“Her picture will be so dark, you won’t even be able to see her.”

I tried to say something,

But my tongue was tied.

I tried to ignore the slight,

Pretend I didn’t hear it,

Just focus on the camera.

But I wasn’t able to, unfortunately.

The result was as horrible as could be.

I was a bit fat when I was a teenager,
And I had freckles.
I was always told I’d look pretty if I lost a bit of weight.
“Why don’t you go see a dermatologist for your freckles?”
“How come you’re not skinny like your siblings?

I have a big forehead and thin hair.
It makes me look like Mohamed Heneidy before he got a hair transplant.
My family and friends used to make fun of me.
When I tied my hair back, my father would tell me,
“Wear your hair down. It looks ugly tied back.”
body image, hair, beauty standards, bullying

I’ve always been fat,
And they don’t let me forget that at home.
They tell me I need to stop eating.
My father always embarrasses me during gatherings,
Especially when we’re visiting friends or relatives.
He’d give me a disapproving look if I take an extra serving of food.

Girls, I know that at this age, you like to flaunt your beauty.
“Look at my long hair!
Look at whatever!”
Here, you must forget about all those things.
The uniform you must wear is a galabiyya.
The kind your mothers wear.

Every single day,
People passing me by in the street,
Shout insults at me:
“Blackie!”
“Shikabala!”
“Why’s it dark all of the sudden?”
“Disgusting!”

What’s wrong with being an overweight child?
Why was I, as a 6 or 7 year old, subjected to talk like,
“Stop eating. You’re fat.”
I went to a nutritionist before I even turned 10 to help me lose weight.
I tried a hundred different diets.
Maybe one out of every ten would work a little.

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.

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

I’ve been told I’m fat ever since I can remember.
When I grew up, I learned that I wasn’t really fat or anything.
My lower body was fuller than my upper body.
It’s always been my goal to lose weight,
So I’d be beautiful,
And so I could get married.