I’m sure you’ve heard this before: As a biracial person, I’ve never felt like I fit into either of my parents’ cultures. And, like a lot of people desperate for a sense of belonging, I’ve spent most of my life trying to assimilate.
Though my mom told me I was beautiful, I always doubted her. Instead, I was envious of white celebrities and influencers and classmates with straight thin bodies, sloped narrow noses, straight yet voluminous hair, and defined cheekbones. Eurocentric beauty standards were force-fed to me until I began to enjoy them, welcome them, seek them out. I began to believe that this was the only meaningful version of beauty, and embracing this particular brand of beauty would make me feel like I belonged.
For much of high school and college, I’d flat iron my naturally curly hair into submission. I’d get my hair dyed at the salon, balayage-ing it into being brunette with blonde-ish highlights, rather than black. I’d sit in the hairdresser’s chair for hours as my color was lifted and replaced with something new and ostensibly better. I thought my nose was too big and I hated the little bump on my bridge, so I’d research rhinoplasty during bouts of insecurity. For me, attaining a certain beauty standard meant that I would finally feel that sense of belonging. Beauty held this outsize power, as though attaining it, or whatever version of it I sought, would solve my problems. I believed I would shed all of my insecurities once I reached this point. The only thing I had to do was get rid of the elements that made me, me.
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Despite the time, money, and energy I put into these efforts, it didn’t seem to change much. I still felt insecure. And I still felt like all anyone cared about was my race.
In college, I often fielded questions about my ethnicity. New friends and potential romantic partners would inevitably ask me about it. They’d call me ethnically ambiguous, which sounded like the politically correct version of “exotic”. This question of “what are you?” has endlessly frustrated me. Why couldn’t I just be me? It often felt like race was the most interesting thing about me when it was something I tried to erase. I didn’t want to be fetishized. I wanted permission to define myself on my own terms rather than on others. It seemed like all my efforts to assimilate had failed.
But instead of questioning their preoccupation or my own internalized racism, I’d reveal my ethnicity, hiding my irritation with a smile and a laugh. And then I’d redouble my efforts to aesthetically assimilate by chemically straightening my hair, and compulsively exercising to attain an ever-thinner body with a tiny waist and a thigh gap.
By chasing the dominant culture and this elusive sense of belonging, I left parts of myself behind.
As a kid, I barely participated in Sunday school because I didn’t feel Jewish enough. I didn’t look like the rest of the kids at my synagogue, and so I rejected that side of myself. I eagerly awaited my Bat Mitzvah because, per my agreement with my parents, it meant that I’d no longer have to attend synagogue and would no longer feel this sense of (somewhat self-imposed) isolation.
I didn’t resemble my Filipino aunts, grandparents, and cousins, so I made no effort to learn more about my heritage, history, or even how semi-distant family members were related to me. I would sometimes be embarrassed by my Filipino grandpa, whom I love so much, simply because his proximity to me revealed that I was, in fact, not 100% white.
I thought I could be contextless, floating around without the baggage or history of my ancestors or even my parents. I thought that that was a boon of the dominant culture. To never have to explain yourself and your background. To be taken at face value. But in this pursuit, I gained little and lost myself.
I stopped dyeing my hair in 2018. I have tried my best to embrace my natural curls. I’ve grown to love my face and my body for what it is, rather than what I can manipulate it into being. Rather than viewing non-Eurocentric physical attributes as flaws, I see them as vital elements that help me stand apart.
Make no mistake - this has been an ongoing process. I still get preoccupied with parts of myself that I can “fix”. I still struggle with internalized racism that has continued to follow me. But I’m realizing that manipulating yourself in the name of beauty is ultimately fruitless. Because beauty is innate in all of us. It’s been there from the beginning, you just have to learn how to see it.
I know, another (over a month-long) hiatus. I was inspired by the British (ie, releasing three episodes of a TV show and then letting five years elapse between seasons). Just kidding, I’ve just been busy with a new job (exciting!). I’m going to stop rambling now and link some words/audio I enjoyed this past month:
Olivia Rodrigo and the Impossible Pressure to Stay a Prodigy by R.F. Kuang (Time)
All the coverage on Marisa Meltzer’s recent release, Glossy: Ambition, Beauty, and the Inside Story of Emily Weiss’s Glossier, including this interview by Jessica DeFino. If you know me, you know that I’ve long been a follower of the Glossier cult (and am arguably still in it). As I type this, I’m staring at my pink Glossier hoodie across the room from me. Suffice to say, I will consume anything Glossier-adjacent, both glowing and critical.
How the anti-inflammatory diet healed/ruined me by Rae Katz
Stranger Than Fiction, a series from The Shameless Book Club podcast. I particularly enjoyed their episode, “The author who was fact-checked live on air” about a feminist author who fell from grace (and became an anti-vaxxer along the way).
That is all - thanks again for reading :)
Mia