For as long as I can remember, I
have always been fat. For me, self-
love could never be a matter of
“you’re not fat” or “it’s all in your
head” because through my daily
interactions with other people,
I’m often reminded that others
see me as fat even when they mean
well and especially when they
don’t. As such, I had no choice
but to confront fatness itself and
accept myself as I was. However,
loving my body was much easier
said than done, because fatphobia
is so ingrained in society that
unconscious
bias
is
accepted
as reasonable and almost never
challenged.
When I was a young teenager,
I sunk many hours into scrolling
through
Tumblr
and
my
Instagram explore page (that
exclusively consisted of reposts
from Tumblr) in order to find some
sort of inspiration to love myself.
While I waded through a flood of
posts, I saw countless variations of
“you have to love yourself before
you can love someone else.” At the
time, I didn’t think critically about
these statements. They promoted
self-love, which I recognized as a
good thing even if I didn’t really
know what that was supposed
to mean to me personally. Yet
reading these quotes never left
me feeling inspired to solve my
internal problems. At the time,
they all sounded as if they were
trying harder to sound deep
than to actually be insightful.
None of them helped me reflect
on my approach to self-love, or
even define what self-love is. I
was drowning in this ocean of
insecurity, and all these vague
quotes
were
like
defective
liferafts. Now that I’m revisiting
these quotes, I’m honestly glad
that I didn’t really pay attention
to them before, because I think
they’re not only unproductive but
wrong. I know many people who
do not love themselves but have
developed healthy relationships;
is their love invalid? If I have only
ever given “fake” love, then what
is “real” love? How can I love
myself when I’ve apparently been
doing it wrong for my whole life?
The sentiment behind this quote
may be pure, but its language is
unproductive at best and harmful
at worst.
Several years later, I watched
Lizzo’s NPR Tinydesk concert
from 2019, and at the end of her
performance she said, “If you can
love me, you can love yourselves
too.” Her wording sounded so
similar to the numerous self-
love statements I’ve read before,
but she inverts it. Her rhetoric
doesn’t imply that an insecure
person is devoid or incapable of
love; love, rather, is just hiding
inside of ourselves. She’s telling
us that precisely because we have
so much love for others, we have
the capacity to extend that love to
ourselves.
When I first saw Lizzo and
started listening to her music, I
greatly admired her because I was
so insecure. Even though I didn’t
discover her Tinydesk concert
until rather recently, I think I
coincidentally followed her advice
anyway. Compared to other self-
love affirmations, I think Lizzo’s
quote is the most productive and
actionable. By identifying the
things I love about other people,
I could develop the same qualities
for myself. Lizzo is gorgeous, and
I realized that if I could see her
for her beauty, I could see myself
as beautiful too.
I’ve realized that self-love is not
merely the absence of sadness, but
rather an endless pursuit of fully
actualized potential. While I may
love myself on a physical level, I’m
realizing that I could be working
to improve my confidence in other
areas of my life. However, I strive
to improve, not because I hate my
current self, but rather because I
love myself and want to see myself
achieve my full potential. I know
that even if I’m not perfect, I am
still worthy of love.
6
Thursday, May 27, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Living as the exception
Cuz I love you
ANDREW NAKAMURA
MiC Columnist
Design by Marina Sun
MICHIGAN IN COLOR
Every so often I hear about
Hazaras
in
Afghanistan.
I
just did last week — it was
mostly children who died. I
remember how Khaled Hosseini
so beautifully and eloquently
painted
a
heartbreaking
picture of the recent history of
Afghanistan in his novel, “The
Kite Runner.” To this, students
at my high school analyzed
questions such as, “Why did
Hassan and Ammar get treated
so differently?” and, “What was
the basis of discrimination and
subjection for Hassan and his
family?”
