My mother saw a photo of me “with hair cut uneven as if rats ate it” and in a fit of pure rage called me to tell me that all the freedom she gave me has ruined me. I did not understand. What was this freedom she talked of? Was she referring to the ownership of my own body as something she had granted me? I felt like Chetan Bhagat had just walked to me, handed me a ‘half girlfriend’, and said “you may now read it. I grant you the freedom to.”
I shook my head free of thoughts and said “Mumma I know the line. I won’t hurt myself. But this is my body”
She told me that it’s not. That we share a surname and what I do reflects on her. My body was her’s.
“but what’s the problem Mumma?”
“why can’t you do some acceptable fashion? why this? What will people say?”
My body was people’s.
I knew then to stand firm and say “no” what is mine is mine. She was going to have to be okay with it. But she is an older generation, unlike my boyfriend, who is cool. He was okay with me meeting the guy I had a crush on. I was glad he was okay. My friends were appreciative because “wow, how liberal”, “how sweet”, I had “found a keeper”. I was thankful for his ‘okay’. He wasn’t “allowing me”, “giving me the freedom to” like I was a pet trying to jump on his couch. But something felt wrong, the ‘okay’ felt like a tight pair of pants: flattering on the bum but uncomfortable when you sit. It took me till now and a few ‘looking at people’ to realize why it is tough to point a finger at ‘okay’. ‘Okay’ masquerades as good. It camouflages almost, the authoritarian stand one must take to bestow ‘okay’ onto someone. The fact is that to be ‘okay’ with the dog rolling on your bed, you must own the bed and the dog. With ‘okay’ come chances for ‘not okay’. It is tougher when it comes with “for your own good”. Can I choose to do something that is not for my own good? I just roam around in the pair of pants a size too tight, people complimenting my behind. Who owns your mind?