by Valerie Wu
Start from 0:00, “How I Grew Up as an Asian American.” I realize that there are “visuals” in this world, roles for the individual in a society based on aesthetics. I recognize that I do not fit into any of them.
Advertisements on the television screen say that I need to lose weight, be whiter, have harder edges. When relatives speak to me at family dinners, their voices are acidic. Lose some weight. You’re not pretty enough. You’re not tall enough. My skin soaks all of it up like a sponge, except there’s no cotton pad to dilute it. They tell me to use an ex- foliator. I want to peel away the bits of me that aren’t good enough, or that appear like they aren’t necessary. I scrub and scrub and think that someday I can be beautiful too.
At home, I read articles on “How to Achieve K-Beauty Blogger’s ‘Glass Skin,’” and then I borrow bottles of foundation and BB cream from Korea. I keep hydrated. I wash my face twice daily, try to pinch the fat parts off. The girl on the screen says that if I follow all the instructions, then I can have glass skin too. You can see right through it; it’ll be transparent.
Every day, I see videos of beautiful Asian girls online, at least five inches taller and with better skin. I see beauty that comes from how smooth your skin is, or whether part of your jawline is reduced. I plaster tape on my eyelids to create folds. I buy a face roller, become devoted to it with an almost alarming intensity, just like the girls on my screen do. I start thinking that if I work hard enough, I can be like them too.
At sixteen, I come home and listen to my playlist, a combination of beauty videos and K-Pop songs. I paint my nails over my biology textbook. I start learning about yellow fever and fetishization; I wonder if I can only be attractive in the white gaze. My friend Carolyn comes over on Friday nights, and we talk about the girls in SM Entertainment, whether Taeyeon is really prettier than Yoona or how much better Seulgi would look if she would just cut her eyelids, or at least sew the folds together. We watch beauty videos, thinking about whether we’re “Asian” attractive or “American” attractive. We pour tanning oil down the sink as a way of “deconstructing” beauty ideals, but we talk about aesthetics as if they aren’t mere judgements of beauty, but judgements of ourselves.
“I wish my mom had let me go to Korea when I was twelve or something,” I tell her, “then I wouldn’t have to study for the bio test. Or I wouldn’t have to study at all. I could just look pretty and be on ads and stuff.”
Carolyn laughs. “You’d still have to lose weight and get plastic surgery.”