My mom had driven all the way from Philadelphia to Baltimore, and we were sitting in the car outside my dad’s house. I had a few more minutes before I needed to go inside; the agreement was, at 8 o’clock I needed to go inside. My dad left when I was three. Ever since then he's fought my mother for custody of me and my siblings. Two years ago he finally won. He wanted nothing to do with my older sister, morgan but, my brother and I had to move to his house. I was so upset that I had to live there. The only thing keeping me sane was weekend visitation with my mother. When she would drive us back to my father’s house at the end of the weekend we were expected to go inside by 8pm.

   I got out of the car, dreading what had to happen next, when I had an idea. I sat down on the grass and told my dad I was not going inside.

    At first, he tried to convince me that I had to go inside. He kept telling me to go inside, that it was just what I was supposed to do.

“Come on Emily, just come inside please.” I remained sitting on the grass where I was disregarding anything he had to say.

I was on the phone with my sister, and she was with my mom. My mom had driven up the road just a few blocks. She was waiting to make sure everything was okay before driving all the way back to Philadelphia.

    After about 20 minutes of my dad and his wife yelling at me, I hear my dad come out to the front yard. He was on the phone, and I assumed he was talking to on the phone with his mother. I eavesdropped on the conversation listened when I heard him saying that I was a runaway fourteen-year-old child. Right then I knew he had called the police when he gave them his address.

   I was still sitting on the grass on the front yard on his front year when the police arrived. Two 2 police cars pulled up, and there were three 3 officers in total. They attempted tried to approach me calmly and tried to talk to me and tell me that I needed to go inside. Of course I of course, did not move. I did not say a word. It didn’t take very long for the police to slowly become less nice and gentle toward me. One female officer looked me in the eye and very sternly told me that I needed to go inside before they forcibly brought me inside. I then decided to go inside. Anything was easier than being brought into the house by force. So, I went inside.

    By this point, I was off the phone with my sister but then proceeded to call. I called her again while sitting and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs right inside the door. My father was so angry that I went didn’t go straight to my room and went to sleep. When he started yelling at me again I just went outside again, still talking on the phone with my sister.

    My sister kept telling me to go inside because she said it would be as easier than all of this, but I didn’t care. I sat back down on the grass and waited for my dad to give up just like he h. He had given up on my sister a few years. ago earlier so, So I thought this would make him give up on me, but I was wrong, and He called the police again.

    This time I thought they wouldn’t come;. I wasn’t trying to run away, and they knew that all I wanted to do was to go home with my mom.

   The police showed up again and I went inside with no problem. I sat back down on the step and my father proceeded to yell at me again. This time, I sat down again on the bottom step, when he started yelling at me again. I didn’t move, and. he took my phone right out of my hand and called the police again. This time I’m sure they were annoyed. They got there and brought me right up to my room per my father's request. My mom went home and I went to sleep right after that.

I’m an Algerian immigrant who was raised in America. Having to live and adapt to both worlds was not as challenging as I expected. I adapted to the difference in food, clothing, and language easily but there remains one variety I can not acclimate: beauty. Specifically my hair.

I cherish my curly long thick hair, although I was obsessed with silky straight hair.

In Algeria, the ideal hairstyle was straight hair, but my hair, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

I can vividly remember the struggle getting ready for school every morning.

I remember stretching loose the bones in my body. I lazily threw on some clothes as I dragged myself over to the bathroom sink. Carefully and slowly I took my time brushing my teeth, so I could postpone hair time.

My mom would peek her head into the bathroom, and ask, ”you ready?”

I nodded in response.

She reached for my hair. I tightly gripped the edge of the sink and the towel in my hand, I shut my eyes, scrunched my face, and waited for the explosion of pain. She shoved her fingers inside the big ball of hair. The search of the hair tie has begun.

When she would finally get a hold of it, she’d hold my hair close to my scalp with one hand and with the other, pulled the hair band with all of her might.

Tears gliding down my face was the only type of soothing I felt at the time. I loosened the sweaty grip of the towel and sink.

