THE DESPERATE, THE SWOLLEN, AND THE UGLY
How much did that teenager spend on his new kicks? How much time did that businessman spend styling his hair? How often does that woman reapply her makeup in a day? So much of our world is based on how others view us that the amount of time and resources we spend to gain approval is incalculable. I learned at a very young age that appearance is everything; I was convinced the way I dressed, spoke, and behaved would determine my self-esteem, relationships, and ultimate success in life. Other people’s standards for what was socially acceptable shaped my perception and opinion of myself and drove me to do whatever it took to fit the single, narrow perspective of “cool” that I believed existed. As a kid, my greatest desire was to be the girl that everyone talked about, envied, and mimicked, and my determination to be the prototype of “cool” only increased as I entered my adolescent years. Middle school and high school were the prime years during which every action was based on achieving the highest level of “cool” possible to make everyone want to be friends with me. I thought everyone’s admiration would somehow validate me and make me feel better about myself, so I set out to morph into the image of “cool” that every other kid but me seemed to project.
As a middle-class Asian, I felt like a minority in a school that was dominated by rich, white kids. It was hard to ignore the wealth that surrounded me when I went to school on Park Avenue on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They constantly showed off photos of their brunches at expensive restaurants and held parties at hotels. September was the worst, when they’d all rush back with stories about their great times at sleepaway camp. Scavenger hunts, songs, and campfires marked their summers while math and reading exercises to prep me for the following school year dominated mine. I couldn’t help but be jealous of their carefree, fun lifestyle. I constantly asked myself, what did these popular kids have that I didn’t? I deduced that the characteristic that made them so cool was their white heritage and thick wallets. Since I couldn’t change the genes that made me look Asian, I decided I would just have to act more “white” and do more things that implied affluence. Camp was the perfect solution to my dilemma over how to embody the “white” personality that oozed “cool”. I naively believed owning a bright-colored shirt with a camp name written across it and having friends who didn’t attend the same school would automatically make me as awesome as I thought they were. I was desperate to own the same exciting stories the white kids had that seemed to elevate them above everyone else.
For months, I worked on persuading my parents to spend thousands of dollars for a mere four weeks of fun. My mom didn’t think making friendship bracelets, playing gaga, or singing songs by the flagpole were worth my time when I could be doing academic activities that would benefit my future. But 12-year-olds don’t care about the future; the only thing they care about is what their friends think of them. Eventually, my mom relented, knowing I wouldn’t give up until I got what I wanted, and from the moment she said yes, I started planning what I believed would be the best summer of my life, one that would transform me. I was going to finally experience the world as the quintessential all-American kid I had wanted to be for so long.
For six months I dreamed about the activities that would dramatically change my identity, and when I finally arrived in the Catskills, Camp Hilltop and my dream became real. I smelled the manure left behind by horses on the trail leading up to the stables. I heard the shrieks and voices of kids ranging from six-years-old to fourteen-years-old from all directions. I saw log cabins, grass fields, trampolines, climbing towers, and a pool. I felt the hot breeze brush against my sticky neck. I shut my eyes and stared into the back of my eyelids for three seconds before slowing opening them to the world before me; it was real. I was finally amongst people whom I believed I was meant to be like: extremely cool with a plethora of exciting things to talk about. I started running towards my cabin, ready to meet my new friends and to embark on the adventures that would redefine me.
Every day I threw myself into activities that my friends back home wouldn’t believe I actually did. I wake boarded in the lake, rode down a zip line, and drove a go-kart for the first time. I was motivated to do as many new activities as possible to add to the growing pile of interesting, impressive stories that revealed my hidden talents. Reinventing myself as the impulsive, daring, fearless girl finally made me feel badass and cool. I needed to make up for lost time as the cool kid and became overambitious about what I could do to achieve this identity. As the amount of time spent under the sun increased, my body started to slow down and the fatigue intensified. I was by no means used to all this physical activity, but I arrogantly supposed my body was strong enough to deal with anything. Everyone else was able to fight off the weariness, so I dove on with my schedule full of ridiculous, out-of-my-league activities to prove myself as fit to be one of the cool kids, but my exhaustion and stupidity eventually caught up with me and forced me to reconsider my goals.
