accepting kindness from backstabbing mean brown girls and how they taught me to live fearlessly
how two faced bitches taught me love and desiring to live
It’s 11pm on a weekend and I’m at home. I had come back from a fun night out with friends and my jaw hurts from laughing too much but all I want to do is cry myself to sleep.
I stared at a thread of Instagram messages from someone I considered a friend, my cheeks stinging in embarrassment. My mind flashes back to a conversation I had as we walked toward her car.
“I’m so sorry that this happened,” my friend says. “She told me some nasty things about you. She said in her own words ‘I don’t want my sister to turn out like…Fabliha.’ There were some other gross things she said about you too.”
As she goes on to tell me what she had heard, everything around me goes silent until no words are coming out of her mouth. Her lips are still moving but I hear nothing, just my own heaving.
“I’m so sorry, Fab. Fuck her. She’s a loser. Fabliha? Did you hear me?”
“Huh? Yeah, heard you. You’re right. I’m okay.” I zap back into reality and give a half-smile reassuring her that I’m fine.
“Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I said, sternly. “I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine but I wasn’t going to let her know that.
My mind returns from what happened just a few hours ago, and I stare at the light on the ceiling that looks like a boob.
“Turn out like Fabliha turn out like Fabliha turn out like Fabliha.”
I whisper my name out loud, suddenly feeling disgusted by the sound of it. I close my eyes, thinking of how easily this person had turned my name into something so vile and evil. As if she had to protect her little sister from it. It being my existence.
I looked back at my screen, staring at her profile. Throughout my life, I made it my mission to stay away from other Bengali girls. I told myself that they were not to be trusted and the more distance I created, I would be safe. I’d watch the local girls in my neighborhood from afar with jealousy of how they’d walk down to Kabir’s Bakery holding hands, their giggles brimming with their childhood memories. The detachment was agonizing, but it was worth it if it meant I was protected. Protected from the hurt and pain.
I thought back to how we became friends. I had met her at a mental health event (which I now realize how moronically ironic it is) and instantly felt drawn to her in the room. We sat beside each other the entire night, laughing and giggling away like we were old friends. We hardly knew each other but all I ever had for her was love and I believed she had the same for me.
I looked through her DMs, a thread of messages from her replying to my stories:
“UGH you are such an angel.'“
“You are SO BEAUTIFUL!!”
“ICONIC.”
“You are seriously so amazing.”
“The world is so lucky to have you.”
My mom snores next to me, disrupting my thoughts. I get up and go to the bathroom, and began splashing cold water on my face. I look up at the mirror, staring at my reflection. I try hard to look at my face and feel comfort in seeing my familiar face. But all I felt was shame.
I felt her repulsion seep deep inside me as I wondered what was so horrible about me that she didn’t want her dear little sister to become. But above all, what I felt the most was humiliation. Perhaps it was my ego and pride that was attacked. Every time I thought of our interactions, a wave of embarrassment flooded me.
How did I not know she was saying these horrible things about me? How could I be so stupid? I barely knew the girl but I felt deception bubbling inside of me.
Why did I trust her? Who else is she saying this to? How can she say such dreadful things about me behind my back to someone when telling me so many kind words? Did she really mean it? Which of the two did she really mean?
I suddenly wondered about anything anyone has ever told me. Can I trust them? Or anyone? This is my fault.
My phone vibrates and I received a text from my friend that I had seen earlier that day.
“Just checking in. How are you? Want to talk about it? Love you!”
A part of me wants to bare my heart but instead, I went back to bed and hid under my covers. I wanted to retrieve myself from the world. I wanted to hide forever. This way, no one can ever hurt me.
There is power in isolation, I told myself again. I feel so alone but I’m safe.
A few days passed and Eid is approaching us. I made my mother promise me to not cook anything more than one dish as every year, she’d cook a buffet of food for my dad and me before reclusing to her bed in exhaustion on Eid.
“Why do you cook so much? It’s just us three,” I’d groan in frustration as I hovered over the boiling pots.
I assumed it was because she felt it was her duty as a mother to stuff me until I could no longer move but realized over the years that it had become a mere distraction from how horribly flat the streets are every Eid since she moved here 25 years ago. She’d tell me how the lights glistened in the streets of Dhaka as her best friends tightly held her hands amongst the crowds. Her thick glossy black hair in braids, wrapped in fabrics from her mother’s saree, bouncing along her girlish youth, telling everyone she laid eyes upon Eid Mubarak. I would look outside our window as she recalled these memories, the stoic grey sidewalks taunting back at us. How dull it all seemed in comparison.
“This year, we’ll spend our Eid outside!” I eagerly exclaim.
“Or we could just stay home and eat biryani…” she said while yawning.
“Oh, shush. C’mon! I know just the place.”
It is the day before Eid and we are sitting on the rocks of the Marsha P. Johnson State Park. We are in matching black and gold salwars, holding each others hands, absorbing the water in front of us. I thought of going near the water, but suddenly became afraid that I’d slip and fall. We were safe here, sitting.
