💌 When did you realize you were a woman? 💌

A monologue

The person I see in the mirror keeps changing every time I look. Sometimes it’s something small– a hair out of place or an eyelash stuck to my cheek. And sometimes I see a wrinkle near my eye that wasn’t there yesterday. I see the purple galaxy under my eyes traveling deeper into space. Things sinking, things hollowing. Sharp edges and loose flesh. I see my mother staring back at me. And my grandmother. And the silent black and white photos around the house. When will I become a ghost? 

But no, no, no. The girl must still be there. The girl with sunny freckles playing in the sun. The girl who squints with laughter. The round, chubby face. The girl radiating with love, truth, and honesty. Is she there? I’m searching for her. Why does she hide from me? Is she hiding, or was she ripped away…ate away and thrown out. Confused in a country not made for her, so easy to lose in translation.

Now when I look in the mirror, I see a woman. I used to see a girl. When did that change? When did I notice that I was a–

When I was walking with my mother down the street, back in Iran when I was five or six…we were going shopping or something, running errands. At one point, walking, just the two of us, with my hand in hers, a group of construction men were walking in our direction. I didn’t think much of it, but then mom squeezed my hand a little tighter, dragged my small body a little closer to hers as they walked past us. They all looked at her, smiling, laughing, and said something with words I didn’t know but feelings I understood. I don’t remember much else but I do remember the feeling of fear traveling from her hand into mine that day. Leaving it there like a lump of sand. I felt fear heavy in my hands. Heavy. In my palms, the lump traveled up my arm, into my chest and throat. Filling my bones– And it’s never, not for a second, gone away since then. From that day on, I don’t see a girl, I see a woman. Womanhood and fear, that’s what I see.