My upper arm and thigh muscles were burning, as they had been for the past week. Running across the field under the relentless rays of the sun while trying to shoot the ball towards my teammate 20 feet away was essentially equivalent to holding 10 blocks of cement while doing squats. My body was desperate for a moment of rest, but I sprinted up the hill back to cabin six anyway, pushing my legs forward through what felt like molasses instead of weightless air. I crawled up the porch steps and dived onto the brown wood floor, letting my sticky, hot face feel the rough surface of the floor. My skin tingled as I laid there enjoying the heat of the sun. My face felt taut and uncomfortable, but I was reluctant to enter the confines of the cabin to relieve it from the heat. I dragged myself into the shower, but the freezing water did nothing to cool my skin. I felt the iciness activate goose bumps all over my body, but my skin continued to feel raw and swollen. I looked in the mirror and saw my eyelids were disappearing and my upper and lower lash lines were so dangerously close together that I was convinced my eyes weren’t open. My cheeks were pudgy, squeezing into my eye sockets, and splotchy, as if I had hives. It hurt to stretch my skin to open my mouth. I look unbelievably sweaty and gross, but I was satisfied that I had completed yet another activity that proved I was capable of being cool. I was suddenly aware of how tense my entire body felt. I was afraid if I stretched too far or moved too fast, my raw skin would tear. I managed to walk to my bed without bending any of my limbs, hoisted myself up to my top bunk, and toppled over the rail. I felt and looked worse than I ever had in my life. I felt my body’s desperate need for sleep force my eyelids shut. It was only 5 P.M., but I couldn’t hold off the exhaustion any longer. I reassured myself that sleep would energize and prepare me for archery tomorrow and allowed my mind and body to finally rest.
I woke up at 3 A.M. with the sensation of something wet on my face. I touched my upper lip and felt what I thought was water. Scared that the roof was leaking, I leaped off my bunk, cringing as I landed on the floor. I had forgotten I was experiencing what I thought was just a typical sunburn. As fast as I could, I waddled to the bathroom in the dark, bumping into trunks and tripping over shoes as I went, and flipped on the light. I was so afraid of what my reflection would reveal, but I looked up: my face was completely pink and swollen and pus was oozing out from the surface. I could barely see the mirror through my eyes. My face was completely unrecognizable. Panic exponentially rose as I stared into the horrid face. I grabbed a paper towel, wetted it, loaded it with liquid soap, and started scrubbing at my face. I wanted to somehow clean the ugliness off to reveal a fresh, clear, healthy face, but it only made it worse. The small visual field I had filled with water, and as frustration and fear over what was happening to me increased, I made the mistake of looking at my upper arms. They looked exactly like my face, but with red bumps. I was suddenly aware of how itchy my arms were. Each body part was set on fire as I thought about each in turn. I looked around for help, but no one was here with me. Everyone was asleep. I couldn't bear to wake anyone up. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. What would they think? Their probable reaction of disgust and horror was enough to make me want to hide in the dark until some miracle happened. As tears stung my raw skin, I considered my options. I came up with none. For over an hour I sat by the sink wondering what the hell had just happened. For 6 months I had anticipated being at camp, the most wonderful place in the world, but now, all I wanted to do was scream until my lungs hurt as much as my face did. All I wanted to do was vanish so that no one could see my marred face. I couldn’t bear look at myself any longer so I closed my eyes, dreading the morning when I would have to face the judgmental world.
