Arts & Literature
![Lamya H - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_lamya_h.jpg)
Hijab Butch Blues: A Memoir
"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
A queer hijabi Muslim immigrant survives her coming-of-age by drawing strength and hope from stories in the Quran in this daring, provocative, and radically hopeful memoir.
AN AUDACIOUS BOOK CLUB PICK • ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2023: Electric Lit, Autostraddle, Book Riot, SheReads, WBUR
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 queer hijabi Muslim immigrant survives her coming-of-age by drawing strength and hope from stories in the Quran in this daring, provocative, and radically hopeful memoir.
AN AUDACIOUS BOOK CLUB PICK • ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2023: Electric Lit, Autostraddle, Book Riot, SheReads, WBUR
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.
Editorial Reviews
Maryam
I am fourteen the year I read Surah Maryam. It's not like I haven't read this chapter of the Quran before, I have-I've read the entire Quran multiple times, all 114 chapters from start to finish. But I've only read it in Arabic, a language that I don't speak, that I can vocalize but not understand, that I've been taught for the purpose of reading the Quran. So I've read Surah Maryam before: sounded out the letters, rattled off words I don't know the meaning of, translated patterns of print into movements of tongue and lips. Read as an act of worship, an act of learning, an act of obedience to my father, under whose supervision I speed-read two pages of Quran aloud every evening. I've heard the surah read, too-recited on the verge of song during Taraweeh prayer in Ramadan; on the Quran tapes we listen to in the car during traffic jams; on the Islamic radio station that blares in the background while my mother cooks. This surah is beautiful, and one that I'm intimately familiar with. The cadence of its internal rhyme, the five elongated letters that comprise the first verse, the short, hard consonants repeated in intervals. But although I've read Surah Maryam before, my appreciation for it has been limited to the ritual and the aesthetic. I've never read read it.
I am fourteen the year we read Surah Maryam in Quran class. We, as in the twenty-odd students in my grade, in the girls' section of the Islamic school that I attend in this rich Arab country that my family has moved to. It's not a fancy international school, but my classmates and I are from all over the world-Bangladesh, Nigeria, Egypt, Germany-and our parents are always telling us to be grateful for our opportunities. Mine are always reminding me why we left the country I was born in a decade ago-a country where we lived next door to my grandmother and a few streets down from my cousins, where I remember being surrounded by love-to this country where we don't know anyone and don't know the language and my mother can't drive. My parents are always listing reasons we've stayed: better jobs, more stability, a Muslim upbringing. Which includes an Islamic education in school.
Twice a week, my classmates and I have Quran class. We line up in the windowless hallway outside the room where we have most of our other lessons-a room we've decorated and claimed desks in and settled into. From there, we begrudgingly make our way to a drab room in the annex called the "language lab." The name is deceptive; it's just a regular classroom outfitted with headphones and tape players, recently appropriated from the boys' section in an attempt at a more equal distribution of the school's resources. But gross boy smells-sweat and farts and cheap deodorant-still linger in the win...
I am fourteen the year I read Surah Maryam. It's not like I haven't read this chapter of the Quran before, I have-I've read the entire Quran multiple times, all 114 chapters from start to finish. But I've only read it in Arabic, a language that I don't speak, that I can vocalize but not understand, that I've been taught for the purpose of reading the Quran. So I've read Surah Maryam before: sounded out the letters, rattled off words I don't know the meaning of, translated patterns of print into movements of tongue and lips. Read as an act of worship, an act of learning, an act of obedience to my father, under whose supervision I speed-read two pages of Quran aloud every evening. I've heard the surah read, too-recited on the verge of song during Taraweeh prayer in Ramadan; on the Quran tapes we listen to in the car during traffic jams; on the Islamic radio station that blares in the background while my mother cooks. This surah is beautiful, and one that I'm intimately familiar with. The cadence of its internal rhyme, the five elongated letters that comprise the first verse, the short, hard consonants repeated in intervals. But although I've read Surah Maryam before, my appreciation for it has been limited to the ritual and the aesthetic. I've never read read it.