Years have passed with the same struggles, but I feel more comfortable about it. I’ve accepted that yes this is my hair. This is me.

Until one summer day in Algeria. My cousins and I told stories, talked and laughed.

“Oh yeah Assirem, let me see the pictures from the party last night!” Yasmina my cousin says.

Proudly, I scrolled through my camera roll, quickly searching for the best picture before handing her the phone.

I sat patiently waiting to be bombarded with compliments, my chest raised high, big smile across my face.

“You went to the party with your hair like this?”, She disgustingly murmured out.

She quickly hands me the phone back as if it was a dirty diaper.

I chuckled awkwardly, my heart stood stiff as a rock. I can feel the redness arising under my skin. I looked over to the rest of my cousins for some comfort but they all agreed

“What do you mean? I like the way my hair looked.”

“Well I just thought you would straighten it, the fact that it was a party and all.” she rolled her eyes looking at her fingernails.  

I got up and walked out.

Many experiences such as these happened in Algeria, this caused me to be more aware of how my hair looks.

Until I came to America. I've been to many parties. I would be shocked seeing girls coming in with hair curly, poofy straight hair! These observations made me appreciate the difference in my beauty, that sets me apart from others.

At school one evening , exhaustion ran from my scalp through my body to the tip of my toes.

3:05, finally time to go home. I unlocked my locker as a fast as possible, hoping to not mess up. My three best friends surrounded me impatiently, ready to go home.

Suddenly, a shiver ran down my back. I jerked my head back quickly.

“Of course,” I thought to myself with relief.

Two girls were wrapping and brushing their fingers through my hair. In the least awkward way, I gently began to loosen my hair out through their finger.

“Assirem, so do you like braid it or put twists in it for it to come out this way.” One of them stated reaching back for my hair.

“No, it’s natural,” I chuckled.

They both took a step back.

The other girl followed up by, “so then what products do you put in it for it to curl like this.”

I looked up to the top of my locker.

“water,” I stated jokingly as I inserted my notebook into my book bag.

Now I think to myself alone in the quietly bathroom. Watching the steam rise from the straightener sitting patiently on the marable. I divide my hair into two sections, it is easier that way.. I run the last strand tightly through the iron from root to the tip. I stand back. One side was big volumized curls, the other was flat straighten hair.

I bend down gently to pull the plug out of the outlet. With a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment, I walk out.

Straight or curly?

I am both.  

The score was 19 to 19. We were on a 15 game win streak. The tension was thick and I never took my eyes off of the tv. The ball was inbounded to me, so I ran up the court with it. I had an open lane to the hoop because my defender was guarding someone else. I held the square button and held my breath as my player flew into the air and was immediately surrounded by the other players. It was a trap. My player came crashing down, dunking on everyone that was under the basket. I leaped up and screamed in joy as I had ended the game that was so contested.

Video games were always apart of my life even at a young age. My family was always playing the video games and I couldn’t help but to want to play too. They would play games like Final Fantasy 7, Grand Theft Auto, Crash Bandicoot, Kingdom Hearts and more when they wanted to play some one player games. Those games were fun, but I would usually play the multiplayer games with my cousins and dad. We played all sorts of multiplayer games like basketball, Sonic 2 and 3, Fight Night, Madden, Tekken, Soulcalibur, Mortal Kombat and much more.

Playing these games made my childhood pretty competitive when it came to gaming. Now, I wasn’t the best, but the point would be to just have fun even if you win or not. When I received my first game system, which was a VTech V smile, I was overwhelmed with joy since I didn’t have to beg to play the game anymore. After receiving a V Smile, I wanted to get even more games. When I got older, my parents bought me a PS3, and that’s where it all changed right there. My desire to play the game went from being a hobby into a habit. All day, every day, I would be on the game until my mom would yell at me to get off the game.

I play video games because they entertain me when I’m bored or help me calm down if I’m upset. Video games bring a massive amount of fun to me but that fun does not come alone. Every video gamer knows the experience of the gamer rage, whether they have raged only once or if they rage every day. If you play video games a lot, you’re bound to get angry, especially if it’s a competitive video game. The rage is unlike any other type of rage because you’re not mad at the world or anyone around you, you’re mad at how difficult is it to succeed a goal in that game. But that urge to succeed is what keeps you playing the game, and that’s what I like about video games. They gave me the determination that I have today.

