Beauty
Britney Spears isn’t Mexican, neither is Bloom from Winx, neither is Kim Possible, neither is Barbie, neither is Lizzie McGuire, and neither is Hannah Montana. Picking at my skin. Concoctions of lime juice to brighten my hair and skin because we had no lemons. Turning from side to side in the mirror to make sure my butt wasn’t “too big.” The second-grade version of myself didn’t want to accept not looking like them.
Sparkly yellow hair that freely flew about in the wind. Deep blue eyes that are the color of the ocean and the sky. Fair skin that would turn soft pink in the sun. Things that I had been
conditioned to think were the epitome of beauty and femininity. I didn’t even come close. Going
to the beach made the differences jump out even more. While my friends played about carelessly in the water, I was fixated on my arms. The way my thick black hair would overlap in twisting patterns. The many moles that I inherited from my mother, in various shapes and sizes, splattered like ink stains on a white carpet. My skin would only get darker in the sun. I would lay under the umbrella, slathered in sunscreen once again.
As I was growing up, this self-criticism was not specifically encouraged by my family or those close to me. It was an influence much bigger than I could even contain. It was the fair and beautiful women on beauty products, whose bright skin and smiles spoke the language of beauty. The beauty supply stores sell bottles of hair lightening spray in mass quantities. Staggering amounts of lightening creams and lotions. This expanded into adolescence when the only women I was compared to were characters stained with racial stereotypes. Never the heroine, always the maid.
Beauty is often seen as the measure of a girl’s or woman’s worth, and being so far from
that standard negatively affected my confidence and self-esteem. I remember going to a church
camp and being the only woman of color there. All of the girls stood in a massive circle around
the boys waiting to be asked to dance. Music played as I watched each girl be picked to
dance. One by one. The lines of the circle faded out as time went by, eventually leaving me to be the last person standing. This meant I was the least desirable, the leftovers. The orange candies were left at the bottom of the bag.
However, this did not last forever. As I grew, so did the world. Movies and TV shows with strong Latina characters became more accessible. This representation made me feel seen. My tan skin and dark hair were now a trademark feature of strength and sass. Although I was still considered “exotic,” I learned to separate myself from conventional beauty standards, surrounding myself with other women of color and appreciating our underrepresented beauty. After all, I wore the culmination of my ancestors’ faces. The features of strong native women and their Spaniard captors. The faces of my parents who worked tirelessly to be able to live in a new country. I recognize myself now as a product of history itself. Instead of detaching from my culture, I must wear it with pride.