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​ 13 years of my life, gone. Hot tears spilled down my face as my family looked on in

confusion.

“They’re just drawings.” They said with furrowed brows. They never understood.

When I was younger, I learned not to take up space. I would spend my time in the

peripherals of my world, face shielded by a book, or curled over a sketchbook, armed with a

pencil.

Like most quiet, studious children, I was quite cherished by my family –

“So quiet and obedient!” The adults would cheer. “She never asks questions, and or says

no, simply does as her elders say!” I took pride in being reliably unobtrusive, and entirely

unself-directed.

I spent most of my time helping my mom around the house, listening to my brother's

cheerful screams as they fought over who’d get to play minecraft, or play with their LEGOs.

Frustration and anger built inside me as I grew, and as my entreaties to my mother were

summarily rebuffed.

“Why can’t they do it?” – Well, they were either younger than me and I should help them

out, or older than me and I should be respectful.

Or,

“Why am I the only one who helps you?” They just don’t listen the way I do, and why

don’t I want to help my mother anyways?

My relationship with my mother grew stilted, and years went by where the only words I

ever spoke to her were some form of “Yes”, “No”, or “I love you,” all in accordance with

whatever I knew she wanted from me.

In a home where I felt lesser than other occupants, I made my space In the corners behind

couches and ducked underneath tables, I would sit with my books, or a lined notebook and

pencil. If no one could see me, no one could ask for me, and I could immerse myself in worlds

that weren’t my own, where the characters I read through were strong and did powerful things.

Stories were my escape, and art made me feel powerful, skilled, and beautiful.

I eventually graduated from cute, childish sketches, and also elementary school. Middle
school brought a desire for change – I was growing but where was the difference in me, in my
work, in my art? The monochromatic sketches bored me, the poses were static, the drawings
the same over and over again. Color was a frightening prospect, the grain of the paper holding
onto it from crayons or colored pencils, not allowing the safety net my eraser had always
provided. My youth had art be my place of stability, my present made me want to grow. But
change is always unstable, and as my eyes grew starry staring at the vibrant and dynamic work
of those superior to me – I knew the time to play it safe had passed.

Whenever I thought about my future it was in a home that felt like hell. I’d be trapped in

the role of a perfect mother, wife, daughter, and sister forever, living for the comfort and

satisfaction of the people around me -- I’d never be anything. I laid in my bed those nights,

feeling like screaming forever, feeling an unbearable pressure in my head that made me want to

claw my eyes out to relieve some of it.

I wondered, Why did I feel that future was all there was for me? Why couldn’t I live
freely? My mind went to my family, and a keen sense of loss filled me, alongside an
all-encompassing determination. I would live freely and happily. Even if it meant losing
important people -- because I’m important too.
​ “Meri Jaan,” My love, my mother said sweetly the next day, her hands caressing my face.

“Can you go bring your brothers some food?”

​ It’s a familiar script, and I know my part well. The work is so simple, was there a point in

saying no? Of course.

​ We fought. Over and over for months on end.

​ “It’s a simple job, why won’t you do it?” the angry voices of my family would ask me.

“What kind of sister are you? What kind of daughter?” they’d scream. “No one will ever marry

you! No one will want someone so stubborn and petty!”

​ “If it’s so simple, why can’t they do it?” I’d reply neutrally. “I’m a good daughter, I love

you, and I love them ” I’d calmly answer, I’m just learning to love myself, went unsaid. “That’s

unfortunate.” I’d emotionlessly respond.

The fight seemed eternal, relentless, yet that only spurred me to continue. If I had to fight

so hard now, for this, what would happen later?, with more important things? It never seemed to

lead to anything, I’d always end up working anyway, until…

​ “Bilal, go get your laundry.” My mother absentmindedly told my younger brother.

​ “Madre,” he said pitifully, “can’t you tell-” he didn’t get to finish.

​ My mother turned around and began a lengthy, furious tirade. My brother fought back. In

the end, however, he got his own laundry. Later in the day, my older brother would be called for

brooming. It still wasn’t quite fair, I’d think as I cut fruits for the family and helped to prepare

the food. But as my mother insisted one of the boys come down to take out the trash -- I’d think

that maybe one day it could be.

​ Now that I’m older, I’m quite a loud person. I’m the kind of girl willing to make a fool of

herself to break the ice, who squirms in her seat at the thought of talking to someone new, but is

the first person to do it anyways. I’ve learned so much about myself over the years, and though I
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haven’t quite gotten to loving who I am yet, I’ve learned that there is most definitely someone

worth trying to love -- someone who deserves to take up space -- someone who’s worth speaking

up for.

Talk about how you grew up like the miranda essay but with an attachment with stories and your

art, expand how stories helped you become both more empathetic and stronger in yourself, then

expound how you want to give that to other people, but art is an addition to make people happier,

and to be happy they kinda have to be alive first, and everyone deserves to be healthy first and
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foremost. Most of the people who need stories told are also people who have less access to

health, and to tell their stories, they need to be strong and healthy. (include throiwng out things,

as well as micro-standups)

​ Hook: drawings thrown

Intro: Quiet, no control over life, lesser than, stories are an escape, and art makes me feel

powerful

Mid: Gaps in understandings, I begin to understand my family and self more through stories, and

break my own bounds

Conc: Growing into self, small steps, restarting art and stepping into life

Reflect: What I learned.