I told Nelini, my counselor, that I didn't feel like doing any activities the next day, even though I was actually extremely excited to shoot an arrow. I had walked around all morning with my hand over my face and avoided eye contact with anyone. I was terrified of facing the rest of the camp. I couldn’t hide forever, but I couldn’t face other people just yet. For 3 days I stayed in the nurse’s cabin, taking Benadryl to calm my reaction and fuming over my situation. Camp was supposed to improve my image, not make it physically worse so that I’d become even less cool. No one would want to hear any of my superb stories about waterskiing if my face looked like this. Perhaps I was just overreacting? I thought (hoped really) no one would care how I looked if I was cool and interesting enough to provide a good time, but deep down, I knew I was just lying to myself because I knew looks mattered. Hell, I had spent most of my life judging myself and others based on looks; it was my concern over appearances that got me here in the first place. Ignoring my anxiety, the next day I slathered myself in sunblock and walked out the cabin to resume my journey to ultimate coolness.
I was overly optimistic in hoping no one would notice the change in my face. Even though I had put on as much sunblock as I could without leaving a layer of white residue on my face, I only seemed to get uglier. My face continued to swell, as if avenging me for the series of stupid thoughts and decisions that led me to this level of desperation. My skin was starting to peel in places where pus had dried while other regions reflected tiny blisters. I looked like I had corrosive chemicals poured over my body, but I was hoping no one else would think it was that bad. As soon as I left my cabin, I attracted stares that confirmed my fear that the situation was as bad as I had originally thought. I bowed my head and practically sprinted toward the camp store. As I anxiously waited on line to buy an ice cream sandwich, my friend, Dillon, came up to me. Our conversation was quite mundane, leading me to believe he didn’t notice anything, until he abruptly said, “ You know, I really just want to put a wet towel over your face.” Humiliated and unable to come up with a witty comeback, I merely said, “Oh, shut up.”
All of a sudden, everyone wanted to talk to me, but not for the reasons I had hoped. No one bothered to hide his thoughts about my hideous condition. Each mean comment seemed to make my face swell a little more and to beat my self-esteem down a little lower.
“Your face is bigger than a watermelon. I didn’t know that was even possible.”
“Now I can really blindfold you with dental floss.”
“Look, even the ugly alpacas are avoiding you.”
Even my friends couldn’t help but stare and whisper about my condition. Camp Hilltop was once the place I loved the most, but now I couldn’t wait to leave, to escape the nasty remarks that I was constantly bombarded with now. I stayed indoors for the last week of camp and only signed up for activities that required little movement and interaction. I was suddenly living in an isolated bubble of perpetual shame and self-consciousness, the exact place I had hoped to avoid by coming to camp. When my mom’s car finally pulled up to take me home, I dove into the car without even a glance or goodbye to the world I had so desperately wanted to be a part of. My mom asked the dreaded question, “How was camp?” and all I could say was, “I want to go home.”
For the remainder of the summer, I stayed in my room, avoiding the sun, my friends, and anyone who had eyes and judgment to spare. After two weeks of seeing only the four plain white walls of my bedroom, my face returned to its normal size and color. I was so afraid of getting another allergic reaction that I avoided leaving my house as much as I could; even if I wasn’t able to see my friends or socialize with others, at least I had a healthy, not ghastly face to live with it. Was this solitude the price I had to pay for trying to be someone I wasn’t? Occasionally I mustered up the strength to accompany my mom on her trips to the grocery store. I’d rub excessive amounts of sunblock all over the areas that would be exposed to the sun. Each time I stepped out the door, I prayed my body wouldn’t betray me again, and without fail, my face would always start swelling within 24 hours and the weeklong process of healing would start all over. Hours were spent lying in bed, switching between anger at myself for being so ugly and fear over what others were saying about me. I wished so much that I’d stop caring so much about what others thought, but I couldn’t help obsessively wondering what their opinions of me now were.
My skin continued to have allergic reactions for the next 2 months, each time magnifying my worry over what others were saying and thinking. I became so self-conscious of my grotesque condition that I started missing school to protect others from this ugly scene. I no longer cared about being “white” or gaining the rich kids’ approval; at this point, I wanted them to forget about me, if that’s what it took to stop the bullying. Not a day went by without someone saying, “You look slimier than a snot ball” or “Looks like you’re packing nuts in those cheeks.” These comments hurt so much more than those made by the other campers because they came from the people I sought to be like, who prompted me to experience camp. I’d always put on a brave face as the crowd laughed, but I’d always give in to the tears when I was alone. I had friends who tried to make me feel better by pointing out that it’s what’s inside that matters, but like everyone else, I placed more importance on the negative comments than the positive ones and wallowed in self-pity.
