A Yellow Puffy Chair that Changed my Perception of myself

I used to own a yellow chubby-legged armchair. This chair served as my seat while Ammu, my mother, would slowly comb my hair, untangling the knots of my day. Splitting my hair into thirds, she would braid my hair as she divulged her beauty secrets. Ammu wasn’t often affectionate with me - but when I was seated, I felt loved and secure, wrapped in her intimacy with a sense of belonging.

This changed in the fifth grade when a boy told me I looked like a man with my hairy arms. I was floored; until this moment, hair was something beautiful, a z Awarm ritual between Ammu and I. The thick hair that Ammu praised along with my thick eyebrows and long eyelashes suddenly made me the object of mockery. Now I was disgusted — it made me feel separated. I went home determined to fix myself. I asked Ammu if I could shave away my impurities. If the only thing I had to do was shave to achieve womanhood, then Ammu pass me the razor.

Ammu forbade me, as I was too young. She didn’t seem to notice my despair. In this moment I realized that my mother knew most things, but not everything. She didn’t know the feeling of incongruity because she grew up amongst her own people. She sat me down on the chair and took out the comb as always. The usual parting of hair and braiding began. She proclaimed the beauty in my features, and that I could remove the hair once I was older. But I didn’t want to wait, I was ready now. I no longer felt like my mother had all the answers. There was a shift in my tendencies. Avoiding short-sleeved shirts, participating less in class, I sensed my isolation. I loathed attention towards me. I was consumed by my anger at this hair.

One afternoon, I worked up the courage to do it. I stole my mother’s razor, determined to diminish the hair that made me feel particular. Shaving cream smeared, I grabbed the razor and began elbow down. After boldly shaving both arms, I finally felt pure. I was alleviated from that chapter of discomfort. For the first time in months, I looked forward to school.

I hoped there would be a glorious change at school, that I would enter with my bare arms and suddenly be the center of everything. But it didn’t work out quite like that. No one seemed to notice and I understood that the hair on my arms was just one of the many ways in which I was divergent from my peers. I returned home, clear that I would never shave my arms again. I went to the yellow armchair but something had shifted. While I appreciated my mother’s care, I felt distant. I couldn’t explain to Ammu that I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. She had been right about not shaving, but she didn’t have a means of understanding the larger issues at hand. However, I have already reached that point through a political understanding, not through familial.

In hindsight, I recognize these larger issues: South-Asian women are pressured into adhering to Western beauty standards, accepting that hair is unattractive. I felt that I needed to conform — something I see my South-Asian sisters struggling with daily. I make it a point to actively acknowledge our differences that serve as an exceptional form of South-Asian beauty. My confidence has sprouted and will continue to blossom.

The yellow armchair sits in the balcony, untouched. While I have embraced my hair, it has been a political process more than heart. I cannot recapture the pride that I felt in my arm hair that symbolized my mother’s affection. I have claimed my identity but without the ease and tenderness that Ammu demonstrated as I sat.

I wake to my mother’s voice five times a week. Ammu consistently nudges my shoulder with a fervor that would put a child’s keenness to shame. I tussle with her efforts to shake the drowsiness out of me until I reach the point where I can no longer go back to sleep. I let her win, of course. The three minutes meant for brushing my teeth, that follows, is dedicated to dissecting what I did three hours ago: roam the interwebs for an hour or two, inadequately attempt to finish an essay and four hours worth of homework under one-third the proper time, and fall asleep with a mixture of regret and naivety that I would change my habits the coming morning.

I would be lying if I said I don’t enjoy the train ride to school. There were the underground lamps we briskly passed that swam across the faces of a row of passengers. There was the sleepy silence that pounced on disorder, often the monotone, “This is a Manhattan bound 2 local train, the next stop is...” I’m running out of options to occupy myself with. I’ve already read the six back-to-back Dr. Zizmor ads and scanned the passengers surrounding me. My teachers suggest reviewing or doing homework on the train, but I always end up half asleep, bobbing my head to the shifting of the cart. The smooth circulation of people entering and leaving puts me into a state of mindfulness, and with it comes a turbulent calm. My train pulls into my stop and I join the rushed flow.

