It’s my first week at UNM, and I am determined to make a friend. I made it into a Ph.D. program. Certainly I am capable of making a friend.
My family calls, concerned, and I reassure them by changing the subject.
“My adviser is amazing. He showed me all around the campus,” I say. Or, “Yes, my new professor is from South Africa. Isn’t that interesting?”
I manage to distract them, yet I remain a bit concerned myself. I sit on the shuttle, looking out the window. During breaks between classes, I call friends in other states and ask them if they hear the fountain of water in the background. “It’s such a beautiful campus,” I say.
When I go home, I decide it’s time I take matters into my own hands. Making a friend is something I have to work toward. Smiling would only take me so far. I decide to e-mail the Office of International Programs and Students. The e-mail starts like this: “I am a new student, and because I was born in the U.S., I am not considered an international student, but I am looking to meet people.” I add their group to my Facebook, so that I’ll be notified of events.
Within a day or two, I get a phone call from a local number. I decide to answer it, and the young woman on the other end is speaking Arabic. I am surprised, and it seems OIPS was more concerned than my parents and forwarded my contact information to a student who is from the same region as me. She is very friendly and invites me to the local mosque. I thank her and tell her I will come to meet her soon.
As I hang up the phone, I am excited. There is someone in New Mexico I can speak Arabic to. However, I am concerned about her recommendation to meet her at the mosque. I forgot to tell OIPS that my mom is Swiss and my father is a liberal who writes against fundamentalism. I calm down. I have been to mosques before, and it can be a very spiritual experience.
That night, I try on everything in my closet, looking for a proper outfit for the occasion. I would be going directly after class, so I want the outfit to work for class and work for a religious occasion. Nothing is working. The clothes are either not long enough or too long, or the top is cut too low. I always dress modestly, but now I don’t own proper wear to enter a mosque.
After several attempts, I decide I will wear jeans and a top and then later add a cardigan to that. My friend-to-be offers to bring me a head covering after I explain that I don’t own one.
I spend a good deal of time pulling on my cardigan sleeves and my top to make sure no skin is visible. I am welcomed and helped with putting on the hijab. I feel fine.
Yes, this is a good initiative on my behalf. It’s Ramadan and the perfect time to go to a mosque. As I am introduced to other people, I hear comments.
“Who is she here with? Her family or her husband?” My heart throbs. I am here alone. Is there something wrong with that?
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A lady tells me, “You don’t look like a Kuwaiti.”
I am thinking, “What does a Kuwaiti look like to you?” or, “Have you ever even been to Kuwait?” But no, I want to be courteous, so instead I say, “Yes, my mom is Swiss.”
I feel awkward, so I make use of my skills. I start to help out the mothers with their children. A cute little 15-month-old boy runs away toward the door. I run to get him. This is a good distraction.
I leave that night appreciative of my host. She has insisted I keep the hijab as a symbol of us meeting. I am very grateful.
Certainly, my quest to make friends is not over. I walk into the SUB and see a table with the sign “Association of Non-Traditional Students.” I stop to ask for information on just what a non-traditional student is. The nice lady explains and says, “If you don’t feel like you fit in anywhere.”
Does it look that obvious? I am tempted to yell “Yes! I am in.” I don’t mind the $15 a year fee. I’ll pay any cost to make a friend.
Hadeel Al-Essa is a first-year Ph.D. student in the Family Studies Program at UNM.
