What does it mean to be enough? Not too much, not too little, but the perfect amount. Enough.
When I was younger, I learned that enough was when your ribs poked out. It was fair glass skin and plucked thin eyebrows. Hair that was pin-straight, resting just below the shoulders. Big eyes with curled lashes–naturally curled, of course. That was enough.
Enough was the blueprint, and I was just the overworked builder striving to make the image come to life in hopes that someone would congratulate me on my building. I was 10 the first time someone opened my eyes, and from that moment on, I realized I was going to be building for a very long time, if not for forever. It wasn’t a want, it was a need. My only goal in life was to chase this unobtainable fantasy: being enough.
About the Author: Velocity contributor Lila Kassem spends most of her time at work and school, but when given a moment to spare, she’s researching old historical figures and their past roles in society. When not being a nerd, she’s usually drawing a Trex, her favorite dinosaur.
I spent most of my nights awake in my room alone, using duct tape to remove the hair on my upper lip and from my unibrow, praying it would work. But that wasn’t the only thing that kept me awake at night. Due to mental illness, my dad was slowly, unintentionally spiraling into a monster that none of us could make sense out of. I hated seeing him turn into a lifeless vessel, so I turned to food for comfort.
For a moment, my hairy arms, bushy eyebrows, and my ill dad didn’t matter. Something about Oreos and leftover grains of salt on my chapped lips gave me a euphoric feeling that life had lost. I ate the nights away and prayed that tomorrow would be a better day.
It was 90 degrees in August, and we marched outside everyday in a single file line for recess. All the girls were wearing practically nothing, or shorts, you could call them. I cared for modesty, so I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt with the same black leggings that had a hole at the knee. The sun was making all the kids thirsty and hungry. But me, I didn’t want water, juice or fruit snacks.
I was too focused on hiding my face. Why? Because when I would get red or sweat, the hair on my face would become more apparent than ever. The hair stood out like neon yellow in a pitch black room. I stood on the black top while all the other kids hopped around and enjoyed their youth. I even witnessed two kids exchanging a flower for a hug. It was certainly cringe, but I was also envious because I knew I would never experience what Emily Evans did that day. I knew I wasn’t “enough” the way she was; therefore, I didn’t deserve it.
I was leaning on the wall of our school building, which was practically on fire. I closed my eyes and prayed that the tired lunch lady would get sick of kids whining and give in soon enough and let us go inside where I could wet my face till the cherry red color disappeared. I didn’t care if I had to scrub it off. It needed to simply be gone.
As I focused on my disturbed thoughts, I saw Reema headed towards me. Her ribs poked out through her shirt, and her eyebrows were shaped well enough to where no one would say anything. She had on a neon orange shirt that stood out like an eyesore. Her blonde curls were tied up into one knot that flopped downwards. When she came closer, I noticed her shirt was actually a tank top, but I wasn’t one to judge. Her eyelashes were naturally dark and full. I certainly envied her for that alone.
But what I envied most was how Reema, just like the white kids, had blonde hair that faded into her white skin. She was from Syria too. I couldn’t help but to wonder, why not me? How could she also be Arab but look nothing like me?
What I envied most was how Reema, just like the white kids, had blonde hair that faded into her white skin. She was from Syria too. I couldn’t help but to wonder, why not me? How could she also be Arab but look nothing like me?
My heart began beating out of my chest as I waited to see if Reema would acknowledge my presence. Before I knew it, Reema, who was more than “enough,” was in front of my face.
“Lila,” said Reema with a serious look. It wasn’t just a look, it was a deep stare.
“Oh hi, Reema.” The words barely left my mouth.
“Why do you have a mustache like a boy?” she said, tilting her head with a look of disgust.
She stared at me hard, as if I was an abstract painting, judging every aspect. I paused in panic. Time stopped for a second and my heart dropped to my feet. My mind went blank. Before I could walk away, the lunch lady blew her whistle. I had five minutes to end this conversation before the second lineup whistle was blown and all the kids would come sprinting to the door like a herd of animals.
“My mom doesn’t want me to remove the hair. She thinks I’m too young, plus, you get it, you’re Arab. I’m sure your mom is the same way.”
“My mom lets me remove the hair. She doesn’t think it’s a big deal. She knows living in America is different.”
Both my eyes filled with water, each eye weighing a ton. The small breeze of August no longer was in the wind, the laughter of sweaty kids faded, the world seemed to have frozen along with me.
Before I could turn away and force myself to forget this conversation, I noticed that Jason was sprinting our way. He had greasy blonde hair with no volume whatsoever. He wore a neon orange shirt just like Reema’s, with highlighter yellow shorts. His shoes seemed as if they hadn’t been cleaned in ages, with mud embedded in the laces. As he got closer, I realized his face had stolen the color of a ripe tomato. I prayed and prayed he wasn’t going to come near us, but before I could finish my prayer, Jason stood right next to Reema, both examining me like I was a caged animal. They were exchanging whispers that I prayed were not about me.
“You do look like a man,” blurted Jason.
I said nothing and turned around quickly. Shockingly, God was listening because the lunch lady blew her horn and all the other monsters came charging at the door. I was first in line, eager to run to the bathroom where I could finally scrub the red away.
I choked back my tears and spent the rest of the school day on edge. There was a lump in my throat and I knew it wouldn’t go away until I cried. Not just any type of crying. I needed to sob until my vision was blurry and my pillow case was drenched in salty tears. I knew my mom wouldn’t care nor understand, and my dad was fighting his own battle with the images he claimed to see. I went home and skipped dinner, but it’s not like I needed it anyway. I crawled in my bed where my dreams took me far, far away.
The desire to be noticed is so strong, it becomes more than just a feeling. It consumes you whole. The desire swallows you and doesn’t spit you back out until you are finally somewhat satisfied. Unfortunately, we are never satisfied, so we just stay in the pit of this consuming desire.
Before young girls can even hit actual puberty, they are exposed to this idea of appearing how society wants. According to the National Organization for women, 53 percent of American girls at only the age of 13 are “unhappy with their bodies” — a number that grows to 78 percent by the time they reach 17.
Watching celebrities or popular content creators advertise beauty supplies, cosmetics, or “glow-up” products that seemingly make them more attractive gives young girls false hope that they can look the same.
This false hope starts with something as small as hair removal. Body hair is shunned the second it begins to sprout. Hair is something natural, or at least it used to be. Now body hair comes with a negative connotation that it is something embarrassing or even “gross.” According to a study by the American Laser Centers, many women spend more than $20,000 to remove their body hair over a lifetime. And that’s only one way we try to conform.
Who is to blame? We women, for giving in to societal pressure? Or society, for tearing to shreds any bit of confidence we had, always promoting the next best thing, the thing that somehow, we regular women never have.
Even though it is what we are striving for, somehow it is always out of reach. We get so close to finally reaching the stars, then realize how far away we really are from the sky.
Enough.
Velocity 
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