I made a questionable choice to lead a women’s liberation demonstration on my college campus after experiencing yet another incident of sexual harassment by male peers. I was tired of feeling objectified and helpless, and I had experienced sexual abuse a few times before, so this time I was ready to act. Thinking I would be safe from the scrutiny of my family and their traditional views of women, I participated in the event wholeheartedly and even allowed a friend to post a picture with me.
It turns out that the photo went viral and began circulating on social media, to the extent that my sisters in other states called to tell me they had seen it. Although they were in support of my activism, they were worried our parents would see the photo as well. After a few months, and no angry phone calls, I figured I was safe.
A year later on Halloween 2016, my sister called to tell me my parents had seen the photo and they were enraged. After carefully and safely living my double life, as many young South Asian women do, this event brought my two realities crashing together. Learning about my activism on my college campus called into question all aspects of my identity, and my parents lost their trust in me. This was not the daughter that they knew.
I also began to question who I was, what parts of my identity I wanted to celebrate, what my role was in my family, and the validity of living as whitewashed Minnie and culturally-appropriate Manmit. My parents were furious, and it took me a while to understand that anger was their manifestation of sadness, hurt, and betrayal. Anger was the only way they could express to me their pain. They asked me, why didn’t you just tell us? Why did we have to find out this way? I thought we were your family.
I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty for something I had been proud of for a year. Who was right and who was wrong? Who do I validate, myself or my parents who had built this life for me? Should I have just told them? I had become so comfortable with living my double life that the notion of allowing those two worlds to intersect in any way felt absurd, but now I was facing the consequences. While being a senior in college, and trying to maneuver my now very complicated relationships with my family, my friends at school, faculty, advisors and my self-perception, we were also preparing as a country to decide who would become our next leader. Election night was devastating for two reasons: We elected a misogynistic, racist president and immediately after I received a phone call informing me my father had experienced a stroke due to increased levels of stress.
Luckily he is healthy, and over Thanksgiving and winter breaks, I was able to repair my relationship with my parents. This event sent me on a journey to learn more about my cultural roots and inspired me to live a more authentic life in a white America in which I was no longer hiding behind a disguise of assimilation. I have learned to find strength and power in my name, and hope to continue exploring the intersectionality of my own identity.
i had painted a cat on to my other masks a bili painted on
minnie
painted on Manmit so long as Manmit stays hidden
i knew better after they took a bite out of me and decided it was too intense a flavor
my culture too rich the colors too bright the smell too strong the women too loving i was too much thought I was enough they drowned from my incense smothered sad they left sad they escaped Manmit was too much
minnie my new face
Are you sitting down?
i wasn’t
i felt the blood drain or rush either or it doesn’t matter
was my heart in my throat or my stomach? was it pounding or did it stop altogether?
not where it was supposed to be
not what it was supposed to do
well isn’t that new
Our parents saw the photo.
her voice is shaking it sounds like she’s going to cry or hasn’t cried enough
neither of us said anything for a while eyes closed body floating losing myself in the sensation until the words really hit i sink to the floor i should sit down
haunted her words his hands my thoughts the sounds
Aapne aap nu ki somajdiya?
who do i think i am?
objectified harassed assaulted too common too familiar too much
we marched outfaced the large crowd there to witness either in solidarity or for their viewing pleasure bare women’s bodies standing vulnerable demanding humanity
read the message on my bare body understand me accept me ask me the right questions
Tenu aiho cheez sakundeya?
is this what i’ve learned in school?
i supplied the masks providing choice for those who participated offered safety with anonymity last minute decision left my mask behind stood with them in silence Nothing to hide
Hoon tenu koon chaugaa? Sare dhooniya tenu dekay haata
who will want me now that the world has seen me bare
i am not an object
Tenu sharam ni oondi?
am i ashamed?
the minnie mask dissolved forced to confront Manmit on halloween night i’ll deal with this tomorrow i still have tonight come november the next battle i’ll fight
Tere daddy nu koch hogaya naa, teri galati ya.
