The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

She seems to take me in for a moment, and I wait for the criticism that’s custom in our house. But it never comes. She turns away instead and allows us to reach for our bowls of cereal and milk. I’ve never felt so horrid for not being criticized before. It feels like a slap in the face—like the ultimate criticism is this sudden lack of criticism.

White people like to pretend that race is only as deep as the color of our skin—maybe because the color of their skin gets them so many benefits.

Is there a heterosexual explanation for why she’s inching forward?

instead of celebrating achievements the way you want to, you’re made to strut around in front of people you barely know, like a prize to be shown off.

“Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be,” Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It’s the most he’s said to me in weeks, but there’s a plasticity to his smile, a solemnness to his voice. Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.

“They’re trying to stop more people from finding out.” “Oh.” Her lips downturn into a frown. “That’s good, right? You don’t want more people to know?” What I want more than anything else in the world is to feel like being myself isn’t something that should be hidden and a secret. What I want is for my parents to be outraged that someone betrayed me, not ashamed of my identity.

These butterflies are completely different from the ones I feel because of Flávia; around her, I feel anxious in a pleasant way. Like I’m going to throw up, but at least there’s a pretty girl in front of me. Now I just want to throw up.