Lamya H

A queer hijabi Muslim immigrant survives her coming-of-age by drawing strength and hope from stories in the Quran in this “raw and relatable memoir that challenges societal norms and expectations” (Linah Mohammad, NPR). “A masterful, must-read contribution to conversations on power, justice, healing, and devotion from a singular voice I now trust with my whole heart.”—Glennon Doyle, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Untamed AN AUDACIOUS BOOK CLUB PICK • WINNER: The Brooklyn Public Library Book Prize, the Stonewall Book Award, the Israel Fishman Nonfiction Award A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: NPR, Autostraddle, Book Riot, BookPage, Harper’s Bazaar, Electric Lit, She Reads When fourteen-year-old Lamya H realizes she has a crush on her teacher—her female teacher—she covers up her attraction, an attraction she can’t yet name, by playing up her roles as overachiever and class clown. Born in South Asia, she moved to the Middle East at a young age and has spent years feeling out of place, like her own desires and dreams don’t matter, and it’s easier to hide in plain sight. To disappear. But one day in Quran class, she reads a passage about Maryam that changes everything: When Maryam learned that she was pregnant, she insisted no man had touched her. Could Maryam, uninterested in men, be . . . like Lamya? From that moment on, Lamya makes sense of her struggles and triumphs by comparing her experiences with some of the most famous stories in the Quran. She juxtaposes her coming out with Musa liberating his people from the pharoah; asks if Allah, who is neither male nor female, might instead be nonbinary; and, drawing on the faith and hope Nuh needed to construct his ark, begins to build a life of her own—ultimately finding that the answer to her lifelong quest for community and belonging lies in owning her identity as a queer, devout Muslim immigrant. This searingly intimate memoir in essays, spanning Lamya’s childhood to her arrival in the United States for college through early-adult life in New York City, tells a universal story of courage, trust, and love, celebrating what it means to be a seeker and an architect of one’s own life.

A Memoir

Hijab Butch Blues

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These rules are an act of love. The wisdom of creating these rules and her willingness to put our relationship on hold are all acts of love. The playfulness and humor in her tone is an act of love. Our hiding is an act of love. This gesture of care and tenderness from Liv, on this journey to introduce her as a friend to a family who loves me, is all so beautiful and tender and unfair that I feel as if my heart will break.			

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“No wonder Yusuf has it so hard the rest of his life. How do you live after that happens to you? How do you ever love anyone again? How do you trust anyone again? That’s what I think Yusuf’s story is about. Living with the consequences of trauma, of being abandoned.”

“You know what’s weird, though?” Manal says. “The introduction in the tafsir says that Surah Yusuf is about love. I find that so fascinating. What if we’re thinking about it from the wrong angle? What if this surah is about healing instead? What if this surah is about healing from being left? What if it’s about healing through love?”

Her smile is difficult to extract but worth it for the way it spreads across her face, the way that it crinkles her eyes. 

“They never instilled in us this idea that white people were superior to us. We grew up with stories about Malcolm X and the Black Panthers. If anything, I grew up feeling sorry for white people. But not too sorry.”

				“That’s so unfair! I grew up with my family reminiscing fondly about being colonized by the British!”

As if I’ve never held dear my feminist rage, never thought about how I feel so politically aligned with womanhood and yet hate inhabiting it, hate it when my body is read as such. 

The language God gave us hides meaning, adds meaning, and is constantly shifting beneath us, constantly creating our worlds and constantly creating us.

She’s white, she’s pretty, but this sense of being wrong has never left her, and she still carries herself like an outsider. I don’t understand how she manages to be brilliant and brash and insecure at the same time. I am intrigued.

It’s not like I’m hiding that I’m gay from this friend, it’s not that I don’t want to tell her. It’s just that the more I’ve grown into my queerness, the less I want to come out to straight people.

But I shouldn’t have worried. As soon as I enter my new friend’s sunny, cozy, plant-filled apartment, she greets me warmly, and the few people who are already there jump up to say hello before I’m fully inside the door. “I didn’t know you were coming! I’m so glad you’re here!” says one of the queer femmes whom I’ve been very intimidated by, and who has previously been hard to read. 

I’m not expecting her to dress up, so I show up in sweats and a raggedy T-shirt. But boy does she dress up. She looks dazzling in a red dress with a deep neckline that I can’t stop sneaking glances at. She tells me all about her childhood, asks about mine. Drinks a little and gets touchy-feely, grabs my hand and tells me my long skinny fingers are beautiful, perfect for…drawing. She holds up her palm to mine and compares our phalanges. “Doesn’t this feel like we’re on a date?” she giggles, tipsy and happy. And then goes home, to the boyfriend she lives with.

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