I was born with an extreme case of dowager's hump,
And it looks very pronounced when I wear certain clothes.
When I was a child,
My mother tried to get it fixed,
But that meant that I had to wear a huge back brace all the time.
body image, bullying, beauty standards

My paternal grandmother always had a brush,
And loads of hair products ready with her to tame my “unruly”, unkempt hair.
She would sit me down on my knees,
pull at my hair painfully until it got detangled,
then she would apply a lot of hair cream,
pull my hair back into a bun or braid it,
Until the curls were no longer visible.

I was on my way to school like any other day,
When I found everyone making fun of me because I was wearing pants and a t-shirt that were bigger in size than their clothes.
I weighed more than them.
I don’t know how this whole thing started.
bullying, body image, beauty standards, social pressure

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.

I used to not hate my hair.
As a child I was quiet and scared of people.
I always avoided interacting them.
My shyness increased in school.
That’s when people started commenting on my hair.
“It’s like a brillo pad.”
“Your hair is a mess.”
My classmates would always ask what was wrong with my hair.
body image, hair, bullying, beauty standards

I have dark skin,
And I adore it.
I’m an Egyptian girl of Nubian descent,
But I don’t live in Nubia.
I never get a break from people’s comments:
On the streets, at school, or any place I go.
body image, bullying, racism, beauty standards

I’m a guy.
I weigh 135 kg.
I’ve been bullied ever since I was 10.
People would make fun of the size of my chest.

I’m not fat,
But I have a weird, balloon-like stomach.
Know what a beer belly looks like?
Yeah that’s it.
Even though, I swear to God,
I’ve never so much as tasted a drop of beer.
body image, bullying, beauty standards

That day, I sat there and pretended to play by myself because I was alone,
My neighbors weren’t talking to me that day.
At the time my neighbors were my group of friends: Manara, Nesma, Shaimaa.
They were sisters.

I hate my skin.
It’s full of flaws.
My face and back are full of painful pimples.
Dark areas, red areas, holes, and splotches.
I hate how people look at me,
Especially when I’m already feeling low.
Even mama, baba, and my younger siblings,
All look at me with a mixture of disgust and pity on their faces.