I remember one time when I was playing NBA 2K17 with my friends and we were playing against some people online in MyPark. We kept it a contested game until the other team started destroying us off of screens and fast dribbling. My friends and I were mad, especially me because I absolutely hate screens on 2K. When the other team hit the winning shot, anger filled up inside of me. I was trying my hardest to control it, but it was overwhelming me. The people who won were talking their trash talk on the game chat yelling in everyone’s ears. I got up and yelled back at them and kicked the office chair I was sitting on. Right before their mics cut out, I heard “Run it back then, come back around!” from the people who beat me. I was furious when I heard that. My mom yelled at me to get off the game but I refused. I wanted to go around and beat those guys because I lost. So that’s exactly what I did, and by doing that my team and I won and they left the park. Playing video games showed to me that if you try hard enough, you can achieve your goals. Even though sometimes I don’t try my hardest in school, I do try my hardest when I want to do something I’m passionate about, specifically video games. I feel forced to go to school and I don’t mean to say that in an offensive way, I just do. However, when I play video games that feeling is not there. It’s enjoyable while providing a challenge for me. For some games, I have to carefully strategize how to complete a challenge. Others games can be easy and does not require much thinking. Either way, I enjoy playing video games and they have influenced me in an important way.

All my life I grew up in a Allentown rice and bean making environment. My family always goes  to my great grandma's house  and the smell of rice and beans just lures you in. I use my Spanish One  knowledge and a little bit of the spanish I  speak at home,  to communicate with my mama because like me,  she only knows one language. I know English and she knows Spanish. I never knew the importance of speaking spanish. I doesn’t understand and not knowing something or ignorance is terrible especially when it’s your own culture and race.  

When my family moved to Philly when I was younger all  my friends were African american . I just adapted to that way of life , so I felt more connected with one side of my race.I didn’t learn about my race until I got a lot older. I believe the friends you are around will shape you into who you are  and vice versa.Then, when I was younger , I moved to Carlisle because my mom went to get her law degree for three years. The majority of my friends were Caucasian, and because of that, I slowly began to lose my roots. I started acting like my friends until I was discriminated for it.  That would be like a wake up call.

“ Hey Zeyah”

“Wsp Aaron”

Outta nowhere Aaron licked my face

“ Yooo why did you do that”

“ You black so I wanted to see if you tasted like chocolate”

( Zeyah Runs off to the office)

When I moved to Philadelphia,I attended M.C.S. located on Spring Garden,with the majority of students were black, and I began to transform. For example when I was in Carlisle, I listen to more Pop and songs on the radio, but Philadelphia was trendy with Hip-hop. I started admiring hip-hop more,  and starting adapting to Philly slang and I had to get tougher. The only problem was my school had a astonishing Social Studies class but it didn’t have a Spanish class where I could  learn. I didn’t mind it as much until , I wanted some more food and my mama who her only language is  spanish couldn’t  understand me

Not speaking Spanish when your Spanish is terrible.You can’t even have a simple conversation with your own family.  Everywhere I go they start speaking the language and I just have to shake my head.

“No se”

It’s frustrating especially when other hispanics come at you for it. One day I was meeting new people and I met some spanish girl at school.

“Hey”

“Hey”

“What are you?”

“ Puerto Rican, Dominican, Black”

“ *starts speaking spanish*”

“ uhhh...I’m currently learning on Rosetta right now.”

I make up little slick excuses so I don’t look as bad. I say things wrong to like the pronunciations of different foods or just regular words because I had little practice in saying these words.I say if you learn as a baby you will know more because babies soak up more than when you grow up learning. Even though I struggle with the language.

