Commenting Rule starting now:
No one’s allowed to comment and tell my how pretty I am.
I know I’m darling, etc., so just skip this part and think about yourself in this context.
I’m not fishing for compliments, just sharing what’s goin’ on. Thanks. :)]
No one’s allowed to comment and tell my how pretty I am.
I know I’m darling, etc., so just skip this part and think about yourself in this context.
I’m not fishing for compliments, just sharing what’s goin’ on. Thanks. :)]
I want to tell you a little secret: I have never thought of myself as being a pretty girl.
But then I came to the Middle East.
And it was here that all my suspicions were confirmed. Exponentially.
Every day I am surrounded by these gorgeous women, with olive skin and long, dark, luscious hair. Their eyebrows are amazing and face-framing, and their usually dark eyes sparkling beneath their ridiculous eyelashes are really just to die for. They can do this belly dancing stuff, where they, like, detach their rib cages and hips from their vertebrae, as they move for hours without tiring. [I can last about 4 seconds and then grow too self-conscious.] There’s this yelping celebratory call that they do… [I’ve had to practice it and still only get it about one out of three times.] They have an eye for the aesthetic, and can put outfits, accessories, makeup and hijabs together like I’ve never seen. They are always, always, always dressed up more than me, with full makeup and hair done. I’ve never seen any of them a mess. And then there’s just the confidence that they exude—can you tell I’m jealous and insecure yet?
But then I came to the Middle East.
And it was here that all my suspicions were confirmed. Exponentially.
Every day I am surrounded by these gorgeous women, with olive skin and long, dark, luscious hair. Their eyebrows are amazing and face-framing, and their usually dark eyes sparkling beneath their ridiculous eyelashes are really just to die for. They can do this belly dancing stuff, where they, like, detach their rib cages and hips from their vertebrae, as they move for hours without tiring. [I can last about 4 seconds and then grow too self-conscious.] There’s this yelping celebratory call that they do… [I’ve had to practice it and still only get it about one out of three times.] They have an eye for the aesthetic, and can put outfits, accessories, makeup and hijabs together like I’ve never seen. They are always, always, always dressed up more than me, with full makeup and hair done. I’ve never seen any of them a mess. And then there’s just the confidence that they exude—can you tell I’m jealous and insecure yet?And so, everyday as I’m faced with their sheer beauty, they… get to look at me.
The thrown-together American who’s, some days, just surviving.
The thrown-together American who’s, some days, just surviving.
I told some of my friends one day that I wanted to dye my hair black.
An unprecedented cry rang out through my office:
“Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!
Don’t you TOUCH your hair color! It’s perfect.
Don’t you realize that it’s the exact shade… shades… we want?!
We’ll kill you if you dye your hair. Absolutely kill you.”
[I believe them.]
Four or five of them swarmed me,
yanking my hair in opposite directions to put it over their own faces,
discussing, in rapid-fire Arabic, what color they would want as their own.
While I was only half joking [I really did want to dye my hair darker],
I was surprised by this flattery.
I didn’t know they liked something, anything, about my appearance.
And then, to add to my surprise, they started bathing me in compliments.
[Well, not directed at me, just about me. But I’ll take what I can get.]
They started talking about my eyes, skin color,
“bone structure” [can you really see it in my face??],
dimples, smile, teeth.
[They’re concerned about my eyebrows, though. That makes 10 of us.]
I was in shock.
This whole time I was feeling like an inadequate, ugly duckling
among these voluptuous, confident swans.
I was sincerely feeling bad for the woman I sit directly across from every day.
She has to stare me in the face.
This has really started me thinking.
About how we always want what we can’t have.
But even more than that: how just being different is beautiful.
To them, I’m the exotic American girl, “Shagra” [blondie],
who they’ve started dressing because I was wearing things like…
the yellow dress outfit… because I just don’t care.
But when I try to look like them, I get scolded because I’m abandoning or trying to alter the things that make me beautiful—
to them.
Recently, one of my friends got a whole head full of blonde highlights.
When I saw her, I said the necessary hair-change comments.
She asked me if I liked it and I told her “No.”
"Ya, Sarah!!! Whhhhyyyy???? It’s like YOU!!”
And I told her, “I don’t want you to look like me, I want you to look like you.
You’re much more beautiful in that way.
But don’t worry—you can have him change it back, no problem.”
She was disappointed with this answer.
But later, she walked back in, as the original Lubna.
I congratulated and praised her 10 times over.
And so goes the struggle
to assimilate and acculturate yourself,
in appearance and behavior.
My friends love teaching me
to dance like them, wrap a hijab or sing in Arabic.
But they really despise when I try to make alterations to myself.
Every day, every encounter is a little bit of a test.
How “American” should I be in this context?
Should I celebrate my way or theirs?
Should I fix my hair the way I like it, or the dumb way they like it?
When I’m just being myself, in the midst of their language and culture,
they find me the most beautiful.
And, ironically, I do, too.
An unprecedented cry rang out through my office:
“Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!
Don’t you TOUCH your hair color! It’s perfect.
Don’t you realize that it’s the exact shade… shades… we want?!
We’ll kill you if you dye your hair. Absolutely kill you.”
[I believe them.]
Four or five of them swarmed me,
yanking my hair in opposite directions to put it over their own faces,
discussing, in rapid-fire Arabic, what color they would want as their own.
While I was only half joking [I really did want to dye my hair darker],
I was surprised by this flattery.
I didn’t know they liked something, anything, about my appearance.
And then, to add to my surprise, they started bathing me in compliments.
[Well, not directed at me, just about me. But I’ll take what I can get.]
They started talking about my eyes, skin color,
“bone structure” [can you really see it in my face??],
dimples, smile, teeth.
[They’re concerned about my eyebrows, though. That makes 10 of us.]
I was in shock.
This whole time I was feeling like an inadequate, ugly duckling
among these voluptuous, confident swans.
I was sincerely feeling bad for the woman I sit directly across from every day.
She has to stare me in the face.
This has really started me thinking.
About how we always want what we can’t have.
But even more than that: how just being different is beautiful.
To them, I’m the exotic American girl, “Shagra” [blondie],
who they’ve started dressing because I was wearing things like…
the yellow dress outfit… because I just don’t care.
But when I try to look like them, I get scolded because I’m abandoning or trying to alter the things that make me beautiful—
to them.
Recently, one of my friends got a whole head full of blonde highlights.
When I saw her, I said the necessary hair-change comments.
She asked me if I liked it and I told her “No.”
"Ya, Sarah!!! Whhhhyyyy???? It’s like YOU!!”
And I told her, “I don’t want you to look like me, I want you to look like you.
You’re much more beautiful in that way.
But don’t worry—you can have him change it back, no problem.”
She was disappointed with this answer.
But later, she walked back in, as the original Lubna.
I congratulated and praised her 10 times over.
And so goes the struggle
to assimilate and acculturate yourself,
in appearance and behavior.
My friends love teaching me
to dance like them, wrap a hijab or sing in Arabic.
But they really despise when I try to make alterations to myself.Every day, every encounter is a little bit of a test.
How “American” should I be in this context?
Should I celebrate my way or theirs?
Should I fix my hair the way I like it, or the dumb way they like it?
When I’m just being myself, in the midst of their language and culture,
they find me the most beautiful.
And, ironically, I do, too. 