Every so often, I hear about
a blast in Pakistan and, every
so often, I meet a family friend
whose uncle, cousin or sibling
was killed in these blasts. Just
yesterday, I found out about the
Gilgit massacre of Shia Muslims:
initiated over a difference in
Eid dates. I stared blankly at my
laptop screen wide-eyed, shocked
at the abhorrent events and
appalled that I just now heard
of them. When thinking about
the intra-religious persecution
of Shias, especially in my home
country of Pakistan, I think about
my privilege to freely practice my
Shiism here. But then I wonder:
Is it really freedom when yes, I
openly use a sajdiga for my daily
prayer, but still have to hear the
classic “Why do you pray on a
rock” joke? Is it really freedom
when I have to feign toleration
upon hearing Sunni Muslims say,
“We’re allowed to marry Jews
and Christians, just not Shias”?
Every so often when I hear the
news, I turn to the only method
of denoting solidarity in this
day and age: Instagram social
activism. This metric is by no
means indicative of genuity, but
it is telling enough in the sense
that many Muslims will post
about all social justice issues
— only until it comes to Shias.
Ironically, these are the same
Muslims who retweet, “When
it’s Muslims, the world is silent,”
as though oppression is even a
competition to begin with. For
me as a Shia and my best friend as
an Ahmadi, there’s another layer
to that silence; when it is us, even
fellow Muslims will be silent.
The sense of solidarity that every
so often arises among Muslims
is always amazing to see, but a
disquieting part of me feels like
an outsider looking in, knowing
that this same unity will never
be granted to persecuted Muslim
minorities.
Although
these
creeping
realities often surface, being in a
subgroup affords one the clarity
of noting not only hypocrisy, but
logical
inconsistencies.
When
you exist at the intersection of
multiple identities, it becomes
almost
a
habit
to
attempt
mentally checking off the boxes
when evaluating the validity
of activism: If advocating for
women’s rights, does it only center
white women? If uplifting Muslim
perspectives,
is
it
complicit
in silencing Shia and Ahmadi
voices? On the other hand, while
minority
communities
focus
on
marginalized
voices
that
are buried under these grander
narratives, they also dismiss
overarching
issues
such
as
sexism and racism that still arise
within these smaller spaces. Yet
at the same time, every so often
I’ll hear or read, “YOU CANNOT
BE PROGRESSIVE WITHOUT
SUPPORTING
_____.”
The
text is right — claiming to be
a progressive can’t stop where
discomfort begins. It can’t stop
at what was preached to you at
a Friday night khutba or who
your parents told you were kafir.
Muslim activism must push itself
beyond the bounds of looking
outwards. Sooner or later, our
“one ummah,” one community,
must begin looking inwards,
where so frequently, we commit
the same acts of abhorrent
oppression against each other
that we lament are inflicted onto
us.
This brings me to the tragedy
of Aya Hachem that occurred
in the spring of 2020. In what
was likely to have been a hate
crime, Aya was shot in the chest
and died at only 19 years old,
only one year into law school.
Immediately,
graphics
were
sprawled
throughout
social
media and donation links were
shared once news of the event
travelled. Then, a halt. In a
series of anxiety-riddled tweets,
Twitter
user
@humbleakh1
wrote, “I didn’t know she was a
Shia… no way do I want to be in
a situation where all this cause
could go against me on the Day of
Judgement.” The online Muslim
community had found out that
Aya was not merely Muslim, but
Shia Muslim, and that modifier
changed everything. Donations
were rescinded and fundraisers
were frozen — the predominantly
Sunni Muslims organizing and
donating wanted to rid their
hands of connections to the
Shia rafidis, “rejectors.” After
observing this discourse, I turned
to hear the thoughts of my own
Sunni friends, expecting a similar
sense of the seething anger I
had. In response, I got either
radio silence or the occasional
“Yeah, that really sucks.” It felt
like screaming into an abyss that
would awkwardly shuffle at my
volume, uncomfortable probably
more at its own complicity rather
than the situation at hand.
Read more at michigandaily.com
ELIYA IMTIAZ
MiC Columnist