Even though I struggle with the language, I still love my culture and  never will forget my roots. Through my eyes this system is very important because this is you your personality and your traits.  I love everything about my cultures I can relate to so many people since I’m half and half. Everything to Malcolm X and Collard Greens to pastelillos de arroz y frijoles. My family embraces their culture too. We love dancing at parties and just being ourselves. My mom introduced me to Mark Anthony which is my favorite spanish artist right now. Currently I'm still learning but the instruments and the beats in which  makes you want to dance. All I do is dance like in the Dominican Republic where they are very proud to be spanish. I learnt some words there but everything was so culturally based the people dancing Salsa and Meringue until sun up until sundown.  I often hang out with both of my families on my dad's side and on my mom’s side. My mom’s side is spanish and my dad’s side is black. I hang out more with my dad’s side now because they live closer, when I’m there I eat more cornbread, fried chicken, and white rice My spanish family eats more fried plantains,  pastelillos, and rice and beans I do see sometime a mix though in cultures which I love seeing. We eat these foods like at get togethers.

Misjudged

All my life, I have been judged based on how I look. People assume that I am white because my skin tone is white. When I tell them that I am not, they can start to see how I do not look as white as they thought. They look deeper than my skin color and see features of me that they do not recognize as white. For example, my nose is very arab looking, It is long and round at the end. My hair is also very thick and dark. Does having green eyes and light skin make me look less Arab? Arab people have an olive toned skin color but it is still light skin. So I ask myself what part of how I look hides the Arab looking features?

It was the first day of freshman year and I walked through the crowded cafe in my school where it was loud and chaotic. There were people all running around trying to find their classes. I started to search for my room too. I finally found it- room 301, it was the art room. The other students and I that were waiting to go into the class walked into the room. We all sat in random seats because almost no one knew each other. There were so many new faces and people to take in and names to remember. The walls were covered with windows and you could see the busy streets below. I liked this room, it was a very free and open space, it left a lot of room for imagination and creativity. When class started, we were told that we would have to work in groups of two and draw a picture of someone else’s clothing item or anything that they had on them. I turned to the boy next to me. He had dark brown hair and olive toned skin.

We simultaneously asked, “Do you want to be my partner?”

We both laughed at the timing of our question, and then we introduced ourselves.

“My name is Amani.”

His name was Naseem. As I was talking to him, I noticed that he had a hat that had an embroidered Palestinian flag on it. It was black which made the green, red, and white colors of the flag stand out.

I immediately asked, “Are you Palestinian?”

My smile reached from ear to ear. I have never met someone that is my age and is my ethnicity.

“Yeah, my mom and dad are both from there,” He said. “Why?”

“I am Palestinian too! My dad grew up in Ramallah (a city in Palestine).”

We were both smiling now, but he found it hard to believe that I was Arab. I started to get annoyed, as if I would purposely lie about my ethnicity . Why did he not believe me? I continued to try to convince him. I spoke a few words in Arabic, like hello how are you, to prove to him that I am indeed Arab.

“You look so white though! I still can not believe that you’re Arab.”

After all this he still would not have been able to tell that I was Arab if i did not tell him. I was relieved that he finally believed me. I automatically felt close to him even tho we just met.

This happens to me very often where I have to prove myself as not white. When someone tells me I look white, I get offended even though I am partly white. It makes me feel closer to the part of myself that is Palestinian and the culture that goes along with it. It gets very annoying when people point out that I do not look like my ethnicity. I can not change what I look like. I wish my ethnicity could be recognized more clearly before people start to judge me. Ethnicity is a complicated thing because your appearance can deceive what people think about where you are from. After going through these experiences it made me realize how easily people can misjudge based on something that person can not change, their appearance.

All my life I grew up in a Allentown rice and bean making environment. My family always goes  to my great grandma's house  and the smell of rice and beans just lures you in. I use my Spanish One  knowledge and a little bit of the spanish I  speak at home,  to communicate with my mama because like me,  she only knows one language. I know English and she knows Spanish. I never knew the importance of speaking spanish. I doesn’t understand and not knowing something or ignorance is terrible especially when it’s your own culture and race.  

