Staying with my younger years, I should be transparent in saying that I was not always the spunky, happy-go-lucky kid. As we’ve all learned, the media is powerful, and without even realizing it, it got to me at a young age.

I used to sit in front of my bedroom mirror, and drag my cheeks in that ever so dramatic, “The Scream” type pose. I remember thinking I had no face. It’s hard to articulate what that means, and worse off, what an elementary school kid was doing thinking something so dismal. I used to look at my family members and recognize their distinct features over mine. My mom had these large eyes, scary when angry, and a big smile and perfect teeth. My brother had these intense, piercing green eyes. To me, that was all he needed to stand out. My dad had this large nose (sorry Dad) with dark, bushy eyebrows and a crooked front tooth (sorry, Dad.)  And I examined my face and saw…nothing. I had nearly black, small eyes. I had a round face with no blemishes or any prominent birth marks on it. I had matty nearly black hair that blended next to my eyes. My only distinct feature were my teeth – a small little gap, that then had braces over them in the second grade. It was my only defining feature to me at the time; a tool that wasn’t even mine to begin with, but was mechanically engineered to make me look different, better.

I don’t know when I shifted into loving my features more. It could have been around when I started embracing my ethnicities more proudly. Or maybe as I started to grow up, and my cheekbones got a bit more defined. But then other days, even today, I look at myself and just have that same fleeting thought. It’s scary how easily these ancient ideas tend to appear like weeds in a garden.

I didn’t look like anyone on TV, and frankly I still don’t (the “you look like this celebrity” game tends to vary based on my age, and hairstyle.) My hair was not blonde nor straight. My eyes were not a different color, nor were they large and beautiful. I could not even relate myself to the Asian celebrities as I did not really even look like them.

I had convinced myself so young I had no face. I then began to question mortality and how I even was alive in my own body, and why I was in this body that had no face, but we’ll save the existential crisis for another day.

Similar to before, it took time. It took me growing into my awkward teenage body and developing my own self, and recognizing that people saw me to grow into that I did, yes, have a face. It was a face that people liked to look at, talk with, laugh with, share memories and slumber parties and playdates with. It was a face I got to make my own, decorate with makeup, shape with my curls, blemish with acne by eating bad foods. 

There is more I have to share surrounding me falling in love with the corners of myself. But for now, I can say that I did eventually learn to love the face that looked at me back in the mirror. The only time now I clasp my hands on my cheeks to recreate The Scream painting, is to rub moisturizer on my cheeks to ensure they are blemish-free. My no-faced skin is good for that, after all.

♥.