Eventually, a doctor diagnosed my allergy to sunblock and my extreme sensitivity to the sun, and the reactions disfiguring me finally stopped. The taunts ceased, but my insecurity didn’t. Experiencing ugly made me realize my dependence on my physical appearance. Whenever strangers looked at me or I talked to someone new, I wondered what they were thinking. Do they think I’m attractive? What flaws are they seeing? Do they think I’m cool enough for a second conversation? These questions automatically went through my head every time I made eye contact with someone. It seemed as if these self-destructing thoughts were going to haunt me forever.
But they didn’t. Not that they disappeared completely, but they started visiting me less frequently and less forcefully as time went on. While I still remain self-conscious about my looks, I am now less interested in how others perceive them. There was no significant moment during which I realized appearances don’t matter because that moment never occurred. As my friendships and relationships changed over the years, I tried to ignore every comment that challenged my confidence and identity, but I gradually came to realize that I’d always care to some extent about how I appear and unfortunately, so will society. Everyone wants to believe that who we are on the inside is what truly counts and that our identities are based solely on qualities such as loyalty, kindness, and integrity, but we live in a social world in which the people we interact with mold our perception of right and wrong, cool and uncool, and beautiful and ugly. We can’t change the fact that others’ will always affect our behavior and thought, but we can control how and when we allow them to affect us. Since my horrifying experience at camp, I have learned that even if looks do matter, I need to realize when they are truly relevant and significant. I never achieved the “white” persona or the definition of “cool” that I sought to embody for so long, but I did achieve an understanding that “cool” is ever changing and that if I chose to care about my appearance, I couldn’t hold every opinion of it as significant. Someone will always have something mean to say, but that doesn’t mean that his opinion holds any truth or is universal. 6 years later, I am not oozing with confidence (or pus, thankfully) because gossip and insults still hurt, but I am more comfortable with myself. I still dress based on the notion that how I appear will influence society’s impression of me, but it is no longer a crisis if I don’t look my best. Considering my experiences involving image made me realize how silly it is to care so much about fulfilling everyone’s standards and gaining their approval. Just as how my allergic reaction didn’t go away overnight, learning to recognize who and what things in my life are worthwhile is also a process. The people and experiences that bring me down also push me forward towards the day when jibes no longer faze me and I act and think to satisfy solely myself.
As a middle-class Asian, I felt like a minority in a school that was dominated by rich, white kids. It was hard to ignore the wealth that surrounded me when I went to school on Park Avenue on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They constantly showed off photos of their brunches at expensive restaurants and held parties at hotels. September was the worst, when they’d all rush back with stories about their great times at sleepaway camp. Scavenger hunts, songs, and campfires marked their summers while math and reading exercises to prep me for the following school year dominated mine. I couldn’t help but be jealous of their carefree, fun lifestyle. I constantly asked myself, what did these popular kids have that I didn’t? I deduced that the characteristic that made them so cool was their white heritage and thick wallets. Since I couldn’t change the genes that made me look Asian, I decided I would just have to act more “white” and do more things that implied affluence. Camp was the perfect solution to my dilemma over how to embody the “white” personality that oozed “cool”. I naively believed owning a bright-colored shirt with a camp name written across it and having friends who didn’t attend the same school would automatically make me as awesome as I thought they were. I was desperate to own the same exciting stories the white kids had that seemed to elevate them above everyone else.
For months, I worked on persuading my parents to spend thousands of dollars for a mere four weeks of fun. My mom didn’t think making friendship bracelets, playing gaga, or singing songs by the flagpole were worth my time when I could be doing academic activities that would benefit my future. But 12-year-olds don’t care about the future; the only thing they care about is what their friends think of them. Eventually, my mom relented, knowing I wouldn’t give up until I got what I wanted, and from the moment she said yes, I started planning what I believed would be the best summer of my life, one that would transform me. I was going to finally experience the world as the quintessential all-American kid I had wanted to be for so long.
