AYAH NAJARBASHI
Female Rage
“I am beautiful,” she says to the world, though the denial pierces her heart like a dagger. She knows she is wrong, even as the world responds, You are ugly. This is beauty, it says, bombarding her with actresses in romance movies, their figures perfect hourglasses. Hounding her with advertisements of the fifty-dollar serum needed for the poreless, pale skin every girl desires. Repainting her ethnic features and colours with dozens of filters every time she takes a photo, whispering, if only you looked like this. If only you looked perfect.
Every ounce of her confidence is stamped, leaving only a chasm in its place for the world to fill with its messages.
“I am ugly,” she tries again, and the world gasps.
“How could you say such a thing?” it asks. “The actress is just really good at her job, don’t you know? The creams are just for hygiene, don’t you know? Filters are just for fun, don’t you know? Everyone is beautiful; your too-short frame and too-wide nose and too-plump arms are perfect the way they are.” The world fixes its warning gaze onto her. “We never said anything different—you’re just seeking attention.”
She learns her lesson.
She keeps quiet.
But the princesses in all her favourite cartoons, the heroines in her loved books, the singers of her saved songs—they all look the way the world says they should: skinny yet also curvy with wavy yet not too wavy hair and plump but not too plump lips. These are the girls that have worth, it says. And you don’t.
She learns her lesson.
The chasm in her brims, threatening to overflow.
Concealers, contours, and blushes—the world thrusts them into her hands. “It’s just a fun hobby,” it says, and the assurance becomes her shield.
Cameras—the ones that capture her ethnic nose, her tan skin and hairy arms—become her tormentors, and insecurity becomes the black fires of her shadow. Because if she does not look pretty, then what is her value, really? Day after day, she hears, she listens, and she obeys the world. She accepts that the only way to have any reason to exist as a girl is to be beautiful.
And when the world asks her why she does not hold herself higher, why the chasm inside her won’t let society fill it further, she finally snaps. The flames of her insecurity consume her, igniting a rage in her spirit.
“Because I am ugly!” she shouts. She sees it every time she risks a glance into the mirror. Her acne scars are not the speckles of a ladybug on her skin. Her dark circles are not onyx gemstones around her eyes. Her belly rolls are not the waves of a tide coming in. They are imperfections.
They are imperfections, but what human has none? she wonders. Why must all imperfections be perfect?
She is not beautiful, she tells herself. But what is beauty, if not simply another trait out of the many that women possess? Not all girls are athletic, not all girls are adventurous, so why must all girls be beautiful? In a world where attractiveness is worth, the opposite of beauty cannot be ugliness, but confidence. For how can an ugly girl like her make it through society if she does not have either one?
She learns her lesson.
She lets the inferno of her rage, the riot in her soul, spread to the poison in her chasm. The poison does not evaporate anywhere near quickly, but she would rather fight it for a thousand years than let the world tell her how much she is worth again.
She lets her fury coax back an old friend, one society had cut her from long ago: confidence.
She is not beautiful, she tells herself, and enters the world with a smile. Not in spite of her body and features, not with the knowledge that she is perfect how she is. But that she is ugly and imperfect and her value is fixed. Her ugliness does not negate her worth, nor her pride.
Female rage is ugly, the world scolds her.
I am ugly, she rages, and what are you going to do about it?
Born and raised in Toronto, Canada, Ayah Najarbashi’s passion for writing has been the calling that gets her through her AP Chemistry homework and chores. Her work has been previously published in magazines such as SeaGlass Lit and Stripes Magazine, and she’s currently editing the millionth draft of her latest WIP, surrounded by empty cups of water, coffee, and library books.