You’re Beautiful: Mariyam’s Story

By Mariyam Muhammad

You’re beautiful. 

I saw a little girl, maybe four feet tall, around the age of 9. Her eyes were brown like the ground, the rich element that held every root. Without dirt, flowers can’t bloom, nor can trees stand. Her hair reminded me of Fatima from the Alchemist, the way Santiago described her curly black hair as a priceless jewel. Scars on her knees and elbows. Red gems pierced her ears, and jingly bangles jumped up and down her arms. Dimples cratered her plump cheeks every time she smiled. 

I didn’t see her dimples that often though.

The little girl was beautiful indeed. She liked to sing when no one watched, a silvery tone that glided in your ears like honey. Her name echoed off the walls in her house, and to her mother she’d run just to give her hand to help. No strings attached. 

At the sound of her younger siblings’ cries, she’d be there to hold them to her chest the way a mother would. When the front door rattled, she’d run to her desk and open a book before receiving a scolding from her father. Her plate would always be half empty because her mother would pat the hill in her stomach, telling her she needed to stop eating ice cream.

It was summer break. And she was only 9. 

She went to sleep every night wondering who she was. I think of that girl a lot, and I wonder why she spent years focusing on those parts. Parts that still had yet to grow and develop. A child shouldn’t have to worry too much about their heart and who they gave it to. The girl’s heart was heavy every night, and she woke up with it empty, only for it to be swelled with the wrong things over and over again—an endless cycle. 

You’re fat. You’re slow. You’re stupid. You’re useless.

The girl cried a river, hearing those things every day. Summer was over. The flowers yearned for the warmth again as winter seeped in, blanketing the city with snow. 

Her parents told her to run outside in the cold every day. A few days later, her throat closed, and she coughed herself to sleep. At gatherings, her family whispered in her ears: don’t eat any dessert. 

Her siblings grew up, pushing her around like a voodoo doll. She stayed up at night with her notebook open, only to receive the grades she didn’t think she deserved. She tied her hair, hiding it as if thieves wanted a piece. She took too much time to change her clothes because the mirror shaped her body the way her parents’ words did. 

Was she capable of being loved?

The past followed her every day. The bright gold in her eyes now rusted. The curls in her hair died. Her dimples were nowhere to be found. She took all her jewelry off, feeling undeserving of the valuables that caressed her skin.

In that little girl’s memory - in my memory, I eat until my stomach is full. I often say the word no for my own sanity. My teeth no longer grit at the time my brain needs to grasp a subject. I let the sweet taste linger on my tongue the way she would’ve wanted everyday. The clothes hug me, kiss the parts that should’ve been appreciated. My eyes rest, and my heart is filled with no one but myself.

When tears fall down my eyes, I think of her.

You’re beautiful.

In the mirror, I say it to myself. I polished the gold. I planted new seeds, watering a large garden on my own. Maybe Fatima would’ve been proud of the way I let my locks back down.

I ponder on how different my life would have been if I was assured that I was valuable once in a while. If I had the chance, I would have told little me: you’re beautiful.