For six months I dreamed about the activities that would dramatically change my identity, and when I finally arrived in the Catskills, Camp Hilltop and my dream became real. I smelled the manure left behind by horses on the trail leading up to the stables. I heard the shrieks and voices of kids ranging from six-years-old to fourteen-years-old from all directions. I saw log cabins, grass fields, trampolines, climbing towers, and a pool. I felt the hot breeze brush against my sticky neck. I shut my eyes and stared into the back of my eyelids for three seconds before slowing opening them to the world before me; it was real. I was finally amongst people whom I believed I was meant to be like: extremely cool with a plethora of exciting things to talk about. I started running towards my cabin, ready to meet my new friends and to embark on the adventures that would redefine me.
Every day I threw myself into activities that my friends back home wouldn’t believe I actually did. I wake boarded in the lake, rode down a zip line, and drove a go-kart for the first time. I was motivated to do as many new activities as possible to add to the growing pile of interesting, impressive stories that revealed my hidden talents. Reinventing myself as the impulsive, daring, fearless girl finally made me feel badass and cool. I needed to make up for lost time as the cool kid and became overambitious about what I could do to achieve this identity. As the amount of time spent under the sun increased, my body started to slow down and the fatigue intensified. I was by no means used to all this physical activity, but I arrogantly supposed my body was strong enough to deal with anything. Everyone else was able to fight off the weariness, so I dove on with my schedule full of ridiculous, out-of-my-league activities to prove myself as fit to be one of the cool kids, but my exhaustion and stupidity eventually caught up with me and forced me to reconsider my goals.
My upper arm and thigh muscles were burning, as they had been for the past week. Running across the field under the relentless rays of the sun while trying to shoot the ball towards my teammate 20 feet away was essentially equivalent to holding 10 blocks of cement while doing squats. My body was desperate for a moment of rest, but I sprinted up the hill back to cabin six anyway, pushing my legs forward through what felt like molasses instead of weightless air. I crawled up the porch steps and dived onto the brown wood floor, letting my sticky, hot face feel the rough surface of the floor. My skin tingled as I laid there enjoying the heat of the sun. My face felt taut and uncomfortable, but I was reluctant to enter the confines of the cabin to relieve it from the heat. I dragged myself into the shower, but the freezing water did nothing to cool my skin. I felt the iciness activate goose bumps all over my body, but my skin continued to feel raw and swollen. I looked in the mirror and saw my eyelids were disappearing and my upper and lower lash lines were so dangerously close together that I was convinced my eyes weren’t open. My cheeks were pudgy, squeezing into my eye sockets, and splotchy, as if I had hives. It hurt to stretch my skin to open my mouth. I look unbelievably sweaty and gross, but I was satisfied that I had completed yet another activity that proved I was capable of being cool. I was suddenly aware of how tense my entire body felt. I was afraid if I stretched too far or moved too fast, my raw skin would tear. I managed to walk to my bed without bending any of my limbs, hoisted myself up to my top bunk, and toppled over the rail. I felt and looked worse than I ever had in my life. I felt my body’s desperate need for sleep force my eyelids shut. It was only 5 P.M., but I couldn’t hold off the exhaustion any longer. I reassured myself that sleep would energize and prepare me for archery tomorrow and allowed my mind and body to finally rest.