It’s not as terrifying as it sounds, the experience in high school. A lot of people here jokingly say you have to choose two: your social life, education, or sleep. I couldn’t choose. In a way, it is terrifying. The thought of coming into class and being put on the spot by the teacher or having to explain myself makes me uneasy. I’ve tried making myself step into the class but the knots in my stomach convince me otherwise. A student in front of me jogs to the escalator. It’s one of those days where it’s not a staircase, and he sighs in relief. I sigh too. The bell rings, marking the start of eighth period and students pour into the once pin-drop silent hallway. It’s getting tiring, being anxious at school.

Eighth period is when I can relax. I plop down between two pianos and stare into space. My friends come in, breaking the trance. I greet them with a smile and asr prayer starts soon after. I stay still in my spot as they arrange ornate prayer mats on the floor, standing in rows foot-to-foot and shoulder-to-shoulder. About twenty Muslim youth slowly sway back and forth, performing the standing, sitting, bowing, and prostrating that comes with the process. Although I am not praying, we all contemplate our next moves and our day. I find solace in their asynchronous movements.

It’s still difficult for me to understand what went on in ninth grade. Soon after, my guidance counselor recommended I get a medical transfer to another school and I followed. With my mental health deteriorating as quickly as it was, this was my best bet.

Looking at myself now, it is hard for others to realize that was me in the past. Coming to terms with my combined depression and anxiety has allowed me to achieve balance in my life. My first semester of college has been a drastic change from this one year in high school. I do not see it as something extremely debilitating for me, as it once was, due to the ways I’ve learned ways to cope with it.

This experience has transformed my reactivity to proactivity and my “have to” motivation to “choose to” motivation. It has provided me with the agency to make my own thoughtful decisions. I am no longer governed by habit. It is visible in the way I speak. It is visible in my mannerisms. It is visible in my actions. Freshman year does not define me — it has been the catalyzer for me to flourish.

Everyone on Coney Island is ugly in a beautiful way. Unlike Fifth Avenue or Williamsburg, where insecurity is exceptionally commercial, Coney Island is where people don't care what you think of them. It's where people go to throw their collective discontent into the Atlantic Ocean. Wrinkles, beauty marks, and the tawdriest of clothes come together to flip off high-end fashion with enviable ease. This is where people accept that you're going to age, and with it, comes a certain comfortable indolence.

Men with flab hanging over their waistbands stare into the sun, their silver chest hair reflecting rays off. Part of you can't help but think how peculiar the human body is. The other part is struck by the majestic indifference of it all. Leaned against a mural of a sullen looking woman pushing a stroller with some Cyrillic text above her, a man blithely has one hand in his denim pocket, the other holding a mango flavored Jarritos. It could be he is someone's father, son, brother, lover. Maybe he's all alone in the world. At this moment, however, he doesn't care. Neither should you. Coney Island is code for pleasant indifference.

There's a little girl, you can't tell if she's South American or South Asian or neither, being told to knock it off; she's rolling in particularly dirty sand but her joy is so pure you feel like telling her justifiably concerned mother to let her be. People are buying cheap hot dogs, funnel cakes, foods dripping in corn oil, processed sugar, and American excessiveness. Restaurants dotting the boardwalk have these beach-goers standing in lines that wrap around and spiral in forms that never repeat. It is a sort of organized chaos.

Seagulls, grime, nautical themed everything. People speaking different languages all at once, viewing the world with different frameworks. Sand in your shoes. Grandmas, wrapped in silky floral scarves, derive joy from seagulls exasperatedly grabbing for bread. A family enjoys lunch under the sun while their little girl stares at the incoming waves. These combine into a force unique to Coney Island, one that compels us to face ourselves.

There is no better way to mentally recharge than to sit on a gritty bench on an even sandier boardwalk. This acts as a refresher to the day's activities, precious time for me to collect my thoughts. Retracing my steps, my thoughts are anything but linear. It is no problem though, as the hypnotic waves that I watch ebb and flow erase any trace of both footprints.

Strangers are a proxy for introspection. The realization that they are living a life as intense and intricate as my own is a humbling one. Even though there is a large amount of people present, creating commotion, I am able to bring myself to a peaceful state of mind. I sit here curious about the backstories for the people I see, but I wonder, what is the story I’m assigned?

The stories I create for people are fluid. Humans are not impersonal monoliths. We are subject to subjectivity and are able to adapt if there is a need to. To be fixated on one aspect of myself is to hinder myself. Slowly, but surely, I come to the realization, if I can afford others this consideration, the same should apply to myself: I have the ability to create my own narrative, in spite of the one I am assigned. 

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