The Sound of Ugly by Caroline Haddad
It was unfair for you to call me after all this time. This is over." I fumbled with the red button on my screen, jabbing at it until my ex's name finally disappeared. Looking around, I realized my mother was in the room. Her figure hung at the side of the door, and the faint perfume of peaches permeated in the air. I'm not sure if she had been there the whole call, or if she had just walked in. "Julia, I hope you weren't ugly," she said with her southern accent, making the phrase pierce the air and reverberate off my walls.
My apartment is small. When I found it, those cramped walls, white and spackled by the previous owners, seemed like a goldmine. It's hard to find a big apartment when you are working off the income of a struggling Broadway actress. But the walls aren't empty now. The day I got this apartment, I stormed in with nails, art, mirrors, and paint. I made this place all my own. Plastered with all things New York and Broadway.
My mom and my 5 year old niece, Claire, had come up from my small town in North Carolina to visit. Last time I saw them was Christmas, but that was still in my mother’s territory. She now stood next to my Funny Girl poster. The bright red shining and glimmering. Deeply entrenched in all things Broadway, the paper image sealed by scotch tape seemed to overpower the woman who stood before me. Her words rang in my ear and warped into something new like a reflection in a spoon that replayed phrases so common and infused in my childhood, but far from me now.
That phrase had seemed so normal when I heard it for the first time in 1st grade. When my grandmother said it to me after I told them about a typical mean girl. When I nodded and crossed my tiny legs, sinking into her floral couch cushions. Ugly. Ugly was speaking up for yourself. It was a confrontation. It was being bold. My younger self didn't want to be ugly. No. Not ugly to my grandmother. As if standing up for myself would morph me into someone physically unattractive, like an ogre, to others. That word's harsh bite came through, even with the thick accent and cheery tone. But that southern accent veiled more than just a simple harmless phrase.
My mother stood in my apartment; her grey eyes looked like my grandmother's. Her face was relaxed, unphased, not burning with anger or resentment. Her eyebrows were lifted inquisitively. As she stared, I became aware of my facial expression. Furrowed and pensive, but I kept it that way. My niece shuffled into the room, and her eyes fixed upon me. They were a deep blue and looked just like mine used to. Light danced and flickered within them. Her face was kind and still untouched by the passive aggressive and controlling undertones of our Southern culture. My brain started to filter through moments like sifting vinyl at the record store. The different melodies were sayings from my childhood. Each memory now felt slightly off, like a song played at the wrong speed.
"You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar." That one from my record store of memories was factually true; I learned that in biology class in high school. But, when my mom said that when I was 13, she wasn't telling me biology knowledge. She was telling me to be sweet for others in all situations. When I was 13, I didn't care about "catching flies," and I sure wasn't one to do it by being sweet. Honey, a common nickname for girls down south particularly from men, felt like being stuck in a cage too small. Honey which drowned feelings to make room for sweet expectation. Honey meant a smothered voice; no standing up, no being loud. Honey was a curse.
"She's got a mouth on her." My father's friend said after hearing me disagree with his son. I heard it from the other room, and I decided I wouldn’t talk to the boy for a week. Couldn’t allow myself to be loud and disappointed. It didn't matter that I was right, I had realized. Boys in middle school did not like to be proven wrong. I had to fit into that small cage, a perfect box all wrapped up and ready to be given.
All of these phrases felt like little needles, poking into my heart, barely noticeable, but they soon left holes. Holes filled with that same honey, where I couldn't yell at someone for stealing my taxi or even politely ask the waiter to return my food when they gave me the wrong thing. Every word tried to put me in a mold I didn't fit into, but the imprints were still made. Since living in New York, I've had to learn to unstick the honey from those holes.
My niece began tugging on my shirt, and told me she loved the burning red color. I felt the weight of a thousand dumbbells on my chest when I glanced over at my mother. I didn't look at her as I always had; my eyes were fixed on the woman standing there. With the light of the city illuminating her, she was small. She probably had two inches on me, but she didn't feel like she could ever tower over me now. Her arms and legs lacked muscle because she thought women should never be muscular but always thin; just like her voice, which never raised above a whisper. I'm not sure what she used to be like when she was in first grade, but as my hands ran through my hair, I got the sense that she was the same as me. That she had the shimmer, the same burning hot passion, the same strength that I saw in my niece that I have tried to restore my whole adult life.
"Mom, he deserved ugly," I said. My eyes pulled away from the faded silhouette of my mom and shifted to Claire, still pulling down with all of her might on my sweater. "You know, red would look really good with your eyes," I said to her, gently taking her hands.
She stopped tugging, and her back straightened. Her gaze, which was framed by vibrant pools reflecting the lights of New York, grew wider, and with it, her smile.
A car honked from the busy street below, with each person walking as fast as lightning to their own destination and I heard someone say, "Watch where you are going!" I laughed and pulled her close to me, her eyes fixed on her eyes fixed on the glowing city below, where horns screamed and heels clicked and no one ever said sorry for taking up space.
“You know, New Yorkers love loud.”
