Baig continued, referring to the negative comments: “It’s a tough thing to read, but I know that it comes from a place of pain. It comes from a pain of, ‘I want something that confirms and affirms my values and the way I’ve lived my life and the experiences I’ve had.’ That’s exactly what led me to make this movie because I had the same pain. The contact I had with Muslim characters was that they were all men, and it was centered through their perspective.”

Throughout the movie I kept thinking how I used to avoid sharing stories about my family’s ugly, human moments because I was afraid of what people outside my community would think. I was an ambassador for my people, whether Muslim or Bengali or South Asian, and I didn’t want their first impression of someone like me to be a negative one. The burden of sanitizing my life added even more stress to the pressure of being a model minority.

The film has also been criticized for perpetuating the idea that a white man is a trophy for women of color — Hala’s love interest, Jesse, is a blonde, amateur poet who also skateboards. I have spent my adulthood interrogating past definitions of beauty, happiness and freedom. And my adult self wanted to roll my eyes at that choice for a character like Hala, unsure of herself and where she belongs, but my teenage self was wide-eyed in adoration for him.

For some, including myself, there was a time that a white man desiring you meant — to steal a line from the Broadway drama “Slave Play,” about interracial couples — you won the “prize.” (Not to mention that it’s a message conveyed repeatedly in movies, TV series and advertising.) It showed you were worth a damn and, finally, maybe as beautiful as the skinny white girl.

Ultimately, “Hala” is not really a love story. She doesn’t choose Jesse — in part because of a perceived allegiance to her family that’s appropriate of her age. But it reminded me that I have been the brown girl pining over a white boy. And I have been the brown woman who has rejected white acceptance.

“Hala” brought these contradictions together for me. I’m still exorcising my demons over what it means to be “a good Muslim” and how my parents chose to raise me. I often feel like a coward: There are many facets of my life I do not share with my parents. I will never agree with them that praying five times daily is a marker for getting into heaven.