“You’re pretty for an Asian.”
At a point in my life, this was the highest praise I thought I could receive. Growing up Asian was something I hated, only because everyone seemed to hate me, too. It was the barricade that hindered me from perpetuating an ultimate beauty, from experiencing ultimate love. All I could do was make myself small, shrink my “Asianness” into dissipation, and pray that no one would notice my exhausted attempts at blending in.
My “glow up” journey has lasted my lifetime. I was fourteen when I got light brown highlights so that my hair wouldn’t be “too Asian.” I was twelve when I started wearing mascara so that my eyes didn’t look “too small.” I was nine when I began to pinch my nose shut with a clothespin so that it wouldn’t be “too flat.” I was six when I started skipping tennis practice so my complexion didn’t get “too dark.” And I was three when I got my first bowl cut.
My grandmother, my lola, cut everyone’s hair in our family. She didn’t see any good reason in paying for someone to cut a little kid’s hair, only for it to grow wild and rugged in a jungle gym, to get sticky candy stuck in its tangles. So my little sister and I spent the majority of our juvenescence sporting matching bowl cuts, and despite our two year age difference, every middle-aged mom we passed in a mall and every senior citizen we sat next to at mass asked if we were twins. They crouched down to get a better look. “They’re so adorable! What pretty girls!” We shifted shyly, each holding one of my mother’s hands, our bangs beginning to make us feel like creatures at an exotic animal exhibit. It was the last time I could remember someone calling me pretty.
That was until I was fourteen years old. “You’re pretty for an Asian.” I went home that day feeling the most beautiful I ever had, a courage only a middle school boy had the power to grant me. I’m pretty for an Asian, I’d repeat to my reflection, a mantra I clung to throughout middle school, assuring myself that I was valuable, but only as valuable as my limits allowed me to be. I let my eyes graze over the brittle byproduct of my insecurities, my attempts to conceal whatever “Asianness” I had left to tuck away. I gently brushed my finger over my nose bridge. Not perfect, but it’s getting there. I ran my fingers through my lightened hair. Digging my nails deep into my scalp, I massaged my head unlovingly, suffocating my roots with a visceral hatred, cursing them for growing out black. I reminded myself of the things about me that I didn’t have to be ashamed of, like my Spanish last name and my paler skin in the winter. Yet still, my black hair seemed to mock me, exposing me for the fraud I was.
Running.
Stamina depleting, eyes burning from the wind’s lashes, I could no longer withstand the burn. Behind me I could hear them drawing nearer, growing faster, stronger, thicker. They grazed my arms, tightened their grasp around my ankles. My body had no choice but to surrender to its black entrapment, and I lost all courage to run from my roots.
Dye, cut, straighten, trim.
No matter my efforts, my roots always won. They always grew back with determination as great as the sun’s persistence to rise in the morning. Only when I surrendered to them did I realize who my roots truly were. There was never an impeding entrapment, only an embrace.
Bowl cuts. I think about all the times I was treated like an exhibition. Compliments that were supposed to feel endearing only made me feel trapped, glued to a stereotypical image that was satisfying to the American eye.
Blowouts. I think about how much I wanted to reject those stereotypes, how much I wanted to be as far away as possible from the image I was meant to perpetuate.
But my Asianness isn’t an image to amount to, nor is it something to run away from. It is simply a part of me, a nuanced relationship that forces me to find the balance between individuality and ancestry.
It took me years to unlearn the self-hatred I was raised with, and I would be lying if I said that I have entirely healed my relationship with myself. I still have my moments of weakness. I may never have a “button nose” or a “pilates princess” body. But I do have something of my own, a beauty that is mine. Healing is no easy process. It isn’t as simple as realizing adversity and waking up better the next day. Healing myself began with healing my inner child. I held her by the hand, asked her to drop the clothespin and put down the hair straightener. She saw my wavy black hair freely flowing, roots to ends. With patience and grace, we walk this journey together.
