Hijab Butch Blues: A Memoir
(Libby/OverDrive eBook, Kindle)

Lamya H. debuts with a thoughtful examination of her queer South Asian identity and Islamic faith. At age 14, Lamya, who uses a pseudonym to protect her identity, first read Surah Maryam, the Quran's chapter about the woman known in Christianity as the Virgin Mary, and felt a kinship with her, as they were both "uninterested in men." As a young adult, Lamya moved to the United States from an unnamed Arab city in the Middle East. She encountered rampant Islamophobia at her (unnamed) American university--most painfully in queer circles that didn't believe a gay person could be Muslim--but gradually found a community of queer Muslims who welcomed her. "This is the world fourteen-year-old me couldn't even begin to imagine," she writes. Through the stories of prophets accepting the wahi (a divine revelation or command), Lamya finds the joy in embracing and sharing her queer, Muslim selfhood as a wahi of her own: "It's that glorious feeling that comes from inviting someone into your world." The narrative is profoundly emotional, and Lamya's determination to fight for a better world hits home: "I'm also not faithless enough to think that the direction in which I strive doesn't matter." This will inspire both compassion and reflection. Agent: Julia Kardon, HG Literary. (Feb.)

A queer Muslim writer and organizer chronicles a life navigating between religion and culture. Lamya H faced discrimination throughout childhood and adolescence for being an immigrant in a "rich Arab country." She felt invisible--even evil--just like the spirits called jinn. At 14, she wanted to disappear--not just because she felt different, but also because she understood the possible ramifications of her burgeoning sexuality. "Gay is a hush-hush thing, not to be talked about seriously, only to be used as an insult," she writes. The Quranic story of Maryam, who "doesn't like men," gave the author courage, but when she began wearing hijab to honor Maryam, non--hijab-wearing girls dismissed her. As a Muslim college student in the U.S., Lamya faced constant scrutiny and discovered that Black and other immigrant friends endured similar mistreatment. "I notice that people who are white or appear to be white are on top of the pyramid here," she writes, "just like they were in the country where my parents and brother still live, that sometimes this category of 'appears to be white' includes wealthy, worldly, light-skinned Arabs." Professional life in New York brought the author into contact with a group of mostly straight Muslim feminists who helped her refine a nonbinary vision of God but could not offer her a truly inclusive space. Remembering Muhammad's mission to build a "community of believers," Lamya forged a circle of queer and nonbinary social justice activists, found life mentors among a group of LGBTQ+ Muslims, and unexpectedly fell in love with a White woman. Their relationship helped Lamya understand the importance of focusing on "curious, kind dialogue and to support those I love--instead of fighting to fend off racists, sexists, homophobes, transphobes, [and] Islamophobes." As the author examines her evolving relationship to her religion, she also vibrantly explores what it means to live with an open-minded, open-hearted activist seeking to change the world for the better. A hopeful and uplifting memoir. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

The author, a queer Muslim who immigrated to New York as a college student, explores the importance of family, being true to oneself, and the tenets of a religion often at odds with queerness. This memoir in essays with narratives, at times, witty, sharp, poetic, and descriptive is woven with stories from the Quran. The combination leads to the author strengthening her relationship with Allah. The book probes internal conflicts around what coming out is meant to accomplish and to whom. The author persistently challenges a world that classifies identities in rigid absolutes. The book's relevant and timely discussions of race, sexual orientation, and religion offer an empathetic approach to understanding them. VERDICT This book is recommended for all public and academic libraries.—Katy Duperry

Lamya H. debuts with a thoughtful examination of her queer South Asian identity and Islamic faith. At age 14, Lamya, who uses a pseudonym to protect her identity, first read Surah Maryam, the Quran's chapter about the woman known in Christianity as the Virgin Mary, and felt a kinship with her, as they were both "uninterested in men." As a young adult, Lamya moved to the United States from an unnamed Arab city in the Middle East. She encountered rampant Islamophobia at her (unnamed) American university—most painfully in queer circles that didn't believe a gay person could be Muslim—but gradually found a community of queer Muslims who welcomed her. "This is the world fourteen-year-old me couldn't even begin to imagine," she writes. Through the stories of prophets accepting the wahi (a divine revelation or command), Lamya finds the joy in embracing and sharing her queer, Muslim selfhood as a wahi of her own: "It's that glorious feeling that comes from inviting someone into your world." The narrative is profoundly emotional, and Lamya's determination to fight for a better world hits home: "I'm also not faithless enough to think that the direction in which I strive doesn't matter." This will inspire both compassion and reflection. Agent: Julia Kardon, HG Literary. (Feb.)