She was a new student in grade two, section Batis. She had her long, thin, brown hair neatly tied in a half-pony. She, with her parents, appeared outside our room in the middle of class. Our teacher stepped out to greet them. With her mestiza whiteness, the cool ones, the usual bullies, were immediately drawn to her. When they would normally treat you like a third-world citizen, before her they bowed. This was the beginning of my silent rebellion against any form of insecurity brought about by looking Pinoy.
As a child, I watched Batibot, Agila, Valiente, Anna Luna, That’s Entertainment, Eat Bulaga, Lunch Date – all relentlessly masa shows – and all the commercials in between them. I saw just one type of face: white skin and high nose.
Lola and Mimi, grandmothers from both sides, never failed to pinch my nose up and down and back and forth to form a good, brown bridge. One day, while watching one of those shows, I took on the challenge of building one myself, squeezing a non-existent bone out of my flat nose. Until, I scarred myself. I knew it, I knew it! It was all stupidity.
I came home one day asking dad who’s prettier, this oriental looking girl (me) or the new snow white in class. Of course, after having voodooed him, he had to say, “You.”
I grew up thinking I could never be considered one of them pretty girls, until I discovered their dark little secret. It was in high school when I was walking back to the classroom when I overheard Pepper, one of the pretty, cool girls with fair skin and high nose, say to a friend, “To look pretty, you have to think and feel that you are pretty.”
Ah, words of wisdom spelled out in black and white. I walked past her feeling like I snagged some gold. I believed it; I lived it.
Slowly, it came down to me. I didn’t need a nose job or a bleaching cream to look good. I learned to feel comfortable in my own skin. Thanks to Pepper.
As a child, I watched Batibot, Agila, Valiente, Anna Luna, That’s Entertainment, Eat Bulaga, Lunch Date – all relentlessly masa shows – and all the commercials in between them. I saw just one type of face: white skin and high nose.
Lola and Mimi, grandmothers from both sides, never failed to pinch my nose up and down and back and forth to form a good, brown bridge. One day, while watching one of those shows, I took on the challenge of building one myself, squeezing a non-existent bone out of my flat nose. Until, I scarred myself. I knew it, I knew it! It was all stupidity.
I came home one day asking dad who’s prettier, this oriental looking girl (me) or the new snow white in class. Of course, after having voodooed him, he had to say, “You.”
I grew up thinking I could never be considered one of them pretty girls, until I discovered their dark little secret. It was in high school when I was walking back to the classroom when I overheard Pepper, one of the pretty, cool girls with fair skin and high nose, say to a friend, “To look pretty, you have to think and feel that you are pretty.”
Ah, words of wisdom spelled out in black and white. I walked past her feeling like I snagged some gold. I believed it; I lived it.
Slowly, it came down to me. I didn’t need a nose job or a bleaching cream to look good. I learned to feel comfortable in my own skin. Thanks to Pepper.
2 comments:
Hi! Great blog here.
Incidentally, I posted the Editor's Note -- which delves on skin color -- from Baby mag's current issue on my blog. You may want to check it out; it's one of the more recent posts ;-)
Thanks! :) I'll check it out now :)
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