The Skin I’m In
The ugly side effects of European beauty standards By Sonia Bermas
When I was a child, my mother would make me a sandwich every day for lunch. More often than not, it would end up in the trash. I hated the plain food and was tired of the same ham sandwich, wondering why she didn’t make me the dishes we usually had at home, like the chicken biryani, butter chicken, roti and curry. I told my sister how I felt and she sat me down in our small shared room that was so cramped it felt hard to breathe. She told me how she brought my mother’s cooking of traditional Indian food to her elementary school for lunch every day, and how her classmates would make fun of her by calling the food smelly. She broke down one day crying, begging our mom to make her something else so she wouldn’t be made fun of.
My parents immigrated to Canada — one from Persia and the other from India — in the hopes of a better life. I was never taught the languages my parents spoke in their homeland, and as I grew older, I’ve regretted not learning how to. I now wish that I was more connected to the beautiful lands my parents came from. The mountain ranges and lush forests, lands filled with rich vegetation and exotic fruits, streets filled with rich flavours and the smell of strong spices. My desire to be more attached to my roots wasn’t always the case. There was once a time where I wished I could be something I was not. I wanted to be white. I hated my skin. I hated how I never saw someone that looked like me in magazines and movies.
Our mom listened and gave plain sandwiches for lunch instead. My mom had to give away a piece of her culture for her children to be safe. When my sister told me this, I realized how much of ourselves we lost to assimilate to Canadian life.
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