Being an Indian-American girl who’s traditionally supposed to love dressing up in long skirts and short blouses with pounds of jewelry attached to my body during Indian festivals but instead hates every single part of that ensemble, I’ve never fit the stereotype. Especially because I’ve always screamed at football sacks and gloried in my perfectly placed punches during sparring matches in Taekwondo. Even then, I’ve always felt out of place because of my love for classic “boy” activities.
My outsider-feeling only continued as classmates called her mismatched, cotton and plastic, black-and-white eyes ugly. I used to think the glares and giggles directed at Laurie McSquiggles, a made-up name for my real monkey hat, was because people couldn’t believe a seventeen-year-old girl could be confident enough to parade a big, red-mouthed monkey hat in the Hunger Games of high school.
After a while, I became accustomed to the whispers and judgment as I marched through the hallways with Laurie sitting on my head. It was as if Laurie couldn’t hear the insults with her own cushioned ears. Well, I guess she really couldn’t hear anything, but sometimes I liked to think she could. Especially when I’m watching a basketball game, and my team is in the NBA finals, and the only thing I can do in the last four minutes is scream at the TV so loudly that those white, cotton ears of hers fall off in support of my yelling and our Golden State Warriors.
Nothing stopped me from walking the tightrope of my teenage years, with Laurie following me down the line. Her presence was so glued to me that sometimes, I wouldn’t notice the cotton beanie on my head when I stepped onto the mats in my Taekwondo studio. To this day, my instructor jokingly reminds me that I can’t wear her when I’m training.
Many people ask me why I have such an attachment to “just an inanimate object.” I guess they’ve never seen Captain America to know his star-inscribed shield embodies nationality that extends beyond “just a shield,” or read Harry Potter to know his lightning scar is a journey of good and evil that represents more than “just a scar,” or watched the Wizard of Oz to know Dorothy’s ruby, red slippers were her feeling of home that emotes more than “just some shoes.”
My point is, she’s not an inanimate object. Her frizzy pigtails with the woolen strands emulate my own thick black braids, which my mom has dutifully styled for me since I was in kindergarten. The rebellious sparkle in the mismatch of her eyes has always reminded me of the strong-headed and opinionated optimist that I am.
My usual answer to the judgmental question, “Why would you ever wear that hat?” has been that she traps warmth in the (nonexistent) cold of California winter weather. It would be too tedious to explain that she’s more than a beanie. But most people could never comprehend that even though I’d rather analyze any other literary element than symbolism, it’s weird to think my fictional autobiography would revolve around a monkey hat with a made-up name and a really big smile.
I know why teens stare at my monkey hat like she’s a talking animal come alive. Laurie IS hard to look at. Laurie DOES make people uncomfortable because she makes people stop and wonder about the type of person I am. Not a single person who has labeled her ugly has understood that my monkey beanie is my crazy and quirky and unapologetic personality. And with all the back-handed insults, people think I can’t take a punch.
But I’ve never cared that people find Laurie McSquiggles a little intimidating.