, interviewed a woman in her mid-20s who had just taken up wearing hijab. She was wearing a junglegreen plaid scarf with light green lace embroidery. She says, "Te thing that I like most about hijab and feminine modesty is that people will no longer judge me based solely upon how sexy my legs are or how beautiful my hair is but rather how I speak and behave." I was at the base of my adolescence, and the idea that people judge other people on how "sexy" their legs were befuddled me. What were sexy legs? Did I have sexy legs? Does she have sexy legs? Does he have sexy legs? Also, the word "feminine modesty" — which was continuously thrown around in the books and documentaries — was a concept that was hard for me to grasp. However, I concluded that modesty, in the case of the head scarf, is the idea that a woman's hair contributes directly to her sexual appeal, just like the shape of her body does. Terefore, veiling it represents a deliberate concealment of that allure, and what's so funny about modesty is that by choosing to cover something up, you are at the same time admitting that you're kind of awesome. I mean, the hijab can be straight-up presumptuous, in a sense, because wearing it for reasons of modesty implies that the world can't handle your stunning loveliness unfltered. It's hardly the main reason, of course, that I or anybody else truly takes up hijab — nobody is that narcissistic. So I think it's worth exploring other ways to defne modesty that don't assume that a woman's appeal is simply a treasure so worth guarding. Te defnition of modesty that I like better has more to do with control. By covering up the many aspects that attract what my mother likes to call "unwanted attention," you are controlling what the world is able to see, and therefore you are controlling what you would like the world to judge you upon. Furthermore, I concluded that hijab includes more than just the physical-appearance component. It also has to do with how you behave. By wearing hijab you are telling the world that you would like to be judged on particular features of your personality. Terefore, you must treat people in the same manner, as the Muslims like to say, lower your gaze, which is not necessarily literal. Overall, time has taught me that hijab is truly more than just a scarf wrapped around a Muslim woman's head. It is my entire physical appearance, a sign of modesty, a way of behaving myself, and an attempt to allow people to see me far beyond my body and my hair. 11.13 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 69