When my family moved to Philly when I was younger all  my friends were African american . I just adapted to that way of life , so I felt more connected with one side of my race.I didn’t learn about my race until I got a lot older. I believe the friends you are around will shape you into who you are  and vice versa.Then, when I was younger , I moved to Carlisle because my mom went to get her law degree for three years. The majority of my friends were Caucasian, and because of that, I slowly began to lose my roots. I started acting like my friends until I was discriminated for it.  That would be like a wake up call.

“ Hey Zeyah”

“Wsp Aaron” lllllll/lll

Outta nowhere I Aaron licked my face

“ Yooo why did you do that”

“ You black so I wanted to see if you tasted like chocolate”

( Zeyah Runs off to the office)

When I moved to Philadelphia,I attended M.C.S. located on Spring Garden,with the majority of students were black, and I began to transform. For example when I was in Carlisle, I listen to more Pop and songs on the radio, but Philadelphia was trendy with Hip-hop. I started admiring hip-hop more,  and starting adapting to Philly slang and I had to get tougher. The only problem was my school had a astonishing Social Studies class but it didn’t have a Spanish class where I could  learn. I didn’t mind it as much until , I wanted some more food and my mama who her only language is  spanish couldn’t  understand me

Not speaking Spanish when your Spanish is terrible.You can’t even have a simple conversation with your own family.  Everywhere I go they start speaking the language and I just have to shake my head.

“No se”

It’s frustrating especially when other hispanics come at you for it. One day I was meeting new people and I met some spanish girl at school.

“Hey”

“Hey”

“What are you?”

“ Puerto Rican, Dominican, Black”

“ *starts speaking spanish*”

“ uhhh...I’m currently learning on Rosetta right now.”

I make up little slick excuses so I don’t look as bad. I say things wrong to like the pronunciations of different foods or just regular words because I had little practice in saying these words.I say if you learn as a baby you will know more because babies soak up more than when you grow up learning. Even though I struggle with the language.

Even though I struggle with the language, I still love my culture and  never will forget my roots. Through my eyes this system is very important because this is you your personality and your traits.  I love everything about my cultures I can relate to so many people since I’m half and half. Everything to Malcolm X and Collard Greens to pastelillos de arroz y frijoles. My family embraces their culture too. We love dancing at parties and just being ourselves. My mom introduced me to Mark Anthony which is my favorite spanish artist right now. Currently I'm still learning but the instruments and the beats in which  makes you want to dance. All I do is dance like in the Dominican Republic where they are very proud to be spanish. I learnt some words there but everything was so culturally based the people dancing Salsa and Meringue until sun up until sundown.  I often hang out with both of my families on my dad's side and on my mom’s side. My mom’s side is spanish and my dad’s side is black. I hang out more with my dad’s side now because they live closer, when I’m there I eat more cornbread, fried chicken, and white rice My spanish family eats more fried plantains,  pastelillos, and rice and beans I do see sometime a mix though in cultures which I love seeing. We eat these foods like at get togethers.

Before I found out out about my adoption, I never  thought about being adopted and never cared. There was a time that someone asked me if I wanted to be adopted, it was when I was about 7 or 8 years old. Most of the kids living at the orphanage in Beijing, including myself were on a field trip or something like a vacation one day.  On the trip I was invited to a room where the walls were decorated with trees and bamboo. Inside were at 2 people. One of the person were chinese, and the other was a foreigner. I sat on one of the two benches in the room, and then they asked me to draw a person, so I drew. When I was finished, they commented on the way that I drew the person.

“ Look he even drew the neck,” one of them said to the other in amazement. After that they asked me if I wanted to be adopted and I said no to them, so then I went back with the other children. I was happy with my life and didn’t want to leave all of my friends.

I waited about three years, so when I was about 9 or 10 before I considered the idea of adoption when my close friends were being adopted. I waited  a month before I got introduced to my new found parents.

That same day someone at the orphanage took me into a room where I was introduced to two foreigners sitting  and signing a paper. As I walked into the room they looked up and smiled at me,  someone then told me to hug them, I was scared to do so but I still did it anyway. I went up to my mother first and hugged her and said “I love you” in English and I did this because I wanted to show appreciation to them, then I went to what is now my ex-father and did the same thing to him. As we were leaving the orphanage I was holding my tears back. What would happen to my friends still at the orphanage? Would I ever be able to see them again?  

