I represent the political party that stands on behalf of the half naked Barbie.

I represent the woman of the 21 century and this woman is everything, except for her dignity.

I represent the oppression that’s been painted pink where my body wins and my voice just shrinks.

I represent the fact that I don’t even have to think. I can manipulate a gentleman with just my flirty wink.

I represent the degrading that we the women are facing on our own accord. I’m standing with the so called “feminists” that are also fashion magazine whores. I’m marching with the ladies who fight for their rights except they slow me down just a little because I think their jeans are too tight.

I represent the rape and the pain, the sliced wrists, the prostitutes pay, sticking my finger down my throat so that I can look okay, all of the tears and all of the cries that came from the hardship of trying to please the guys.

I represent the freedom of choosing to be enslaved by this patriarchal system that robs me day by day.

I represent the hatred I’ve got for the mirror and the naked girl on the front cover and I represent the advertisement that claims it’s all better because I’m the revolution of womankind. I’m here to change the system that’s kept us blind. So take off all your clothes ladies and you will live the life, except there are just a couple of guidelines that you should probably know. You’ve got to flirt, walk, talk, dress, and know exactly where to go. Here! Take my copy of Cosmo. 50 things he wants to see in bed, 50 things I think you misread.

You’re doing something wrong you’re not skinny enough, your chest is WAY too small, plus you’re covering too much. Darling, I really don’t see how you can move along without investing in this kind of stuff because otherwise how is anyone supposed to validate that ass.

I really do apologize, I know I’m not showing enough skin for you and I should know better than to think this body is mine. I was sent out here to live out the secret of Victoria. I have the freedom to succumb to your fashion magazines and submit myself to your fantasies but if I choose anything other than that. I guess I’m oppressed. I have the right to wear whatever I want but only if it has the length of a mini dress. But this shirt here, that’s to my knees and hides my figure, they tell me to get it off my body, how am I going to be like the “pretty” air headed figure. And these colored scarves don’t seem to aesthetically cut it. They want to see extensions. They want to see hair dye. They want to see it gutted. And apparently, my posture is not womanly and my face is not the prettiest, unfortunately.

But I was wondering if someone could please tell me, WHO THE HELL DECIDED THAT I WAS UGLY? Is my face really not clear enough for you to just look at me? Do I really need to take off my clothes to get a job in any industry?

My sisters in Islam, they are brave ones. Wearing their religion proudly, and not around their necks as a fashion statement but atop their heads, encircling their faces, in a spotlight, putting their pride on the line every time they step outside their doors, working like you or I for a better life, sitting behind the wheel of their car taking them from A to B.

Our women are doctors, politicians, lawyers and truth seekers.

They are poets, authors, comedians, and mothers.

They are daughters, sisters, lovers and they are from us. For beneath that hijab upon their head, they are human beings. 

There once however, was a time where I yielded to the mainstream opinions and strayed from my faith. When I was a child, I would be ashamed to walk along side of my Mom. Embarrassed by the whispers, stares, and laughs almost feeling like my own mother was an outsider and that I was outside of her. Kids would come up to me and ask me why my mother has a towel wrapped around her head, and if my uncle was Osama Bin Laden, often making bomb sound effects around me.  BOOM. Guilt by association. Who knew 3 numbers could turn a Muslim from a friend to a flight threat. 9/11.  Like my watch had suddenly become a time bomb and I had acquired the skill to turn my shoelaces into weapons of mass destruction. I had become the schoolyards number one enemy with my back against the wall I’m unable to deny my religion because come 3 o’clock my mother would roll around reminding everyone, including myself who I was.

As the years wore on, I began to realize and appreciate my mother’s strength and modesty. Standing firmly in her place in this desert we call society: an infertile ground that preaches individuality but strips it with judgmental labels and groupings. And yet, she thrives, moving at a mocking pace as though hinting to wandering eyes that a picture would last a whole lot longer. But those eyes never fazed my mother, for she was following her faith and therefore she was fearless, commending respect from those all around her.

Mainstream, this is to you. You can go ahead and call me a girl who is oppressed but I assure you the weight of that institutionalized word will not make me expose my chest. I am already perfect and I will cover so you don’t see, I am damn happy living with my dignity.