7

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

Read more at michigandaily.com

Read more at michigandaily.com