Later at Hong Kong we stayed at the airport and waited a couple of hours for our plane to America. On the plane we watched a movie and played video games for most of the ride. Then I went to sleep for a little bit and woke up to the darkness of the Philadelphia Airport. Then we saw my family waiting by a van to pick us up.

On my first day in Philadelphia I was introduced to my mother’s family. I remember that I was very nervous to meet them. But I got through that part very easily, the difficult part is next. When the family started to ask questions I couldn’t understand anything and all I did was sitting there and staring them.

A couple of day later my mom told me about my friends and how they were also being adopted. I wanted to talk to them, so I asked.

“Can I speak to my friends?” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” my mom said.

Then the next day she put one of my friend on Skype and told to talk to them. Whenever I saw her I got very happy, because she was a very good friend and her name is Alexis. We were talking in Chinese when we talked, but I was embarrassed because my mom was listening. Then I asked Alexis about my best friend Andy.

“Do you know Andy’s Skype?” I said.

“No,” she said.

At that moment I was disappointed, but then I turned to my mom and asked her the same question.

“Yes,” she said.

After that I kept talking to Alexis, and we told each other what happened in our adoptions. She told me what happened to my friends at the orphanage,

“Some of them were also adopted and some are still there” she said

Then after I finished talking to Alexis I called Andy. I was overly excited to see him. When he picked up I started to speak.

“Hi, how are you?” I said.

“Good, how about you?” Andy answered.

“Amazing!”

Then we just went back and forth asking each other question for a couple of hours. I told him everything that happened, EVERYTHING. Then we had to depart from each other, but I was still very happy. For the next couple of months Alexis, Andy, and myself called each other every week.

For me adoption meant a new life and new opportunities. This experience help me understand that life could be great if we choose to help others, as my parents helped me to be happy. I hope I get to help someone to be happy like I was then and now. With my friends I am happy that I get to see some of them again but to I still miss Beijing, which still have some of my close friends within it.

I Am Fifteen Years Old

My friend lives 13 miles away from my house. I take four different public transportation lines to get there. Over this hour-long trip, I see new people of all ages ranging from about 10 to 50 years old who take Septa daily, like me. Nine out of ten times, men assume that I am a lot older than I am based on my appearance. They say my dark long hair and makeup makes me physically look older. My tight fitting clothes make me look more flattering which can come off as grown. My straight posture and focused but kind facial expressions make me look mature. I’m only fifteen but men are ignorant.

This one day was a terrible day to go to my friend’s house. Because I didn’t want to spend $2.50 on the bus, I decided to walk to the subway. As I walked along Oregon, a small white Honda filled with college boys honked at me. “Hey sexy lady, why don’t you come in the car with us?” yelled a scrub in the passenger side but then drove off in a rush. I paid them no mind like I usually do when this happens. I didn’t think a tank top and ripped jeans was showy compared to my other outfits.

“Mmhhh, you looking real good there sweetheart,” a 40 year old man says as his eyes followed me slowly trying to take me in. I focused myself towards the subway entrance and ignored the very annoying perverted man. At the time, I wondered if he would still have said that if he knew I was only in my first year of highschool.

I skipped down the flight of stairs only to be glared at by strangers. The subway pulls up and I always go for the middle carts. The moment the doors opened up at Snyder, I could sense this man’s attention locked on me. He settled himself across from me. I just stared down at my feet and then looked up to catch glimpses of this man gazing at me. He was obviously lost in his thoughts. I wondered if would he still be imagining things involving me if he knew I was fifteen? I waited for the subway to fully stop before getting up to prevent myself from falling. I could see that he looked surprised when this was my stop and proceeded to look at me until the subway moved on.