“Are you glad we came here? Isn’t it beautiful?” I say, secretly desiring validation from my mother. She smiles shyly. Her eyes are at ease in comparison to how tired they would be every year before Eid, as dark circles would form from looming over frying oil.
“We should take pictures later. I never get to take pictures on Eid. This time we will,” she says with determination.
We watch a toddler with hair lighter than the sand walking by the water. We look around in fear, wondering where his parents were, before easing and realizing his parents were not too far away. They were laying down on the grass, at ease.
“They’re so strange," my mother began to say. “They’re just letting him walk so close to the water. So irresponsible. I would never do that when you and your brother were babies.” We shook our heads at the carelessness of the white parents swarming around us, feeling pity for the young boy as he continued waddling away farther and farther into the piers.
I remembered how my mother would grip my hand whenever we talked together. To the supermarkets, the train, everywhere and anywhere.
“The world is complicated and confusing,” she always told me. “It’s dangerous and no one can be trusted.” I nodded and took it all in, locking her words inside of me forever. Because she was my mother and she knew what was right.
Even when someone had complimented me, I had made sure to not fully believe it as I knew how dangerous the power of nazaar (the evil eye) was. To absorb and accept it was to endanger myself. Behind every affection was a twisted game. So instead I would nod in return and passively dismiss every kindness.
By holding her hand and denying love from everyone around me, I was protected. Nothing can touch me. And most of all, no one can hurt me. Afterall, how can I be in pain if I never let myself know what love was?
My mind shifted back to the piers as I stared at the boy. There wasn’t a moment where he looked back, waiting for his parent’s approval to let him continue walking into the edge of the pier as the relentless waves of the water hit the sand. He marched away with certainty, his eyes staring forward as if he knew something my mother and I didn’t.
I looked back at the water, glistening beautifully under the bright sun. I grabbed my mother’s hand,
“Let’s go. Let’s stand near the water.”
“What? No!”
“Don’t you want a closer look? Maybe we can even put our feet in the water?”
“We’re fine here. We can see the water just fine. We’re safe here.” She shook her head, set in her decision. I looked back at the boy who was now dipping his hands into the water. I looked at him no longer with pity that his parents didn’t care about him but with envy. Safe from what? What are you so afraid of? I wanted to ask my mother. How was it that this boy that entered this confusing complicated world not so long ago and already has this sense of sureness in him that we do not? How dare he?
Perhaps it’s because he was still safe. He had not yet experienced the ugliness the world had to offer. I found myself feeling protective over the small boy, wanting to shield him from the pain so he can continue to march with certainty and take risks next to the water, allowing him to indulge in the naiveness of the hideous truth. But I also found sinister pleasure that perhaps someday, he too would feel the pain that my mother and I had experienced time and time again. That someday, this sureness he now holds would slowly vanish. And he too, would someday retrieve and sit on these rocks in fear. Where it was safe. Just like us.
I turned back at my mother, wanting to argue with her that we came all this way only for us to sit on rocks. But when I looked back at her, I realized that she was no longer looking at the boy but at the water. Her face was soft, her eyes steady. A small smile on her lips. Calm. My shoulders eased looking at her, anger releasing from my body.
I had wondered what my life woudl’ve been like or who I woudl’ve been if my parents were laying on the grass, allowing me to explore the world on my own. Instead of hovering over me by my side, clutching onto my hand, never letting me go out of their sight as they said “Don’t go so close to the water! Stay close to me, where it is safe.” Safe.
I sighed and tugged my mother’s hand. I’ll try again.
“Okay, fine. We won’t go so close to the water. Instead, let’s just stand in the sand and take pictures! For your Facebook?”
She perked up, still hesitant, but slowly gave in. Got her. Then she looked around, before again retrieving.
“No. Take pictures of me here.”
“Why? What are you so afraid of?”
“There are too many people here. What will they think if we go up there and start taking pictures?” I looked around and saw everyone was busy in their own little worlds playing with their dogs, talking to their friends, and on their phones. Concerned with their own selves.
“Come on,” I grabbed her hand, forcing her up. “I promise no one cares. Don’t worry. We’re going down there.”
She groaned as we got up from the rocks, walking towards the water.
“Don’t go too close to the water!”, she yelled from behind.
I laughed, realizing how calm the water was. I put my toe out, feeling the ripples of the ocean. My mother was still behind me.
I went back to the sand and started to take pictures of her, directing her angles for her Facebook.
She stood stoically, a bashful smile on her face. Her eyes shifted left and right in embarrassment, whispering to me, “What are people thinking? I look so silly.”
While I told her to smile more and loosen herself up, laughing that she looked like a statue, I noticed a woman coming up to us. I suddenly walked beside my mother, afraid of what the woman was about to say. Was she going to say we were too loud? To leave the area? That we were being an annoyance? Maybe my mother was right. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all. I felt my mom hiding behind me in humiliation like a small child. What did she want?
“Excuse me, do you want me to take pictures of you both together? You both look beautiful.”
I felt my mother step forward beside me and started to laugh.
“We would love that,” she giggled.
