expired lipstick, clothes with the subtlest of holes that go unnoticed at first look, maggot-infested chocolates and malicious threats delivered with a smile— these are the gifts we have received over the past decade.

oppression takes many faces.

this is one of them. it’s very deliberate and subtle. ugly, conceited, and has put itself up on a shrine like a narcissist who is afraid to look below and see that the shrine is just a chair. might be bejeweled, but just a chair to sit on.

it gazes upon my clothes, one shoulder exposed, electric purple bra strap showing, my trousers covered in strawberries and chocolate jam from a few years ago whose stain is more loyal than a lover. it’s gaze on my unshaved legs, no better than a mans; my fingernails chipped and half-covered in washed-away cheap nailpaint whose fumes can get me high (probably). it looks at our faces, me and my family’s— smiling and without complain. it assumes a good life, a hearty life, a more than fulfilled life, a wastefully rich life. it’s not rich but yes, it is more than what other’s have, it is enough. it is privilege even though it doesn’t compare to the privilege they have.

pity. disgust. wonder. amusement. four it’s. four different types of gazers, thems.

pity brings me ratty, old, torn clothes, “here, i brought this a while ago but it doesn’t really fit me. i wore it once and washed it.” it’s okay, i don’t mind. almost all the things i use as mine have hardly only been mine. even the air i breathe is borrowed. i don’t mind, i wear thrifted clothes, i don’t want to contribute to over consumption, i want to be happy with less, want to be creating more than consuming. but, but, but.

unusable, of a color i hate to derogate but want to, clothes that nobody would choose to wear— that you didn’t choose to wear. clothes that are a way of reminding my parents that they’re not doing enough for me. clothes that you think i need. clothes that are so evident of cruelty disguised as kindness, clothes that i do not need, clothes i never asked for.

is it a gift if it makes me feel smaller than i am?

disgust gives my mother an expired lipstick. sitting on our table, as family, as friends; disgust eats the food my mother prepares. disgust is a guest and she sits and laughs with us, humors us. before leaving, she chucks a gift to my mother. it is a lipstick, later identified to have been expired and the expiry date tampered with so we couldn’t figure it out. but…why? why would you hurt a woman who feeds you?

is it a gift if it comes from a devious, neglectful heart?

wonder brings things more like a cat. wondering how the receiver would react: a dead mouse, a twig, an acorn. for me, however, wonder brings me rotting food on a pretty tray, served as a hearty meal. it stinks when i open it and i have to try not to gag. but i have to thank it with a smile, “thank you, thank you for being kind enough to look at expired food and thinking of us. thinking, ‘i should give this to my neighbors’.” wonder brings me stupidity because why did it ever think that someone’s waste can be another’s meal? trash could be treasure, sure, but only the ones that are less exploited. if you’ve reaped all benefits from something, then what’s the point of giving it away? it is as good as waste.

amusement lives for itself. amusement tells herself that she’s being nice and tender to those around her, those who have lesser things in life compared to her. amusement wraps herself in gold and silver, dances at her sons lavish wedding, then goes to her backyard, picks up a rock and gifts it to people around her.

don’t give me things you didn’t want to use. don’t give me the love that nobody else agreed to take. i don’t agree either. i have love, i might not have a lot but i have enough. my house is not a dumpster for all your failed attempts. they are not asking for gifts, we do not need gifts.

gift for the sake of giving— i don’t need it, i never asked for it.

my mother can make her own tint out of flowers she grows, she doesn’t need your discarded lipstick. i have parents who buy me my clothes, with the money they work hard to earn, i don’t need you to give me your torn clothes in front of them and an audience. do not oppress them with your thoughts. my parents are enough. what i have in life is enough. i don’t have the same privileges as you, but i am privileged enough. i don’t harbor greed or envy. i am not in need. and if i will ever be in need, i will turn to those who have housed me, who have fed me, who have clothed me, who have raised me, with care and compassion. not you, never you.

take back your food and chocolates, your clothes and makeup. we don’t need it. we just want people who care enough to ask if we’re doing okay, we want people who we can invite to our house without being in fear of judgment, we want people to laugh with over drinks at the dinner table, we want people who hear what we say and not the language we use.

i have enough, even if it seems like i don’t, to you. please, keep your pity, wonder, disgust, and amusement to yourself.

it’s not that i don’t love gifts. i do, oh goodness, do gifts make me cry. actual gifts, real gifts.

a person i barely knew when i moved to a new country where i knew nobody, shared a cake with me saying i should celebrate my birthday even though it has passed. that is a gift.

friends from across the world text me, stay up until late and ensure to listen to me whenever i have things to say. they remember me, keep me in their mind, they laugh at my unfunny jokes and they include me in their lives. that is a gift.

someone i’ve never met sent me their books through courier, trusting me enough to cherish the things they send. the books now are cozily living on my bookshelf back home. that is a gift.

a friend from school whom i haven’t seen in years sends me boxes full of things they think i would like. small and big, serious and unserious. whenever possible, we send each other these boxes whenever we’re geographically closer. a boxful of things we gather throughout the year, things that remind us of each other. that is a gift.

someone in school i loved like my other half spent time and energy on handmaking me a giftbox full of reminders and memories. i cherish it like a piece of my own heart. that is a gift.

clothes i received from people who care for me— i’ve grown out of them, i could never fit into those pajamas again, but i cannot part with the idea of those people thinking of me as they shopped for something i would like, that would look good on me. that is a gift.

give me love. give me affection. materials become gifts when they have love and thought poured into them. charity is kindness when the giver does it with empathy and perceives equality as being human. give me those things— give me all your thoughts and your passion and concern and time.

keep the kindness that makes you feel better about yourself, to yourself.

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