I’m tall,
And a little chubby.
So what?
It’s not a crime.
But in our perfect, flawless society,
It’s a great opportunity,
For laughter,
And ha-has.
Sure, go ahead.

“Who does this belong to?” she asked.
“It’s mine,” I replied, rather naively.
She laughed.
“Congratulations. You’re a woman now.
I have to go tell your father the good news!”
womanhood, period, body image

I used to be a swimmer.
I am dark-skinned,
Because I used to go to swim practice every morning.
I’m the only person in my family with curly hair.
Not a day would pass without someone commenting on my hair and skin.

Brushing my hair as a child was a real burden to me.
My mother would pull it really hard when she brushed it.
It was as if she was punishing me for having “bad” hair.
Combing it was a difficult process.
“Your hair is disgusting. I’m sick of it,” she used to tell me.
She used to push me away if I cried because it hurt, saying,
“Get up. I won’t brush it for you.”
body image, hair, beauty standards, bullying

“Let’s take a photo the Lebanese way! Stand like this.”
I did as she said and I thought I must’ve looked funny, and that people would think I was a slut because I was trying to flaunt my breasts.
body image, harassment

But I remember the way the hairdresser looked at my hair when I took off the hijab in front of her.
She was surprised it was curly.
She would make fun of my hair to the other people in the salon.
I think she used to hurt me on purpose when she was straightening it.
body image, hair, bullying, beauty standards

Back when I was in school, all the boys and girls would stare at my hair and call it a “brillo pad.”
I braided my hair most of the time so people wouldn’t notice I had coarse hair, and so I wouldn’t stand out.
body image, hair, beauty standards, bullying

I’ve had black circles under my eyes ever since I was young.
It’s genetic.
I also have bulging eyes.
I hated school,
Because of the way my friends looked at me,
Like they were making fun of me.
They saw me as less than them,
Because I don’t look normal.

It started around puberty.
My voice started to change.
It became very deep.
To the extent that if someone heard my voice,
Without seeing me,
They’d think I was an old man.
It’s happened to me a lot.

My parents are Nubian.
I was born olive-skinned,
Like most Egyptians.
My brother, however,
Who’s a year and a half older than me,
Was darker-skinned,
Like most Nubians.
That’s not the only problem:
My brother has a disability:
A chronic ulcer on the sole of his foot.