A review by just_one_more_paige
Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H

hopeful informative reflective medium-paced

5.0

 
I was super excited to read this memoir. I bought it as soon as it was published, and then, of course, it sat on my shelf unread for a few months. As per usual. But to be honest, as with most nonfiction, I was waiting for my hold on the audiobook to come in at my library too. I just really prefer nonfiction that way: read to me, but with a physical copy on hand for reference. I'm glad I waited, because it was exactly the reading experience I wanted. A word here, I am kind of thrilled that the waiting list was months-long. The more people who read this, the better, IMO! Because...yes, I am so glad that I finally was able to read it. It was just as good as I was hoping! 
 
The short blurb for this book is: "A queer hijabi Muslim immigrant survives her coming-of-age by drawing strength and hope from stories in the Qur'an in this daring, provocative, and radically hopeful memoir."  And that is pretty accurate. The author, pseudonym Lamya H, gives the reader a glimpse into her life, coming of age and identity, in places and within communities that often don't get much, if any, nuanced portrayal of this kind of intersectionality: religious/traditional and queer. Lamya H was born in South Asia, raised through most of her primary education years in the Middle East, and then moved to the United States for university and grad school (and beyond). Through all of these "homes," she has always felt a bit out of place, unable to find a community in which her whole self belongs. As she matures, coming of age, she begins to understand a bit more about why she has always felt like an outsider: skin color, religion, country of origin, language, and, finally, sexual and gender identity, all playing a role. Even as a child, these inklings of difference were there, but age and reflection help her find explanation and descriptions for it all. 
 
Lamya H structures this memoir not chronologically, but thematically, with each section interweaving a figure (and/or related surah) from the Qur'an with a moment (or series of moments) of self-realization, self-awareness, self-acceptance. And it is spectacular. I often wonder about this juxtaposition of faith and queerness. Coming from a Catholic background, but being solidly atheist now (for a number of reasons, not least of which is the general lack of acceptance for sexuality/gender/family structure that is such a cornerstone belief of many in that faith), I often wonder about this intersection of religion/belief and sexuality/gender. For those, like Lamya H, for whom both are primary and central to their identity, how is one compromised for the other, or how does one avoid having to do so? I am not personally looking to regain faith through finding a satisfactory explanation or answer, but I am fascinated by how others are able to do so.         
 
I absolutely loved how, through this lens, Lamya H explores what queer is, what queer culture can look like, and how the answer is: whatever an individual queer person is/wants it to be, just like any other label. Similarly, she explores those same questions, and comes to many of the same conclusions, regarding her Muslim faith identity. And as for the intersection of the two...it takes effort, emotional and academic and relational, but by the end, she has managed to find a framework and a community that accepts all these important aspects of herself as they are. And that is wondrous and hopeful and all good things, surviving (at times even thriving) through and in the midst of myriad oppositional or alternate-belief forces. The euphoria of finding your people, your community, the ones "like you," the ones that make you feel safe and at home, is heart-filling to the extreme. 
 
It was also extremely warming to see her journey towards accepting when those people, that community, care for you. The vulnerability in allowing yourself to open up and be loved by them is a whole other level of coming of age. Watching Lamya H both succeed and fail in this, and come to understand that that is what makes us human, is a strength of humanity - our genuine connections with others - is beautiful to witness. 
 
In general, I appreciated, so much, being allowed to see into this work of carving out a place and life that has room for all facets of her identity, reclaiming her faith back to the roots and origins and alternative (equally plausible and valuable) interpretations of religious texts/tenets in which acceptance and grace are centered (as opposed to dogmatic exclusion favored widely-loudly now). And with her own journey on this front, it was a privilege to be allowed to see her open up about fighting for what she believes in, learning when to do so, and when to take a step back. Whether its religious or secular in nature, it's so important to learn, for your own well-being, how much of yourself you can give for this kind of "fight," and when you concede that a mind can't/won't be changed and your effort is only causing you pain without any chance for benefit/success. Learning to center one's own safety, when a belief in something is so deep, and the yearning for constructive conversations and winning battles for the good you are "preaching," threatens that safety, is an advocacy message that Lamya H describes and gains personal understanding of, profoundly here.   
 
There were a few other introspections and decisions that were really highlights for me as well. First, a queer staple: coming out. Lamya H addresses the myriad fears and reactions associated with it, and the frequency with which she has to decide to (or not), in a way that is universal to queer reality. At the same time, she makes one choice that I rarely see: choosing to protect her peace and familial connections and love by not coming out to them. For her, that peace of the status quo is more important. And knowing that her “found” family respects her enough to support and go with that choice, and that this very viable option is highlighted as an absolutely real and respectable way to be queer, was all fantastic to see. I feel like there is often a “but I came out and we’re working on it” or "but I came out and they couldn't accept me and so we have no more relationship" finale to memoirs where queer people come from traditional cultural backgrounds. And that's real. But just as real is this choice, to not test that boundary. And I thank Lamya H for being brave enough to share that that was her best choice, and represent all the people who also choose (or wonder if they "can" choose) that. 
 
In this memoir, Lamya H connects and parallels figures/surahs from the Qur'an with the moments they prompt: of religious philosophy/theory realizations that have accompanied personal (identity, sexuality, gender, race, hierarchical) understanding/awareness. And each is presented with such feeling and clarity and respect. This entire work is deep and emotional and thorough, but always consistently accessible. 
 
“It’s no wonder that I feel like a jinn, seen and unseen. It's no wonder that I think they're better than me.” (this metaphor tho) 
 
“But is it possible to be dispossessed, once the possession has already entered your body, wisped into your brain, sneaky as smoke, and settled somewhere in your bones? How do you undo a lifetime of experiencing racism, of whispers and warnings? Of these feelings that have been swirling inside you your whole life: fear, disgust, anxiety, revulsion - directed at yourself?” 
 
“Slowly, it starts to sink in that it's racism that's the problem, not race; that it's white supremacy that's the problem, not me; it's white supremacy that needs to be fought and dismantled.” 
 
“And gender is nowhere within these concepts that define the Divine. God is neither man nor woman nor masculine nor feminine, not not masculine, nor not feminine. This God, who teaches us that we can be both and neither and all and beyond and capable of multiplicities and expansiveness. Nonbinary, genderqueer. They, this God that is the God, my God, my Allah. Who created the world and created language and created the first person, Adam, this first person who was man and woman and neither and both and not a mistake, never a mistake. Like me.” 
 
“…I realize if all around me is the evidence of what happens without my asking, doesn't that mean that there's possibility for more? A more trusting love where I could let myself ask for things, let myself be vulnerable and imperfect and even dispensable? A more magnanimous, forgiving kind of love where sometimes people give me what I ask for and sometimes they don't and it's okay? Where it's okay to be disappointed and it's okay to be disappointing - where we can love each other and ourselves regardless?” 
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