Huda Al-Marashi writes for both children and adults. She is coauthor of the middle grade novel Grounded, which won a Walter Dean Myers Honor, and the author of the memoir First Comes Marriage: My Not-So-Typical American Love Story. She is also a fellow and mentor with the Highlights Foundation Muslim Storytellers Program. Al-Marashi lives in San Diego with her family. Here, she reflects on her new middle grade novel, Hail Mariam, which is inspired by her transformative experience as the only Muslim teen attending her Catholic school.
When my parents enrolled me in our local Catholic school at the start of sixth grade, it was mostly a relief, even though I was the only Muslim in my entire school. I preferred my classmates’ new mispronunciation of my name: “Hud-duh” was a bit softer than “Who-duh,” with an emphasis on the syllable “duh.” My class sizes were smaller, and in the brand-obsessed late 1980s, uniforms were a respite from the pressure to have designer things.
But there was one part of my new school that shocked me: Jesus.
My religion forbade idolatry, and here I was spending my days in the shadow of a crucifix above my chalkboard and another even larger crucifix at the front of the church. Along the church walls were other statues—baby Jesus in a velvet gown; adult Jesus with a big heart on his chest; and his mother, Mary, looking peaceful and serene.
And as if all those images weren’t enough for an 11-year-old to contend with, I also had to reckon with my peers believing Jesus was the son of God—not just a prophet. Was I supposed to pray for forgiveness for listening to these ideas? Or should I explain to my classmates that my religion had another take on Jesus? But that seemed like the kind of opinion I should wait to be asked about before I offered.
Eventually my classmates did ask where I stood on Jesus, but none of us knew enough to debate the issue at any length. Over time, I was surprised by how little this major theological difference came up. The commonalities were more apparent, especially when people talked to God from their heart. “Please, God, give me health, safety, protection, comfort, or forgiveness.” It seemed like everyone was praying for the same things.
Catholic school offered me consistent contact with a group of which I was not a member, and it did what regular interaction often does. It challenged my preconceived notions and showed me how to be comfortable in the company of those seemingly unlike me. Little did I know that this would prove to be preparation for the consistent interaction I’d later have within my own family.
I’d always known my maternal grandmother was Lebanese Christian. She died when my mother was young, and we knew very little about her except that she was from the mountain town of Zahlé and her family name was Shakir. In the early 2000s, my brother took those two pieces of information with him to Zahlé, and by asking the locals, he found our great-aunt Marie. We learned that she was Syrian Orthodox, but more importantly we learned that the bonds of family transcend religious identity. She adored us instantly.
When I finally traveled to her home with my three children, she had the same statue of the peaceful and serene Mary I recognized from school. Now the imagery was not only familiar, it was a homecoming.
Even though my children were less accustomed to Christian religious symbols, they did not feel any sense of separation from my great-aunt. Together we visited mosques and churches, moving between both houses of worship with ease. “She’s just family,” my son said. “I can’t even tell how we’re different.”
Although my children did not attend Catholic schools, I was grateful I could at least offer them this exposure to another tradition. I imagined that the world would be a more tolerant place if only more young people had similar interfaith experiences, and this got me wondering if I could try to offer readers a glimpse of mine. Perhaps I could pull from my Catholic school memories to spark similar conversations. Even though I’d been writing adult nonfiction for most of my career, I assumed it wouldn’t be too hard to fictionalize a story pulled from my childhood.
It turns out that I assumed wrong, and I wound up with a draft that clung much too closely to my own life. Fortunately, my premise had enough promise to earn me a spot in the Muslim Storytellers Fellowship offered through Boyds Mills, formerly known as the Highlights Foundation. Here I found the courses, community, and mentorship I need to rework my middle grade novel Hail Mariam into a sellable manuscript.
On my first call with my editor, Zareen Jaffery at Kokila, I told her I wanted this novel to be a positive reflection of my time in Catholic school. “I sincerely had a good experience, and I want it to be a comfortable read for both faiths.” She echoed my sentiment—she was also a Muslim who had gone to Catholic school.
At the time, I thought it was a spectacular coincidence, but now that Hail Mariam is out in the world, I continue to hear from so many other Muslims with similar educational backgrounds. While we might have been the only Muslims at our individual schools, it seems we share this experience with many others across the country. I can’t think of a better mirror for my Catholic school years—anticipating isolation only to find community and belonging where you’d least expect it.
Hail Mariam by Huda Al-Marashi. Kokila, $17.99 Feb. 24 ISBN 979-8-217-11296-8
