If you were asked to picture a ‘normal-looking’ person, a turbaned man probably wouldn’t be the first image to come to mind. But does that mean a man wearing a turban is not normal? Of course not. At the same time, should a turban be treated as insignificant, as if it contributes nothing to the man’s appearance or identity? Also no. Our idea of ‘normal’ is rooted in narrow social expectations, and falling outside of that label isn’t inherently negative. However, the problem arises when ‘not normal’ becomes the premise of judgment, a reason to single someone out, or a barrier to belonging.
For much of my life, I have struggled with this tension. I’ve always wanted to freely practice my beliefs in Sikhi, yet I often worried about what it meant to look visibly different. I didn’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons, yet I also didn’t want to compromise the principles I value. As a Sikh, there are a number of beliefs I practice on a daily basis, one of those being to keep my hair uncut and covered by a turban. As expected, my turban draws numerous looks, some being curious or seemingly fascinated, and others are faces of disgust. Throughout elementary and middle school, I wanted to practice Sikhi wholeheartedly, but despised the unwanted attention that came with it. I just wanted to be considered ‘normal.’
More than once, I wondered if cutting my hair would allow me to blend in. I imagined myself without a turban, becoming another face in the crowd, becoming the typical ‘American boy’ I thought I was supposed to resemble. This would come at the expense of a core value of Sikhi, which I didn’t feel right to abandon. Upon reaching high school, I was mentally strong enough to not let other individuals’ reactions to my appearance dictate how I carried myself. Even so, the question of whether I wanted to look different continued to linger in the back of my mind.
It wasn’t until college where I was able to understand and overcome my struggle. Arriving at UW-Madison, I found myself among people whose appearances, identities, and practices did not match my definition of ‘normal.’ But they were proud and confident, and their authenticity wasn’t quiet or apologetic. Seeing that helped me reshape my understanding of normality. I no longer associated normality with appearance, but rather viewed it through the lens of being able to express oneself freely, which could happen to take form through physical appearance. I also recognized that the looks I received about my turban came from a lack of awareness, where my turban existed outside the people’s conventional image of a ‘normal’ appearance.
Awareness of diverse beliefs and appearances has certainly grown in recent years where I’m not forcefully pressured to change how I look, but it cannot be said for everyone. After 9/11, Sikh men, including my dad, couldn’t wear their turbans in spaces where their safety wasn’t guaranteed. Out of necessity, they had to assume ‘normal’ appearances to avoid being targeted or singled out. For them, society’s version of ‘normal’ wasn’t just restrictive, it was dangerous.
My story is just one of many, but it shares the same message: the power to reshape society’s idea of ‘normal’ lies within us. If I were asked as a child to picture a ‘normal-looking’ person, I wouldn’t have pictured myself. Today, I would picture someone who practices their beliefs freely, confidently, and unapologetically; someone who doesn’t measure their worth by how closely they fit an expectation.
If our idea of ‘normal’ leaves no room for turbans, hijabs, kippahs, crosses, tattoos, or any expression of who we are, then the problem is no longer attached to the people. The problem is with the idea itself. ‘Normal’ shouldn’t be defined by how well we blend in, but by the freedom to be our whole selves, even when that makes us stand out. And when society expands its understanding of ‘normal,’ no one will ever have to choose between belonging and being true to who they are.