Mariam Abdelhalim

Mariam’s Story

My face  is plastered with my toothless smile as I rush to the carpool line, my little legs propelling me forward. My dark hazel eyes scan for the familiarity of my father’s car. My smile falters as I recall the times I was left forgotten by him at school. This day is different as I slide into the backseat, and instantly inhale the scent of cigarettes. The now fading sunlight beats down on me through the window; the brightness so in contrast with the dark hues of my raven hair. As my childhood home appears in my line of sight, I feel fear as I remember the wild dogs lurking unseen. Nonetheless I run inside and race to my few art supplies. Writers put their emotions into words, I am an artist, so I put mine into my brush strokes. Painting provides me with an escape from the hardships of my home. Although, I was never oblivious to the nighttime arguments between my parents and of my father’s negligence. I simply chose to see the positive in life. My parents divorced following my father’s escape to Jordan, and I did not inhale the scent of cigarettes for years. He had his lies, and we had our restraining order. Times became tough and child support never came. The change in my lifestyle was not easy but it was welcome and needed. Painting came easier, and I often found my hands mirrored the rich colors of my canvas, splattered with paint.

Not only does painting give me a way out of my life but stories also do.  As a child, the stories that were a source of joy for me were, not stories of damsels in distress, but of the girl who saved herself. Luckily, I grew up hearing of my mother’s adventures with her eleven siblings. After the terrorist attack on the twin towers, misconceptions grew about Iraq. I found myself fiercely wanting to defend my second home. The media portrays it as the desert country ransacked by bombs and terrorists. However, I understand the misconceptions, and I do not blame others for their fears. 

In Iraq, I would wake up basking in the scent of fresh pita bread and find myself in awe of buildings awash with bright colors as sunlight chased the shadows away. I never saw a dangerous country in turmoil, which is why I did not expect to hear the word directed at me as I sat in my seventh grade class. Terrorist. My face fell. I never thought I was a terrorist. The terrorists were the ones who killed my cousin while he fought for his country. The terrorists were the ones who took my ability to visit that beautiful country away. The terrorists were the ones who destroyed my family’s homeland, yet I was viewed as one. The boy got but a slap on the wrist. I got a lifelong reminder. 

I no longer harbor resentment for that moment of ignorance. I learned from it. My feelings toward my past and my family form the base of my existence like the colors I choose to coat the canvases of my paintings. My decisions in life highlight and create the shadows that add depth to the painting I call my life. My thoughts serve as my brushstrokes and can change direction as I will. The transition from high school to college dictates the landscape and the colors I will use. A painting is only finished when the artist deems it so, but I have only begun to prime the canvas of my life.

Education

School: Homewood High School

Expected Graduation: May 2021

GPA: 3.9