Hundreds of people shifted themselves into the tiny staircase of Exit 3. When I get to the top, I take a right and go straight until I get to the other staircase. From there, I go all the way up and then take a left to the end and then another left to go down the staircase. Here, I stood against a pole as I waited for the next L to come. A group of people from the southbound BSL came flowing in. A short man, around in his thirties, stands beside me. We remained in silence for about a minute until he complimented my hair.

“Thank you,” I smiled politely.

He continued to talk about his mother and his tattoos. Basically anything to keep my attention to hit on me. I attempted so many times to end our conversation. That day, the L decided to take it’s precious time getting to me. It’s like everything that day wanted to make me suffer. When the L rolled up, the man asked me where I was going. I told him that I’m on my way to school. He then questioned what college do I go to and I told him I was a freshman.

“A freshman in college?” he asked.

I responded, “No, in high school.”

“Wait so how old are you?” he said surprisingly.

“15.”

“Oh my gosh! I thought you were 21 or 22. You look so much older like I thought you were an adult.” He awkwardly said his goodbyes and parted ways.  

I can’t blame people for what they think of me. This society is stuck on what a “older” female should look like. But I’m not trying to look older and I don’t do it for attention. I have a passion for fashion and my style is popularly shared among older women. The way I speak can also make people believe that I’m older because I’m not afraid to speak out and I have manners. Kids are usually rude and wild so older men wouldn’t try to approach them. The idea of what’s right and wrong for young and old people is so broad and controversial that we should just do what fulfills our own happiness. But the intentions of naive men shouldn’t have to get in my way of doing me.

“Mayah!” my mom scream-whispered.

“What?” I replied. I then sat back and sighed.

“You didn’t shave your armpits in the shower,” she hissed at me.

Somehow, I knew this argument was coming.

“Yeah I know. I didn’t want to,” I replied.  

“Mayah, we’ve talked about this. There are just some things you do as a lady. Shaving your arms is one of those things. People see you out without your underarms shaved and they judge you. Just… please do it next time you shower,”

To her, that was end of discussion. But I wasn’t accepting that.

“No mom. If I, me, personally, want to shave my armpits, I will. And mom what even is the definition of ladylike? That seriously comes from a time where society told women how to dress. So you’re doing that. Congratulations,” I said, clearly embarrassing her with my tone and frustration.

I could see her eyes become irritated, like this was not the argument she wanted to be having, because she didn't think it needed to happen. But I wasn’t giving up on what she thought, so I pressed her, just not at that moment. She let it go, rolling her eyes at me in the process.

We finished the manicure, and left to go home. Neither of us continued the argument, so it was dropped.

This conversation is always in the back of my mind when talking about my body hair with her. Since then we have had the same dispute over and over, both of us always saying the same thing as before. I don’t see her side, and she doesn’t see mine.

I remember the first time I had ever shaved my underarms. I wasn’t even the one to do it. My mom said I had to start, and that it was something I had to learn to begin to do as a growing young lady. I was terrified she would take the razor and cut me by accident, which would lead to me excessively bleeding. (As you can see I was a very overdramatic scared 12 year old.) We were in our bathroom, and she had me raise my arm, put some water on it, and stay still. To this day I still hate shaving my armpits. No matter how much shaving cream, soap, or water, it always makes me feel like I am going to accidentally hurt myself. And I can describe it as nails on a chalk board. However, I still do it to this day for one of two reasons. One being I like raising my arms when wearing a sleeveless top and being a smooth goddess. But the more serious reason is that I still have a problem with what other people think of me. I do it so people don’t look at me and say, “Ew what is she doing.” This is what society has said and done to women. Young adults, even in this evolving generation and society. I am shamed more than I want to admit, and it pisses me off that this is the society I live in. That I am judged for what hair is on my body.

I don’t only feel judged by my own mother on this issue, but most of society. So many people say women can dress however they wanted that they’ll support them. But that is only half true. When it comes to body hair, there is still some double standard to that. How society doesn’t question why men don’t save their legs, arms, or facial hair, but women are called gross or unappealing if we don’t shave everything. Lastly, the fact that I am even uncomfortable typing the word ‘armpit’ over and over truly shows how much society has put women into this box of feeling ashamed of our bodies.