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Thursday, May 13, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR
The bitter gourd dances across
the sharp blade of a mandolin,
uniform slices falling from the
vegetable and landing silently on
the cutting board below. Its gator-
like, green skin flashes brightly
against the utensil’s yellow plastic.
With every stroke, the vegetable
gets smaller and smaller, until I
hold just the stubby stem in my
hand.
Karela, or bitter gourd in English,
is a controversial vegetable. Most
people don’t like its sour taste or
ragged exterior, but my siblings and
I love it — so did my grandfather. It
smells like clean water and eating
it makes my mouth pucker, but in a
good way. After frying in hot oil for
half an hour, the slices shrivel like
spinach and become crispy on the
outside but stay soft on the inside.
I love karela, but I hate the seeds.
They are more bitter than the
vegetable itself and are practically
pebble-like when cooked.
English is my second language.
Because of this, I didn’t learn how to
write properly or put my thoughts
into coherent English words until
the end of elementary school, and
even then I still struggled immensely.
Before moving from Urbana, Illinois
to Dearborn, Michigan, my brothers
and I were the only Arabs at my
elementary school. During first grade,
I would always beg my mama to stop
packing the wild thyme and olive oil
sandwiches she would wake up early
to make for me. Instead, I would ask for
a peanut butter grape jelly sandwich
(even though I hated the taste of
grape jelly) because I couldn’t find the
English words to explain the “green
oily stuff” to my classmates when I
took it out at lunch. When third grade
rolled around and classmates wanted
to have playdates with me, I pleaded
with my baba to take down the wheat
woven trays and calligraphy pieces
hung up on the walls of our home
and replace them with family picture
frames and “normal” paintings. At
school talent shows and science fairs,
I would inwardly cringe at my mama’s
broken English as she greeted my
friends and would quickly change the
subject at the mere sound of my baba’s
“Ana fakhour fiki.” I would have much
rathered the regular “I’m proud of
you’s” everyone else was receiving.
By the time I was a fifth grader, I
never fully understood the extent of
what I was giving up to fit in with my
classmates, not until I sauntered back
inside one summer night after picking
mint from my mama’s prized mini
herb garden, which reminded her of
home. The garden filled with aromatic
greens was complimented by all our
neighbors when she’d offer them the
fragrant samples. With her improved
yet still imperfect English, she’d
instruct, “Drink with tea” or “Sprinkle
on chicken” — all paired with her
pleased smile. Coming back into the
house, I found my parents resting as
my three brothers were throwing a
ball around the sacred guest living
room filled with priceless, fragile
pieces, each with a half-finished
mango drink on the table. My baba’s
cup of evening tea awaited the fresh
mint leaves I carried in my basket as
the sage we had dried and stored the
night before sank to the bottom of
my mama’s cup. My eyes scanned the
room and finally landed on my mama’s
as if asking “this must be huge if you’re
allowing Ali, Ahmed and Amin to step
foot into the precious guest room and
aimlessly toss a ball around as their
mango juice itches to be spilled.” Her
simple nod left me in a puzzled state,
but I went to wash the mint leaves.
Walking back with my own mango
drink, I handed my dad the mint. He
took a sip of his tea and dropped the
bomb: we were moving.
After the initial shock had passed
and many tear-filled conversations
with my mom, I eventually came to
accept the move. Packing the few
books I had into one of many boxes, I
could barely remember a thing about
my classmates or their lives for that
matter. “No one will miss me, they
won’t even know I left” I convinced
myself. Boy did I speak that one into
reality because on July 4, 2013, all
of my family’s life possessions were
packed into a UHAUL and we were on
our way to Michigan. I quickly came to
realize the beauty behind the madness
of uprooting and starting new as not a
“friend” came to say goodbye.
Three months later, as I arrived at
the steps of my new school for the first
time, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
My heart was racing as I walked
through the front doors. On my way
to my first class, the hallways were
bustling with noise and I could faintly
make out some Arabic greetings and
jokes in the process. Walking into my
math class, I was stunned, thinking,
They’re speaking Arabic in school?
Why would they do that — aren’t they
afraid people will make fun of them?
An assigned seat chart was taped to
the wall and I could see my name
near the back row, sitting next to a
girl whose name sounded Arabic too.
As a matter of fact, most of the kids in
my class were Arab themselves and
even though they didn’t know me like
their childhood friends, they were all
so funny and kind and welcoming.
