on people pleasing, the paradox

short prose/essay whatever you want to call it, and a poem

I remember that summer night, the darkness of the neighborhood. The children playing football in the court, the broken streetlights, the jasoosi wali billi following us as we walked. I only remember this night vividly because of your words and how I felt. You complained about the loudness of the children, negatively commented on a woman's appearance as she briskly walked by us, out of breath, in an effort to be more fit. A few minutes later, you commented on the way I walked, saying my stride was "too big" and rhetorically asking, "Humari society ke log kya kehenge?" (what will the people of our society say?)

A week later, perhaps another summer night after rainfall, puddles decorated the road. Dark nights, broken streetlights, puddles reflecting my emptiness. After some social encounter, you told me how you never cared about what people think, because that would only mean destruction. That would only mean dishonesty, with yourself and others.

In that moment, I wanted the strong wind of my city to tell you how big of a paradox you are. I wanted the long pathway of this compound, with its dark roads and uneven sidewalks, to remind you of the vicious cycle of people-pleasing. I wanted you to understand the strangers, to understand yourself, because to understand you don't need to know. I wanted everything but my words to confront and expose your irony, because it wouldn't be right for me to do so. I am looking for ways to speak up, but silence always seems safer.

a letter to myself

Tell me about the chains coiling your arms,

the bitter thread cutting your tongue.

Tell me about your heart's pounding alarms,

the words hidden at the bottom of your lungs.

Tell me about the silence that wraps your body in the chamber,

where They talk over you and all you can hear are their echoes.

Tell me about drowning in textbooks and past papers,

trying to forget who I am and who I was.

Tell me about your worn welcome mat,

with your bloodstains and shoe marks,

Tell me about the guilt that comes with throwing it away,

the avalanche of restlessness that covers you whole.

Tell me something you know very well:

that the audience who applaud your coronation is the same audience who cheer your beheading.

Tell me something you hope for silently:

that the chains will melt, the threads will be broken apart,

there will be no facades, your identity will be clear to yourself,

for there is only One to please.

---

I'm not particularly happy with how this writing came out, I feel it is missing so many things, I want to say a lot but can't get it out. (can you tell academics are eating me alive) Not really satisfied with the poem either. Not sure if this makes sense or if anyone noticed, the poem starts with a proper rhyming structure but that slowly ceases towards the end, I wanted to capture the process of breaking free from people pleasing. I don't know if that was effective but yeah. Wouldn't have posted this but I'm telling myself it's okay to.

love,

Afifa