I am fourteen the year we read Surah Maryam in Quran class. We, as in the twenty-odd students in my grade, in the girls' section of the Islamic school that I attend in this rich Arab country that my family has moved to. It's not a fancy international school, but my classmates and I are from all over the world-Bangladesh, Nigeria, Egypt, Germany-and our parents are always telling us to be grateful for our opportunities. Mine are always reminding me why we left the country I was born in a decade ago-a country where we lived next door to my grandmother and a few streets down from my cousins, where I remember being surrounded by love-to this country where we don't know anyone and don't know the language and my mother can't drive. My parents are always listing reasons we've stayed: better jobs, more stability, a Muslim upbringing. Which includes an Islamic education in school.
Twice a week, my classmates and I have Quran class. We line up in the windowless hallway outside the room where we have most of our other lessons-a room we've decorated and claimed desks in and settled into. From there, we begrudgingly make our way to a drab room in the annex called the "language lab." The name is deceptive; it's just a regular classroom outfitted with headphones and tape players, recently appropriated from the boys' section in an attempt at a more equal distribution of the school's resources. But gross boy smells-sweat and farts and cheap deodorant-still linger in the win...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Maryam
I am fourteen the year I read Surah Maryam. It's not like I haven't read this chapter of the Quran before, I have-I've read the entire Quran multiple times, all 114 chapters from start to finish. But I've only read it in Arabic, a language that I don't speak, that I can vocalize but not understand, that I've been taught for the purpose of reading the Quran. So I've read Surah Maryam before: sounded out the letters, rattled off words I don't know the meaning of, translated patterns of print into movements of tongue and lips. Read as an act of worship, an act of learning, an act of obedience to my father, under whose supervision I speed-read two pages of Quran aloud every evening. I've heard the surah read, too-recited on the verge of song during Taraweeh prayer in Ramadan; on the Quran tapes we listen to in the car during traffic jams; on the Islamic radio station that blares in the background while my mother cooks. This surah is beautiful, and one that I'm intimately familiar with. The cadence of its internal rhyme, the five elongated letters that comprise the first verse, the short, hard consonants repeated in intervals. But although I've read Surah Maryam before, my appreciation for it has been limited to the ritual and the aesthetic. I've never read read it.
I am fourteen the year we read Surah Maryam in Quran class. We, as in the twenty-odd students in my grade, in the girls' section of the Islamic school that I attend in this rich Arab country that my family has moved to. It's not a fancy international school, but my classmates and I are from all over the world-Bangladesh, Nigeria, Egypt, Germany-and our parents are always telling us to be grateful for our opportunities. Mine are always reminding me why we left the country I was born in a decade ago-a country where we lived next door to my grandmother and a few streets down from my cousins, where I remember being surrounded by love-to this country where we don't know anyone and don't know the language and my mother can't drive. My parents are always listing reasons we've stayed: better jobs, more stability, a Muslim upbringing. Which includes an Islamic education in school.
Twice a week, my classmates and I have Quran class. We line up in the windowless hallway outside the room where we have most of our other lessons-a room we've decorated and claimed desks in and settled into. From there, we begrudgingly make our way to a drab room in the annex called the "language lab." The name is deceptive; it's just a regular classroom outfitted with headphones and tape players, recently appropriated from the boys' section in an attempt at a more equal distribution of the school's resources. But gross boy smells-sweat and farts and cheap deodorant-still linger in the windowless room, and it's a five-minute walk away on the other side of the school's campus. Understandably, the rate of attrition is high for these trips to Quran class. Girls duck out to the bathroom along the way and fail to rejoin the procession ("Miss, I really have to change my pad, but I'll be right back, wallah"), or feign ignorance of where class is being held ("Miss, someone told us the language lab is closed this week so we waited in our classroom the entire time"), or pretend to have gotten lost ("Miss, I really thought I had to take a right at the stairs and by the time I figured it out, it didn't make sense to disturb the lesson"). It is unbelievably easy to skip Quran class.
I, on the other hand, never skip Quran class. I go to every single one without fail, not because of religious devoutness, but because that's the kind of ninth grader I am. Too scared to cut class and a terrible liar. An overachiever, hell-bent on getting good grades and ranking first in my class. A nerd, hungry to learn about anything and everything; an avid reader, fascinated by the storytelling aspect of Quran class and eager to know what happens next; a clown, unwilling to give up having an audience for the jokes and convoluted questions and inappropriate remarks that I offer in class, preferring the laughs and groans and eye rolls of my classmates to being with myself, to the thoughts that pulse through my solitude.