The woman took time taking pictures of us, even guiding us and giving directions before going back to her boyfriend. We looked through the pictures and smiled at each other. “We do look beautiful,” we tell each other.
We watched the sun start to sleep and realized how hungry we were. We left the park and entered a bagel shop. A woman behind a cash register stared at us and I felt uneasy, wanting to leave as soon as possible. I wanted to tell my mom to hurry up as she took time strolling up and down the spreads of pastries.
My mom stopped, admiring a cheesy artichoke strudel, and I can sense desire bubbling inside her.
“Do you want that, ma?”
“No. Not practical. Let’s share a bagel and save money.” Indulging was not something we should do. It’s not practical.
We went to the cash register to place an order. The lady behind the table looked at me then looked back at my mom. She popped 2 cheesy artichoke strudels into the paper bag.
“That’s on me. Enjoy!” My mom and I looked at each other in confusion. We said our thanks and walked out of the cafe, conflicted.
“Why did she give us food for free? What’s her deal? I wonder why so many people are being so nice to us today.” My mother asked. I wondered the same, feeling suspicious, before finally laughing to myself in disbelief. Gestures of simple kindness from total strangers, and yet we still couldn’t trust them. Trust isn’t something we could afford. It was impractical and indulgent. It wasn’t safe to trust.
I suddenly felt frustrated at myself for thinking that the cashier was judging us the moment we walked in. I mistook her stare for shrewdness when perhaps she admired us, a mother and her daughter, with fondness and thought of her own mother. How they too would eat together. Or perhaps she adored how we held hands, our desperation to shelter each other from agony.
As we walked down the streets, munching on our cheesy artichoke strudels, I suddenly wondered about the “friend” that said terrible things about me. I felt my stomach twist again as I remembered her exact words, suddenly wanting to hide beneath my covers as the wounds were still fresh in my mind.
But as the savory cheese melted on my tongue, my lips greasy from butter, it eased the knots as I thought about the tenderness from the cashier. I looked down at my black and golden dress that my mother bought for me, and how beautiful I felt in it. How the woman that offered to take pictures of my mom and I also felt it as well.
I looked at my mother, her gentle smile from the piers still on her face while indulging in the strudel that she desired. We passed by giant windows of a store, staring at our reflections as we walked by, reminding ourselves that we were in fact real. That we were here.
“Amu?” I took her hand.
"Yes, ma?” she responds with love.
I breathe in and release. “The world is so kind. Isn’t it?”
She hesitates. I can see her trying to refute it and remember the grief her heart has stored all these years. Her eyebrows furrow, distressingly trying to form words to explain that I cannot afford to be naive. That I must learn from her mistakes of how once, she too believed the same and trusted others’ warmth before eventually betraying her. That I need to believe her and be wary of the world because this it was the only way she knew how to protect me. So that I would not be exposed to the ugliness that the world was waiting to unleash, as she once faced. And she would do anything to shield me from it.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to hold her hand and learned not to be naive because it was a weakness. But ultimately, I experienced a different type of pain, a sort of pain none of us anticipated. I have come to live in fear.
I had wondered what my life would’ve been like if I wasn’t afraid. If I was like the young boy with the sand-colored hair, waddling towards the edge of the ocean, in between the world and the infinite water, and not sit comfortably on the rocks. If I breathed in every piece of affection wholeheartedly, instead of replying back with panic that something dreadful would happen to me.
Would my first instinct when I entered the pier be to dip my feet in the water? Would I have not been struck with anxiety when the woman walked up to my mother and me? Would I not have immediately misjudged the cashier at the cafe? Or perhaps would I brush off my friend’s crude comments, not doubt every person that had shown me love, but instead realize that this was not an attack on me but herself?
I have come to realize that I no longer want to be afraid and live a life fueled by fear. Fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of betrayal, and above all, fear of hurt. But somewhere along the way, the fear molded itself into a shield of protection.
Ultimately, the fear itself did nothing but serve me emptiness. Hollowness. An empty life of never feeling such love. But all along, love had always been there right in front of me. From my friends and even strangers, waiting for me. I just couldn’t see it. Or perhaps I was too scared to. Whether it was my friends telling me they were there for me or perhaps a stranger giving me a free cheesy artichoke struggle, I just chose to not see it.
I whipped out my phone and texted back my friend after ignoring her for a few days:
“Hey, can we talk soon when you’re free? I realized I’m not okay. Thank you for being there for me. I love you so much.”
In a matter of seconds, I get a text back from her.
“Of course, Fabliha. Call me whenever. I’m here for you. You’re not alone. Don’t be afraid.”
I look back at my mom, who’s still in distress wondering about my comment. I take her hand, gripping onto it just like she would with mine, and smiled.
“The world is ours, Amu. Don’t be afraid. The world is yours if you want it to be.”
She looks at me with hesitation before surrendering to a smile. We walk hand in hand, setting forth into the world.
This time, fearlessly.
accepting kindness from backstabbing mean brown girls and how they taught me to live fearlessly
this was so wholesome, sending so much love to you and your beautiful mother 🫶🏼