Words by: Yoonji Lee
Graphic by: Midjourney
Graphic by: Midjourney
I never know what to say, so I smile and laugh, brushing it off by saying something stupid. He frowns and tells me to just take the compliment. Why can’t I just take the compliment?
This isn’t new. I’ve always had a hard time receiving compliments, where even a simple, “I like your shoes!” produces a stomach-turning, sweaty, uncomfortable feeling that makes me want to shrink into myself. Maybe even into the very silk sheets I’m lying in. And there’s probably a myriad of reasons as to why I can’t bring myself to simply say “thank you,” which probably warrants a conversation that would be every therapists’ wet dream. Maybe it’s because I don’t truly believe it myself, or maybe it’s because I can’t believe anyone would even want to compliment me seriously in the first place, mainly because I never heard it growing up due to being terrifically, seriously, and quite unfortunately, ugly.
Before sharing my childhood pictures, I always warn my friends, “I was really ugly as a kid.”
And it’s true; my formative years were full of awkward, gangly limbs, a painfully flat chest, and teeth I would categorize as “British teeth.”(Apologies to those that are British.) But besides my impressively stubborn resistance to braces, there was one particularly jarring difference between my peers and I: I wasn’t white. My face didn’t look like everyone else’s, starting from the color of my hair, to more importantly, the shape of my eyes, something I was wildly insecure about. Growing up Asian in a community composed of primarily white folk is hard enough, but growing up as a horrifically ugly Asian in a PWI provided me with some serious character building.
I can confidently say I was the most confident when I was six, where I strived to truly embody Fancy Nancy by attempting to implement her signature ribbons and frilly clothing into every aspect of my lifestyle. Aside from directly injecting sparkles into my veins, I was mostly successful; I loved feeling beautiful and I was pretty damn good at it. And while I was vaguely aware I was different, it didn't bother me at all. But then I went to school, and I was hit with a very, very rude awakening.
For most, school, and the ensuing dreaded chapter of puberty, is transformative, where everyone’s definition of beauty changes, with the general consensus being white is beauty. And for the first time in my life, I realized it didn’t include me. There were a slew of unsaid standards I clearly didn’t meet, where each strict rule felt like a jarring slap in the face. It didn’t help that I looked like the “before” from those “ugly to hot” challenges on Muiscal.ly. It was like being heavily scrutinized under a microscope: too much upper lip hair, a lack of thick eyebrows/lashes, a lack of curves, too much arm hair, and just not pretty enough. These were all things I had paid no attention to, things I had felt completely neutral about until my council of peers had unanimously decided it was wrong, deeming me ugly and undesirable.
My sparkly dresses and heels turned into highwater yoga pants from the sale section of Lululemon, ill-fitting Forever 21 tops I saw everyone else wearing, and a side part that really, seriously, did me absolutely no favors. But my complete makeover didn’t produce the results I had magically hoped for. Boys didn’t come rushing to ask me out, realizing they had mistakenly, and rather stupidly, disregarded me, and girls didn’t automatically want to be my friend because obviously, I was destined to be beautiful and popular.
Rather than the gaggle of boys I had fantasized about, I only got asked out once, by a boy I had the biggest crush on. He was so cute and popular, and he knew how to play guitar! Proof that he was a real lady killer at the ripe age of 13. In typical middle school fashion, I was approached by a gaggle of giggling girls (say that five times fast) informing me that my crush liked me, and wanted to ask me out. Soon enough, he shuffled over, his entourage of friends laughing and pushing him towards me.
If you’ve ever been in my sparkly shoes, you know exactly what happens next. Rather than the fairy-tale ending I often dreamed of, (the one where we fall in love and later make the most genetically blessed, Grammy-winning children) he told me he had only asked me out as a joke. Because the idea of being attracted to me was so unfathomable, it was funny.
To this day, I still feel wary when someone shows an interest in me. Are you pretending to like me so you can laugh about it with your friends later? Am I an inside joke among your group chats as you laugh about how stupid I am to believe you actually like me?
When you grow up ugly, you become a skeptic. Is someone flirting with me, or just being friendly? My insecurity has gotten much better over the years, but occasionally, I still feel stunted when it comes to romantic relationships. Growing up ugly means you can’t fathom the idea of anyone ever being attracted to you. Growing up ugly means you start putting too much value in external validation. You become vulnerable to niceties and any little morsel of attention. Particularly, for me at least, I accepted love from the worst people, because even the bare minimum meant the world in comparison to having nothing. You attract the worst type of people because they can smell the desperation off of you.
For a while, I would use every wish to want to be beautiful. Shooting stars, every 11:11, birthday candles, and every stray eyelash was a silent prayer to wake up looking like Madison Beer or Corinna Kopf. (I too wanted to be hot and friends with the then-popular Vlog Squad) During the worst of my insecurity, I resorted to literally plucking eyelash hairs off my eyelids to wish I was pretty. Fueled by my burning desire to be noticed and loved, I strategically constructed what I believed was the best, most beautiful version of myself. I wore the Better Than Sex mascara. I bought the Adidas Superstars. I bought obnoxiously padded bras at Pink that I had no business wearing. I spent an unnecessary amount of money at Forever 21 buying those god-awful shirts that said “Taco Tuesday.” But no matter how many trends I followed, how much highlight and eyeshadow from the Naked palettes I caked on, I never felt truly beautiful. It didn’t feel beautiful having to change myself to fit into the standard.
What they don’t tell you about growing up ugly is that it’s like a scar you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life. No matter how beautiful you become, how much you finally adhere to the impossible standards of beauty, your younger, uglier self will always exist. Is he flirting with me because he likes me, or because it’s funny? Does she want to be friends with me because we get along, or does she think I’m weird and obviously, fun to make fun of? Even if the wound heals, it’ll still leave you with a scar.
But there’s no liberation until it comes from yourself. It doesn’t come from following a million different microtrends, or from only befriending the “coolest” people, and it definitely doesn’t come from the person you’re talking to who conveniently only wants you when it’s 3am. Your younger, uglier self doesn’t exist to hold you back; she’s a reminder to be more appreciative, have more compassion for yourself, and to be kinder! Don’t be a dick, and give yourself some love.
So when you tell me I’m pretty, I’ll just say thank you.