Our mothers, fathers, brothers say we- Iranian girls- must cover our hair/ not-shine/ hide, that before marriage our hands must be as soft as Damask rose petals, that we must watch- on repeat- Snow White, thanks Disney, that one red blood drop, one thorn. And we do. We lather whitening creams, shedding our dark, wiry hairs, unwanted/ in-the-way, our limbs smooth like China porcelain, England porcelain, no such thing as Persian porcelain, yet we try, we do. Really. We dread our caramel skins, licked by the sun, our hairs that refuse to remain blond, black roots sprouting in protest over night, Is it already time for the hair salon? The smell of bleach, ammonia, despair. They say our throne is our kitchen which must smell of steaming Basmati rice, saffron brewed almost as red as our own blood, our silence a weapon of peace offered over rosewater, over crushed pistachio, over chopped walnut Baqlavas. Our eyes belong on the ground, counting heat-cracks, tracking lost rings, lost youth, lost key chains to homes bubbling with children, perching watermelon-bellied husbands, rough mustaches scraping our cheeks that bloom with red rashes. Snow-White long gone. When did we become as despised/sour/hurt as the stepmother? We get her. Sometimes. “Stay for the children”, “What will the people say?”, the voices of our mothers, fathers, brothers fill our kitchens, still, our heads throbbing, until we can’t hear much else except who’s the fairest of them all. Stupid Snow-White, singing I’m waiting for the one I love to find me today. Don’t wait, we want to tell her, but Disney’s shows only yelled at us one-way, never listened to our side anyways. By now, we know better, a woman goes to a husband’s home, in a white wedding dress and leaves, wrapped, arm tucked in, legs obedient, in a white burial shroud. By now we know, no one is coming to save us. Save yourself, Snow-White. Save yourself.
