THIN LONG MODEL LEGS

Arms outstretched as far as possible, knees locked and calves cramped--I endured the last five minutes of my mother’s routine leg massage, with its promises of thin, long model legs. By now I had grown accustomed to this practice that was rooted in culture rather than science. Even when I was a toddler and didn’t understand the concept of height or weight, my mom believed these massages would bless me with self-confidence. In reality, it was chipped away with every pull and squeeze. It’s hard to remember details about your childhood; it’s hard for anyone. But my takeaway was founded on body image issues, acquired from the influence of my mom. Just like lineage tends to do, she got these influences from her mom too. As a kid growing up in a predominantly white area, in an overwhelming white American society, I was rendered powerless by my Korean-American existence, one that both wanted me to take pride in my culture, but also reject the qualities that made me othered.

As any child would, I resented every trait that made me different. I resented my pin straight black hair, flat nose, and slanted eyes. Though it happens less, I still dread the start of a new school year, waiting for teachers to mistake me for either of the 2 East-asian girls in my grade. Even after being at the same school for 11 years, each year seems to feel like my first. After returning from my second day of first grade, I approached my parents at the dinner table with a demand: “I want to dye my hair blond.” Sensibly, my parents said no immediately, but asked for an explanation. I masked my insecurity with the argument of self expression, refusing to admit to my parents and myself that my envy ran deeper than just hair color. Being blond was my strongest surface level desire I had at age 6. What I really wanted was to be perceived as if I was a white girl. I wanted to complain about how my hair gets frizzy in the humidity and I wanted to be able to compare my eyes to beautiful things. Knowing that I would never be able to change the color of my eyes or the texture of my hair, I looked for another option. Though I never did dye my hair, I spent hours and hours at that dinner table sobbing and begging for that box of hair dye, truly believing that I could undo my heritage if I let the toxins of buttery blond seep into my roots.

As I got older, I learned that insecurities were frowned upon and confidence was attractive. I suppressed my inner conflict and learned to appreciate my pin straight hair for being easy to manage and my slanted eyes for being unique, but my heritage’s definition of beauty continued to infiltrate my mind. When my self esteem is at a low, I remember my mother’s leg massages and get upset for being so quick to shake her off as I got older. Though I know that I will never like the way my legs look regardless of their form, I often wish I had those thin, long, model legs my mother and her friends were always talking about. At nine years old I discovered what a thigh gap was during volleyball practice. Without knowing why or what a thigh gap was called, I longingly stared at the negative space between my best friend’s thighs, and then looked at my own legs, disgusted. I stood in front of the mirror that night pulling my legs apart, trying to mold myself like clay, like my alterations would stick if I held my legs long enough. My mother had no issue with my self hatred, instead labeling it as motivation. Every time my self worth was lessened by a blemish she would tell me to take care of my skin, every time I would go up a clothing size, no matter my age, she would tell me to run more. Every time I would look at myself and appreciate absolutely nothing, she would tell me we could fix it with her comforting motherly voice, leading me to believe that all she wanted to do was help. I know she does it all with love because that’s how her mother did it and her mother’s mother before that. I know that when she mentions a family friend’s successful cosmetic surgery, she means well. She really does. But many hurtful actions begin with good intentions.

The remaining common sense I have left will not allow me to consider my body or my appearance to be the most interesting or significant part about me. That being said, I truly believe that my struggle with self image encapsulates many parts of my identity: the difficulties of being a minority in an aggressively white school and how Korean culture prioritizes physical beauty. For every piece of me that exists, there is a part that no longer does. Suppressed by vanity, suffocated by unforgiving standards, I still exist but only with continuous, conscious effort. As the strong girl my father raised, I feel vain for the large space that body image takes up in my mind, but as my mother’s daughter, I resent myself for not thinking about it more.

I’d like to think that as I get older, the significance of my appearance will shrink into a passing thought, but I know it’s bigger than that. It’s my relationship with my mom and my heritage, my ‘okayness’ with looking different most of the time. It’s the dividing line between my cultural identity as a Korean American and my desire to seamlessly blend into a white America.

It says everything about how I am perceived by others, but very little about who I actually am.

I may always find identity and self-acceptance to be a challenge. I think most people, if they’re being honest, can say some version of the same. But for right now, my ability to recognize where these insecurities come from helps me cope with not having blond hair and thin, long, model legs.