I woke up at 3 A.M. with the sensation of something wet on my face. I touched my upper lip and felt what I thought was water. Scared that the roof was leaking, I leaped off my bunk, cringing as I landed on the floor. I had forgotten I was experiencing what I thought was just a typical sunburn. As fast as I could, I waddled to the bathroom in the dark, bumping into trunks and tripping over shoes as I went, and flipped on the light. I was so afraid of what my reflection would reveal, but I looked up: my face was completely pink and swollen and pus was oozing out from the surface. I could barely see the mirror through my eyes. My face was completely unrecognizable. Panic exponentially rose as I stared into the horrid face. I grabbed a paper towel, wetted it, loaded it with liquid soap, and started scrubbing at my face. I wanted to somehow clean the ugliness off to reveal a fresh, clear, healthy face, but it only made it worse. The small visual field I had filled with water, and as frustration and fear over what was happening to me increased, I made the mistake of looking at my upper arms. They looked exactly like my face, but with red bumps. I was suddenly aware of how itchy my arms were. Each body part was set on fire as I thought about each in turn. I looked around for help, but no one was here with me. Everyone was asleep. I couldn't bear to wake anyone up. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. What would they think? Their probable reaction of disgust and horror was enough to make me want to hide in the dark until some miracle happened. As tears stung my raw skin, I considered my options. I came up with none. For over an hour I sat by the sink wondering what the hell had just happened. For 6 months I had anticipated being at camp, the most wonderful place in the world, but now, all I wanted to do was scream until my lungs hurt as much as my face did. All I wanted to do was vanish so that no one could see my marred face. I couldn’t bear look at myself any longer so I closed my eyes, dreading the morning when I would have to face the judgmental world.
I told Nelini, my counselor, that I didn't feel like doing any activities the next day, even though I was actually extremely excited to shoot an arrow. I had walked around all morning with my hand over my face and avoided eye contact with anyone. I was terrified of facing the rest of the camp. I couldn’t hide forever, but I couldn’t face other people just yet. For 3 days I stayed in the nurse’s cabin, taking Benadryl to calm my reaction and fuming over my situation. Camp was supposed to improve my image, not make it physically worse so that I’d become even less cool. No one would want to hear any of my superb stories about waterskiing if my face looked like this. Perhaps I was just overreacting? I thought (hoped really) no one would care how I looked if I was cool and interesting enough to provide a good time, but deep down, I knew I was just lying to myself because I knew looks mattered. Hell, I had spent most of my life judging myself and others based on looks; it was my concern over appearances that got me here in the first place. Ignoring my anxiety, the next day I slathered myself in sunblock and walked out the cabin to resume my journey to ultimate coolness.
I was overly optimistic in hoping no one would notice the change in my face. Even though I had put on as much sunblock as I could without leaving a layer of white residue on my face, I only seemed to get uglier. My face continued to swell, as if avenging me for the series of stupid thoughts and decisions that led me to this level of desperation. My skin was starting to peel in places where pus had dried while other regions reflected tiny blisters. I looked like I had corrosive chemicals poured over my body, but I was hoping no one else would think it was that bad. As soon as I left my cabin, I attracted stares that confirmed my fear that the situation was as bad as I had originally thought. I bowed my head and practically sprinted toward the camp store. As I anxiously waited on line to buy an ice cream sandwich, my friend, Dillon, came up to me. Our conversation was quite mundane, leading me to believe he didn’t notice anything, until he abruptly said, “ You know, I really just want to put a wet towel over your face.” Humiliated and unable to come up with a witty comeback, I merely said, “Oh, shut up.”
All of a sudden, everyone wanted to talk to me, but not for the reasons I had hoped. No one bothered to hide his thoughts about my hideous condition. Each mean comment seemed to make my face swell a little more and to beat my self-esteem down a little lower.
“Your face is bigger than a watermelon. I didn’t know that was even possible.”
“Now I can really blindfold you with dental floss.”
“Look, even the ugly alpacas are avoiding you.”
Even my friends couldn’t help but stare and whisper about my condition. Camp Hilltop was once the place I loved the most, but now I couldn’t wait to leave, to escape the nasty remarks that I was constantly bombarded with now. I stayed indoors for the last week of camp and only signed up for activities that required little movement and interaction. I was suddenly living in an isolated bubble of perpetual shame and self-consciousness, the exact place I had hoped to avoid by coming to camp. When my mom’s car finally pulled up to take me home, I dove into the car without even a glance or goodbye to the world I had so desperately wanted to be a part of. My mom asked the dreaded question, “How was camp?” and all I could say was, “I want to go home.”