if anything happens to him it’s my fault
he didn’t eat barely spoke red in the face pale as a ghost angry terrified too much minnie for my parents i was too much i wasn’t enough which one too much not enough how much minnie how much Manmit. will i ever be just enough
Mein tere naal ney gal karni. Baas.
they don’t want to speak to me they’ve had enough
i cannot be her. i have not been her. i don’t know who she is.
the country elects locker room talk and grabbing pussy over a woman i was asked again
Are you sitting down?
i wasn’t
she tells me the minnie he had discovered was too much my father had a stroke as a result of stress exposure to his perfect daughters dirty activism
halloween night we all paint new masks on top of existing ones that night mine were ripped from me only Manmit was left
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.
“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.
There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
February 1, 2023March 7, 2023 3min readBy Varsha Panikar
Photo Courtesy of Varsha Panikar
“After so Long” is a poetry film created for Simha’s EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. “After so Long” was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. “After so Long” premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.
This film is a worldwide collaboration among trans and queer south-Asian artists from the United States, India and Canada. It was recorded, shot and filmed during the lockdown of 2020 and 2021.
Jae:
Awake at 10 am but out of bed at noon,
I want to be here where I lose myself in these sheets
Glancing through half-shut eyes
At the gold pressing past my window
The glimmer remarks on the ledge of my bed
But the voices are so loud
Like dust collecting in the corner of my room
I am unaware to why I’m still here
With the chilling doubt of the breeze…
I’m swept into lucidity After so long
Dad:
Mil rahi hoon mein aaj iske saang barso baad,
(Today, I’ll be meeting them after so long)
Koi paata nahi diya tune
(But with no destination sight,)
Kya karu?
(What should I do?)
Kaha jau?
(Where should I go?)
Shayad agar mein chalne lagoon,
(Perhaps, if I keep walking)
Inn yaadon ki safar mein
(Down this road of memories)
Mujhe samajh mein ayega,
(I will find out)
Yeh rasta kahaan jayega,
(Where this road leads)
Inn aari tedhi pakadandiyon pe baarte hi jaana hai,
(Through the twists and turns of this winding roads, I must keep going on)
Mujhe mil na hain aaj uske saath,
(I wish to meet them today)
Barso baad.
(After so long)
Simha:
I feel like I’m retracing my footsteps
From these concrete stretches
To broken cement walls
Chips and cracks forge their way for new designs
I see the old abandoned buildings
That once held the warmth of bodies
Now just hold memories
Supporting the nature’s resilience
In vines and moss
After so long
Mom:
Dhoondli shishe mein jaaga leli hai
(These isty mirrors have offered refuge)
Bikhri hui laatao ne,
(To these scattered vines)
Zameen pe uchi ghaas pe
(Amidst the tall grass stretching from the ground)
Lehrati kamsan kaliyaa
(The swaying little buds)
Bheeni bheeni khushboo bikhereti
(Spreading honeysuckle scent through the air)
Phir wahi mausam,
(I lose myself in reminiscing, the same season)
Wahi dil,
(The same heart)
Baarso baad.
(After so long)
Phir bhi mein chal rahi hoon aaj
(Still, I keep carrying on today)
Khudko khudse milane ke liye
(In the pursuit of my higher self)
Inn galiyo se guzarna hain aaj
(I must pass through these streets today)
Chaalte chaale jaana hai aaj
(I must keep going on today)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor paar
(Someday, we’ll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor pe
(Someday, we’ll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:
“Social media rots kids’ brains.”
“Social media is polarizing.”
Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. “Her” personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing—much of what we hope to achieve isn’t even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of “Her,” strive for a reality that doesn’t even exist.
When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
“One Size Fits All” one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
“My body doesn’t take away from the beauty of yours”
“We are all equal, we are all beautiful”
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
“You need to be me”
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
“Stressed”
“Depressed”
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn’t pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn’t perfect
Just lost at sea
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
