I am sorry I don’t fit in your family.

I am sorry I cannot relate to your “Fer2it 7asballah lil Rakes al Sharki.”

I am sorry I can debate with the men in the family when they get into a talk that requires brains, instead of sitting silently like the rest of the girls and looking pretty. Sorry 3al jorsa 3anjad.

I’m sorry that neither my body nor my brain fit the “Taille 1,” and that my dream was never to grow up to be a “top model.”

I’m sorry I find your shallow conversations silly while the world is starving.

I’m sorry my favorite hobby isn’t shopping.

I’m sorry I got a degree instead of a “3arees.”

I’m sorry I got a job instead of prostituting myself into an economical marriage.

Mum, I’m sorry that cleaning the house is not what I believe I was born to do, and being a housewife is not my biggest passion.

I’m sorry I am not really into the glittery fashion; I’m sorry you will not see me in your dream white dress, and that I would pick my Converse over heels any day.

I’m sorry I prefer books to oriental dance.

I’m sorry I go to the beach to swim and not to tan.

I’m sorry I prefer eating to starving myself to death.

Mummy, I’m sorry I didn’t turn out to be the girl you dreamed I would be, and that although I might physically resemble you quite a lot, I will never look like you, and I will never be you.

Mum, I’m sorry I don’t shut up when somebody takes my rights.

I’m sorry I can’t hide who I am.

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry that I neither am sorry, nor will I ever be sorry, that I grew up to be that dyke.

Dear Mum,

You raised me for years,

You – above all people – taught me tolerance,

You were the one who gave me those books that stirred up the revolution in me, you fed my intelligence, you taught me how to stand up for myself, you paid for my education, and from you I learned how to love, no matter how fucked up love may be. J

You must’ve done something right all these years; I turned out to be who I am.

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry I don’t fit in those dresses and heels, but I’m not sorry that I don’t have a whole society on my back to please!

We walk into Zara, a personal favorite. I pick up a few items from here and there and get into the fitting rooms. I try on a light blue woven fabric dress shirt. The fabric looks fancy, quite corporate,  and even though blue is not my color, I push myself to take the risk! The outcome looks great around the bust, but somehow tight around the belly. Cheeseburgers aren’t shy. Perhaps I should’ve listened to my ex and had more salads… skipped the 2AM mankoushé¹… she was a femme-inist like that, but that’s another column.

Another challenge, I experiment with a wide neck t-shirt. The color goes with my eyes and skin tone, but does it go with my personality? My image? Is it too “girly”? How “girly” is a girl supposed to be? And if a girl likes guys’ clothes, does that make her “gurly”?

Where do we draw the line between masculinity and femininity? As a woman, I find myself comfortable in clothing that tends to fit a bit loosely. I enjoy the sporty look although the only sport I actually practice is in the bedroom. Does my style shun away my femininity?

I look in the mirror again. The tight t-shirt highlights my love handles. In fact, it sets a spotlight on them. I start to get uncomfortable… Oh god. Why did I walk into Zara? Why didn’t I just go into Mango where they have slimming mirrors that make you look lean and beautiful? I was trapped in a 1×1meter fitting room with bad lighting! And a dirty floor! I look at the pile of the unfitting clothes and my heart screams “¿Que he hecho yo para merecer esto?²”. I quickly undress myself.

Facing a reflection of my ego, I stand semi-naked and I remember Bart Simpson in the exact situation before his mum pulled the curtain wide open and exposed him for everyone to see… my utter shoppo-phobia! I’m glad my mother’s home. I make my escape.

As I flutter my androgynous wings into the denim section at Bershka, my eyes suddenly light up! Since when do they carry such cuts? Why am I unaware that change has come? As I hold up a pair of jeans, my best friend interrupts my bedazzlement and says “Phoenix, this is the men’s section. The women’s section is on the other side.” My jaw drops, thus ending my original surprise. It’s not that I have a problem in actually wearing men’s jeans, it’s just that their style isn’t exactly “petite”. I drag my feet like a defeated soldier.  I look at the racks with the different cuts in the women’s section,  the “flared cut”, the “boot cut”, “skinny jeans”.. Ugh! We don’t exactly have gonads but Qoqo³ still needs to breathe! Ironically, after a grueling search, I found one cut that fit me best.. God bless the “boyfriend”!

^{1- Lebanese pastry sandwich
2- What have I done to deserve this?
3- Nickname used as a reference for vagina from Lina Khoury’s play “Hakeh Neswen”}