For the remainder of the summer, I stayed in my room, avoiding the sun, my friends, and anyone who had eyes and judgment to spare. After two weeks of seeing only the four plain white walls of my bedroom, my face returned to its normal size and color. I was so afraid of getting another allergic reaction that I avoided leaving my house as much as I could; even if I wasn’t able to see my friends or socialize with others, at least I had a healthy, not ghastly face to live with it. Was this solitude the price I had to pay for trying to be someone I wasn’t? Occasionally I mustered up the strength to accompany my mom on her trips to the grocery store. I’d rub excessive amounts of sunblock all over the areas that would be exposed to the sun. Each time I stepped out the door, I prayed my body wouldn’t betray me again, and without fail, my face would always start swelling within 24 hours and the weeklong process of healing would start all over. Hours were spent lying in bed, switching between anger at myself for being so ugly and fear over what others were saying about me. I wished so much that I’d stop caring so much about what others thought, but I couldn’t help obsessively wondering what their opinions of me now were.
My skin continued to have allergic reactions for the next 2 months, each time magnifying my worry over what others were saying and thinking. I became so self-conscious of my grotesque condition that I started missing school to protect others from this ugly scene. I no longer cared about being “white” or gaining the rich kids’ approval; at this point, I wanted them to forget about me, if that’s what it took to stop the bullying. Not a day went by without someone saying, “You look slimier than a snot ball” or “Looks like you’re packing nuts in those cheeks.” These comments hurt so much more than those made by the other campers because they came from the people I sought to be like, who prompted me to experience camp. I’d always put on a brave face as the crowd laughed, but I’d always give in to the tears when I was alone. I had friends who tried to make me feel better by pointing out that it’s what’s inside that matters, but like everyone else, I placed more importance on the negative comments than the positive ones and wallowed in self-pity.
Eventually, a doctor diagnosed my allergy to sunblock and my extreme sensitivity to the sun, and the reactions disfiguring me finally stopped. The taunts ceased, but my insecurity didn’t. Experiencing ugly made me realize my dependence on my physical appearance. Whenever strangers looked at me or I talked to someone new, I wondered what they were thinking. Do they think I’m attractive? What flaws are they seeing? Do they think I’m cool enough for a second conversation? These questions automatically went through my head every time I made eye contact with someone. It seemed as if these self-destructing thoughts were going to haunt me forever.
But they didn’t. Not that they disappeared completely, but they started visiting me less frequently and less forcefully as time went on. While I still remain self-conscious about my looks, I am now less interested in how others perceive them. There was no significant moment during which I realized appearances don’t matter because that moment never occurred. As my friendships and relationships changed over the years, I tried to ignore every comment that challenged my confidence and identity, but I gradually came to realize that I’d always care to some extent about how I appear and unfortunately, so will society. Everyone wants to believe that who we are on the inside is what truly counts and that our identities are based solely on qualities such as loyalty, kindness, and integrity, but we live in a social world in which the people we interact with mold our perception of right and wrong, cool and uncool, and beautiful and ugly. We can’t change the fact that others’ will always affect our behavior and thought, but we can control how and when we allow them to affect us. Since my horrifying experience at camp, I have learned that even if looks do matter, I need to realize when they are truly relevant and significant. I never achieved the “white” persona or the definition of “cool” that I sought to embody for so long, but I did achieve an understanding that “cool” is ever changing and that if I chose to care about my appearance, I couldn’t hold every opinion of it as significant. Someone will always have something mean to say, but that doesn’t mean that his opinion holds any truth or is universal. 6 years later, I am not oozing with confidence (or pus, thankfully) because gossip and insults still hurt, but I am more comfortable with myself. I still dress based on the notion that how I appear will influence society’s impression of me, but it is no longer a crisis if I don’t look my best. Considering my experiences involving image made me realize how silly it is to care so much about fulfilling everyone’s standards and gaining their approval. Just as how my allergic reaction didn’t go away overnight, learning to recognize who and what things in my life are worthwhile is also a process. The people and experiences that bring me down also push me forward towards the day when jibes no longer faze me and I act and think to satisfy solely myself.