Brown Girl is born during the peak of a meteor shower on a clear summer night.
Her first cries perfume the village air as the azaan echoes across the jungle canopy,
sewing its way into the fabric of her life.

Brown Girl is the first grandchild in her family so, naturally, Brown Girl is always made a fuss of.
Brown girl is showered in stories of a how a raja from a faraway land will arrive on his royal elephant, entourage in tow,
deck Brown girl in gold and jewels and the finest silk,
and whisk her away to places she can only dream of.

Brown Girl crosses continents, oceans, worlds…
and ends up on an alien planet with unfamiliar languages and porcelain people
who stare at Brown Girl’s cinnamon soaked skin as if it is something out of old worn out sepia photographs they’d seen in encyclopedias.
Brown Girl grows up, trying to call this place home.

Brown Girl’s aunties while away their time creating paper garlands of potential brown boy suitors,
roping them around her neck.
They take a step back.
Pull her chin towards them.
And admire the fruits of their practiced craftsmanship.

Brown boy suitors who stand gingerly against their mantelpieces being sure to make the most of their 5ft and 6 inches of masculinity.
Brown Girl is too brown for them.
Her skin hasn’t had enough time to be watered down by the acid rain of this foreign land to burn itself into the perfect shade of wife.
Brown Girl carries her wide hips, thick thighs and dark lips with too much confidence for their liking.
Her body didn’t take too well to being bent and warped out of its natural shape to please the eyes of those who still choose to have colonised minds.

Brown Girl realises – she will never be good enough for the raja her parents painted with their words.
But
Brown Girl also realises – rajas aren’t all that they’re cracked up to be.

Brown Girl discovers that love doesn’t always wear a crown or jewels or a silk sherwani.
Sometimes
he arrives outside London Bridge station on a bitter January evening, in a black trench coat, a woolly scarf that has seen more than a winter or two
and a smile, that feels like coming home.

Brown Girl’s love doesn’t pass laws from a throne room or declare war on foes. Instead,
he sings- sweet melodies into her heart, his notes tangle themselves with the verses of the azaan creating a new theme tune to her life.
He writes – of pain, of self-realisation, of things that could never be.
How Brown Girl dreams of being the words he breathes into life with the perfect twist of his tongue and the easy caress of his mouth.

Brown Girl was always taught that a woman’s grace lies in lowering her eyes and speaking only when she is spoken to before a man.
Yeah…
Brown Girl kinda forgot that memo when her love made love to her for the first time on his living room floor.
The intensity of innocence between two first timers blooming beneath each other’s touch cannot be contained in the fluttering lashes of a downcast gaze or a pregnant silence that hangs in the air.
Brown Girl…
came alive that night, in more ways than one.

Brown Girl’s love traces his fingers over every stretch mark and every scar,
mapping, memorising the constellations of her body
he never wants her to forget,
the infinite galaxies she carries with her.
His icy breath ignites the pigment in her skin like gunpowder until Brown Girl
finally
burns into life in the truest shade of love she has ever known.

Brown Girl used to look at this foreign planet through the underside of a glass bottom boat.
She knew exactly how it worked but her perspective was too alien for them.
But
Brown Girl’s love made this submarine she was drowning in feel like home.
He reminded her how to breathe even when her lungs had collapsed in on themselves because the only thing they were full with was…rejection.

And now as Brown Girl stares out into the city lights that replaced her meteor showers decades ago,
he kisses stars into the crook of her neck.

Brown Girl knows brown parents will never accept this titleless love she claimed for herself.

But
Brown Girl also knows that rajas and kingdoms come at too high a price in this strange place where brick and mortar demand a premium
while the legacy her ancestors left in her veins
can be bled out of her, simply in exchange for…acceptance.

Brown Girl’s love wants for nothing but her.
And as two souls finally welcome each other home,
the ripples in the river mix with the lights in the sky and dance in the pools of their eyes.
They taste the salt that finds its way to mouths that drink from each other. And
once again,
Brown Girl’s cries perfume the city air.
Only this time,
in celebration of a love that dared to be born.

[Read Related: All the Reasons for Why I want to Feel Beautiful]

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. 

By Orin Begum

Orin Begum is a corporate finance lawyer working in an international law firm in London, after having graduated with a … Read more ›

Photo by kittirat roekburi via Shutterstock.com

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.

[Read Related: The Emotional Roller Coaster of Getting Your Legs Waxed for the First Time]

Her

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

[Read Related: Finding Freedom from Gender Roles Through Poetry]

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.

By Kashvi Ramani

Kashvi Ramani is a writer, actress, songwriter, and singer from Northern Virginia. She has been writing songs, poetry, scripts, and … Read more ›

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.

By Varsha Panikar

Varsha Panikar (they/he) is a filmmaker, writer and multi-disciplinary artist from India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper, a … Read more ›

Photo by IndianFaces via Shutterstock.com

I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.

[Read Related: Connecting my Stories With Those of my mom and Grandma]

My Friend

The turbulent sea of a ticking clock,
A constant chime of chores
Unfolded laundry, unpaid bills.
For unplanned surprises, Life’s infinite stores

An achy neck, a heavy head,
A forever strong of burdens
Fleeting as they may be
Yet as real as my scribbling pens

In this world of lonely battles
Filled with competing souls
It’s you, my friend
Your comforting words, long strolls

Your phone calls, your laughter,
You listening when I’m remiss,
Your steady support,
The source of all my bliss.

[Read Related: 4 Brown Girls Who Write-U.K. Asian Sisterhood Changing the Dynamics of Poetry]

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.

By Mars D. Gill

Mars D. Gill is the author of "House of Milk and Cheese" and "Letters from the Queen". She writes mainstream … Read more ›