From math to language arts to history
to science class, there were a plethora
of Arabic words casually being used.
Even some of the teachers slipped a
few in as they introduced themselves
and went over their syllabi.
My table partner didn’t show up
that first week because she was still
visiting her family overseas, but on the
day that she came back, I walked into
class to find “The Mark of Athena” on
my desk and “The Son of Neptune” on
hers. She apologized and stacked them
both on her desk, introducing herself
as Zeinab. I commented on how
carrying all that book weight probably
meant she had some serious muscle
gains and she laughed and told me all
about how much the “Percy Jackson
& the Olympians” series had changed
her life over the summer. She spent so
much time in Lebanon reading instead
of enjoying the scenery and food, that
her mother thought she was taking
summer classes. By lunch time, we
had figured out our schedules were
identical and she introduced me to her
friends. They were all on a different
point in the series, pleading with
Zeinab not to spoil the next book for
them. The shine in their eyes as they
discussed the contents of the series
with me, their descriptions laced with
the slightest hint of an enthralling life-
changing experience motivated me as
I skipped lunch with them to peruse
the school library’s odd assortment of
books. Excitedly, I checked out their
recommendation of the first book in
the series, “The Lightning Thief.” As
the end of the school day drew near,
Zeinab expressed how wonderful it
had been to meet me and how she was
looking forward to discussing more
about Percy Jackson tomorrow. On
my way home with my mama, I was
nearly jumping in my seat, happier
than ever. I proudly explained to my
mom in Arabic, I finally belonged.
I have been using makeup ever
since I was in fourth grade. In reality,
I did not have much of a choice since
my dance teacher required it for
our performances. My mother was
never a fan of this idea, but I didn’t
really mind it. I liked wearing it. I
would spend my free time watching
tutorials
and
reviews,
making
desperate
attempts
to
recreate
looks with the few products on my
mother’s vanity. It was only when I
entered high school that my mother
would let me buy my own makeup
instead of using hers.
Out of a sense of newfound
independence
and
excitement,
I started shopping for products
through websites and in stores.
I would spend hours browsing
through
each
foundation
and
concealer shade, reading off their
pretty names: Cloud, Swan, Snow,
Pearl, Porcelain, Seashell… But all
this did was disappoint me, since
none of these shades were even
remotely close to my brown skin. If
I wanted to get one that matched,
I had to walk through the dessert
aisle: Butter Pecan, Caramel, Praline,
Chai, Cocoa, Tiramisu, Ganache,
Truffle…
I was always annoyed that the
shades I had to choose from were
not as pretty and delicate as the
lighter shades. But, at the time, I did
not realize how problematic these
sweet-inspired names actually were.
The association of dark skin tones
with chocolate and other foods is so
normalized and deeply entrenched
in our society through makeup,
dating and daily conversations. Many
people find it flattering to compare
our skin to caramel or mocha, but it
is blatantly dehumanizing. And yes,
white skin is occasionally labeled
as white chocolate, but only when
the context includes brown or Black
people. These dessert based labels
were likely popularized as a way to
show people that brown and Black
skin can be beautiful, since they
resemble foods we crave so much.
But it has gone too far and reduced us
to just those labels. When I see these
names, I start to feel as if people
can only see me as beautiful if they
compare my skin to desserts. My
skin should not have to be compared
to food to be seen as attractive. It’s
attractive on its own.
This verbiage is dehumanizing
because it implies that dark-skinned
women are consumable products.
While lighter shades are marketed
as abstract and intangible, darker
shades are named after purchasable
items. All the shade names are also
unhealthy desserts that people
refer to as guilty pleasures. I felt
as though even if people liked my
skin color, the same people would
still feel embarrassed by it. These
shade names are a textbook example
of fetishization, reducing people
of color to merely their race and
its corresponding stereotypes. It
contributes to the idea that the
lives of people of color must center
around white people, implying that
whiteness is the norm and thus
dessert-based
comparables
are
necessary context for darker skin
tones. By reducing our skin color to
just something to be consumed, the
beauty industry is fetishizing us.
Karela
Small Town (Arab) Girl
The Dessert Aisle
SAFURA SYED
MiC Columnist
MARIAM ODEH
MiC Columnist
ROSHNI MOHAN
MiC Columnist
Design by Sarah Chung
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Read more at michigandaily.com