Proud: Chapters 5–7

After an explanation about the three different types of fencing weapons—épée, saber, and foil—we were told to select one we thought we’d like to try.

After an explanation about the three different types of fencing weapons—épée, saber, and foil—we were told to select one we thought we’d like to try.

I was blown away by their finesse; they could take the tip of their blade and hit their target with such precision.

I loved it because Coach Mustilli created a meritocracy.

Each fencer had to fence three bouts, one against each of the members of the other team in the same weapon.

This would be my first year in the coveted starting lineup on the varsity team, and I was really looking forward to contributing tangible wins for the team.

He showed me the major defense moves—the parries—I would need as a saberist, and he gave me a handful of DVDs to take home to watch champion saberists and told me to pay attention to their footwork more than anything.

Rachel flew off of the guard line, and this time I had the wherewithal to retreat.

Some of my teammates did the local competition circuit, but I wasn’t sure I was ready so soon after switching to saber.

“I am?” I said, incredulous. I knew I’d been doing well at the local tournaments, but I didn’t realize I was anywhere near qualifying status for JOs.

Finally, I sat there with my face in my palms, covered in tears, replaying each bout and rehashing where I could have done things differently.

Through sheer coincidence, around the same time Mom was doing her research on the club, a documentary film about Peter Westbrook himself was premiering in New York City.

As a child of mixed race heritage and during a time when race relations were tense due to the burgeoning civil rights movement, Peter struggled with his racial identity, and his mother worried that without a father figure in his life, he would turn to the streets for answers.

It wasn’t just his success as a fencer that made Peter Westbrook so remarkable, though; it was also the fact that he came from such humble beginnings and still managed to dominate a sport that had previously been reserved for the white and wealthy.

He battled opponents on the strip and was forced to fight racism and classism in order to claim his spot among the annals of fencing greats, which he did on his own terms.

Peter had reached a level of success I could only dream about at the time, but I still felt an instant kinship with this bald-headed, brown-skinned, petite, wiry fencing elder.

The Peter Westbrook Foundation was housed on the second floor of a nondescript building not too far from the Fashion Institute of Technology.

“We have about two hundred students coming in here every Saturday for fencing lessons, but Ibtihaj here is beyond that. Frank’s doing well with her. We’d like to have her join our elite group of students who come in to train after school. You have to promise to work hard, and in exchange we’ll waive your membership fee, we’ll give you your own locker, and when we think you’re ready, we can help with the funding for tournament expenses. How does that sound to you all?”

The energy that filled that room was palpable, and I wanted to be a part of it, to fence with other athletes of color and learn from Olympians and Olympic hopefuls alike.

This time the competition was in Colorado, and I had much higher hopes than how I fared the year before.

My parents had instilled in me a strong work ethic and a nothing-but-the-best mentality.

Even though I had gotten into NYU, Peter’s alma mater, the financial aid they offered wasn’t enough to compete with Duke.

I wasn’t the only one who dealt with his erratic behavior.

I just did my best not to provoke his ire.

I ran my fingers over the inscription on the trophy and tried to dredge up a small amount of the elation I had felt just two days ago when I scored the winning point and secured the gold at the Junior Olympics tournament in Ohio.

If low-key meant pumping music, throngs of people sipping on beer or mixed drinks, and clouds of smoke hanging in the air, then that’s exactly what it was.

These were the subjects I was truly interested in studying on a deeper level. These were the issues that whetted my intellectual appetites.

The female upperclassmen did not approach me or make any real efforts to be my friend, so I only went to the meetings sporadically my first year.

I’d convinced myself I didn’t need to be involved with the MSA to be a devout Muslim on campus, only it turned out I did.

And I knew if I kept hanging with my non-Muslim friends, those vices would always be around to tempt me.

If I had competitions, or if practice ran late, I’d have to take a rain check on the MSA.

In fact, it mostly caused undue levels of anxiety.

My friend Josh and I were the only Black fencers on Duke’s team, and we both were on the receiving end of endless numbers of “harmless jokes” and offhand comments that permeated our team culture.

I don’t know if he figured something must be amiss if the only two Black fencers on his team both quit, but I wasn’t interested in sticking around to help him figure it out.

There were things I decided I could do as a Muslim woman that my parents might have frowned upon, like listening to popular music and having male friends, but I had proven to myself that these things did not alter my steadfastness or obedience to Islam.