But also, there's this: I'm bored. I'm thoroughly bored by school. I've figured out that each class contains only about ten minutes of actual learning that I need to pay attention to at the start of the period, and then I can tune out. I've figured out that my teachers are puzzles that can be cracked with a little effort at the beginning of the semester: which teachers reward acting like you're trying hard, which ones have soft spots for quick-witted students, which ones just want everyone to be quiet in class. I've figured this out: once I listen for ...
I am fourteen the year I read Surah Maryam. It's not like I haven't read this chapter of the Quran before, I have-I've read the entire Quran multiple times, all 114 chapters from start to finish. But I've only read it in Arabic, a language that I don't speak, that I can vocalize but not understand, that I've been taught for the purpose of reading the Quran. So I've read Surah Maryam before: sounded out the letters, rattled off words I don't know the meaning of, translated patterns of print into movements of tongue and lips. Read as an act of worship, an act of learning, an act of obedience to my father, under whose supervision I speed-read two pages of Quran aloud every evening. I've heard the surah read, too-recited on the verge of song during Taraweeh prayer in Ramadan; on the Quran tapes we listen to in the car during traffic jams; on the Islamic radio station that blares in the background while my mother cooks. This surah is beautiful, and one that I'm intimately familiar with. The cadence of its internal rhyme, the five elongated letters that comprise the first verse, the short, hard consonants repeated in intervals. But although I've read Surah Maryam before, my appreciation for it has been limited to the ritual and the aesthetic. I've never read read it.
I am fourteen the year we read Surah Maryam in Quran class. We, as in the twenty-odd students in my grade, in the girls' section of the Islamic school that I attend in this rich Arab country that my family has moved to. It's not a fancy international school, but my classmates and I are from all over the world-Bangladesh, Nigeria, Egypt, Germany-and our parents are always telling us to be grateful for our opportunities. Mine are always reminding me why we left the country I was born in a decade ago-a country where we lived next door to my grandmother and a few streets down from my cousins, where I remember being surrounded by love-to this country where we don't know anyone and don't know the language and my mother can't drive. My parents are always listing reasons we've stayed: better jobs, more stability, a Muslim upbringing. Which includes an Islamic education in school.
Twice a week, my classmates and I have Quran class. We line up in the windowless hallway outside the room where we have most of our other lessons-a room we've decorated and claimed desks in and settled into. From there, we begrudgingly make our way to a drab room in the annex called the "language lab." The name is deceptive; it's just a regular classroom outfitted with headphones and tape players, recently appropriated from the boys' section in an attempt at a more equal distribution of the school's resources. But gross boy smells-sweat and farts and cheap deodorant-still linger in the windowless room, and it's a five-minute walk away on the other side of the school's campus. Understandably, the rate of attrition is high for these trips to Quran class. Girls duck out to the bathroom along the way and fail to rejoin the procession ("Miss, I really have to change my pad, but I'll be right back, wallah"), or feign ignorance of where class is being held ("Miss, someone told us the language lab is closed this week so we waited in our classroom the entire time"), or pretend to have gotten lost ("Miss, I really thought I had to take a right at the stairs and by the time I figured it out, it didn't make sense to disturb the lesson"). It is unbelievably easy to skip Quran class.
I, on the other hand, never skip Quran class. I go to every single one without fail, not because of religious devoutness, but because that's the kind of ninth grader I am. Too scared to cut class and a terrible liar. An overachiever, hell-bent on getting good grades and ranking first in my class. A nerd, hungry to learn about anything and everything; an avid reader, fascinated by the storytelling aspect of Quran class and eager to know what happens next; a clown, unwilling to give up having an audience for the jokes and convoluted questions and inappropriate remarks that I offer in class, preferring the laughs and groans and eye rolls of my classmates to being with myself, to the thoughts that pulse through my solitude.
But also, there's this: I'm bored. I'm thoroughly bored by school. I've figured out that each class contains only about ten minutes of actual learning that I need to pay attention to at the start of the period, and then I can tune out. I've figured out that my teachers are puzzles that can be cracked with a little effort at the beginning of the semester: which teachers reward acting like you're trying hard, which ones have soft spots for quick-witted students, which ones just want everyone to be quiet in class. I've figured this out: once I listen for ...
