“Mehmeh,
are you pretty?”
The
question came from my 10 year old granddaughter, Gianina. That
caught me by surprise, as we were preparing the table for dinner. I
was even more surprised that I couldn't answer it.
I, instead, answered with a question, “What?'
“Are
you pretty?” Gianina asked again.
The
question is pretty straightforward. It could be answered with a
yes, or a no. But I couldn't answer it. Not so much because it came
out of the blue, but because I found it complicated.
All
I could manage was a lame, “I don't think so.”
The
simple question brought back all those growing pains of searching and
trying so hard to believe in myself. Am I pretty? Am I worthy? Am
I good enough?
The
answers to these questions feed off from others' perceptions. It
begins in the cradle. Relatives come to visit the new addition to
the family. They gather around the crib, look at the baby, a lot
of oohs and aahs all around. Then comments can range from,
“Oh,
look at the nose,” “what a pretty baby – so fair, mestisa
.” Immediately, there is the standard by which this little girl
will be judged, by others, and then, by herself. It starts with how
you look, currently mainly dictated by fashion and media. One could
say, however, culture and history also plays a part. In this case,
it goes far back to 300 years of Spanish colonization. Hence the
term, mestisa.
Where
I grew up, pretty is fair skin, long, sleek, straight hair, aquiline
nose, tiny waist, belly flat as a board. I could check only the last
two, mainly because I was too skinny. I was the dusky one, with
curly hair. And because I was what is called, morena,
I was discouraged from wearing bright colors.
“Stick
to pastels,” I was always told. Red, orange, fuchsia, electric
blue, emerald green do not go with my dark complexion. Gushing over
these colors from afar, I settled into the safety of light yellows,
olive, very light pinks and blues.
My
hair was always cropped, to tame the curls into place. How I envied
the girls with long hair. I would imagine having braids, and would
flick my head to one side pretending to take away my braid from my
face. I had to get used to the joke, “mahangin
ba sa labas?” (Is
it windy outside?) every time I entered a room with my tousled, curly
hair. To this day, I still have the nickname, “Colot” (Curly),
thankfully now affectionately shortened to Lot.
It
wasn't until I entered college, that I gained some confidence to make
some changes and decisions about how I want to look. I grew my hair
long. I was so happy to discover that the curls dropped to the tips!
I learned to wear my hair, parted in the middle, and sleeked down
and tied into a low pony tail, or twisted with a ribbon threaded
through it. Fortunately those were en trend in the 60s.
Meanwhile,
the race to look like that perfect, beautiful woman goes on. The TV
ads are flooded with products and services to stretch and straighten
the hair, powders and creams to whiten the skin, teas to melt away
the fats, sauna belts to sweat away the inches from the belly and the
waist.
Store
shelves were, and still are, crammed with Lyna and other brands of
pearl cream guaranteed to whiten your skin like a Kabuki face. There
was even White Princess, the powder you mix into a paste, spread all
over your body, and leave it on for something like 3 or more hours,
until it dries, rinse it off, and voila (!) - fair complexion! It
doesn't end there. Now there is Glutathion! It is a capsule you
take, and it turns your complexion from dusky to fair!
And
when all else fails, there is always now, photoshop, so you can lull
yourself into believing, as you gaze into your image, “Yes, you are
beautiful.”
Thank
goodness, school, and the business of growing up, although fraught
with fears and yes, pains, had kept me too busy to worry about my
complexion and my hair and my shape. Surprisingly, I began to
discover vast spaces and places where true beauty lies, not only
outside of me but even within me. When I look at the face, I do not
see the complexion, I see the eyes, where the smile begins. When I
look at a person, I do not see the hair, or the shape, I see the
heart from where love flows. When I hear someone speak, I do not see
the lips from where the sound is coming, I listen, to the voice from
which bits of wisdom and feelings fall. I found that as this
capacity to discern and see beyond what just meets the eye,
developed, albeit slowly, so did my self-confidence, my self-esteem,
my self-worth. It feels wonderful to be able to say to myself –
Yes, I am worthy. I am good enough.
I
can even look at my image in the mirror today, and I see wrinkles and
call them laugh lines. I see grey hair and I say silver. Maybe I
can even say to Gianina,
“Yes, I am pretty.”
“Yes, I am pretty.”
Women's Month
March 8, 2014
Round Rock, Texas
