Before going to Forbes Hospital for my first day as a volunteer, I made sure that my shirt was tucked in properly, my shoelaces were tied tightly, and that my turban was wrapped firmly around my head. When I arrived, the secretary told me that Volunteer Services was on the third floor. As I took my place in the corner of the elevator across from a stranger, I immediately felt the weight of his glance.
“Why don’t you take that thing off your head, terrorist?”
I began to sweat, unable to make eye contact. I wish I had given him a bold response, but instead, I muttered quietly, “It’s just my religion.” The rest of the ride was a dizzy haze, my ears ringing from anxiety, alone in the cold of the elevator.
I never knew such words could make me feel so worthless. I was disappointed at my pathetic response, knowing it would have been the perfect opportunity to enforce the appreciation of diversity and love. But because I did not take that responsibility, I let the man's remark make my crown feel like nothing more than a mere piece of cloth. I was determined to learn more about my identity, so I would react better if I was ever questioned in the future. I could not receive advice from my parents, who were raised in India and don’t fully understand the issues first-generation American Sikhs face, so I sought guidance from my Sikh priest, Bhai Sahib. I was reminded that my unshorn hair, wrapped in a turban, is the uniform of a Sikh. He explained that it was meant to make me stand out in a crowd, prohibiting me from being a bystander during times of injustice and making it a responsibility to take a stand. With it, I am easily identifiable if anyone seeks assistance. Without it, I feel incomplete.
Sikhs, like other marginalized communities, have faced job discrimination, bigotry, and hate crimes. In 2012, I along with my family were in tears when a white supremacist took the lives of six at a Gurdwara (Sikh place of worship) in Oak Creek, WI. I thought about how this discrimination prevents me from expressing my commitment as a Sikh to Vand Chakna, or supporting and benefiting the people around me. How am I supposed to support my community if they view me as the enemy?
In an effort to spread awareness about my faith, last summer, I along with a few peers set up a booth at the National Scout Jamboree, where we tied turbans on people and educated them on the tenets of Sikhism. I realized that most people are not actually against Sikhs, but are wanting to learn more. More recently, I gave a speech about the importance of the Sikh turban at my own Gurudwara. Following the speech, I had set up activities for the kids, which educated them on how to respond if they were ever questioned similar to me. I cherished every moment I had to work with the kids, as it allowed me to instill confidence in the next generation’s understanding of their own religion. Since then, some of the children have even approached me in need of advice for dealing with bullying in school. I have found opportunities to spread awareness about my faith very valuable and important to me, as knowledge dispels bigotry and prejudice.
The reality is, people like the man in the elevator still exist in the world and will continue to cause problems for those around them. But by understanding the true significance of my identity, I do my best to eradicate both my own and others’ ignorance. I realized that I can only control what I can do, not what others do. Now, when I get dressed every morning, I tie my crown knowing that I can defend it, explain it, and embrace it.
- Avneet Singh, 18, PA
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