A writer faces herself and her Korean heritage’s beauty standards.
I used to look in the bathroom mirror and imagine a very different version of myself. My stern dark brown eyes staring back. My nose that doesn’t appear as flattering in the front profile as it does from the side. But it was my mole and freckles that I always wanted to change. I tried hard to erase them with copious amounts of concealer that was a shade too light. Only in the last handful of years have I really learned to like my face. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t love every feature — I still nitpick the width of my nostrils and the less desirable shape of my monolid eyes. Perhaps over time, I’ll come to appreciate these socially constructed imperfections, as I did with my mole and my freckles.
“Why don’t you get that removed while you’re here?” my great uncle (a man who may or may not have had ties to the mob) would ask me as we returned to Korea to visit my mom’s side of the family, stepping out from the airport terminal into the soupy Seoul air. He would casually suggest the same surgical procedure while we slurped noodles from icy cold broth for lunch, claiming in Korean, “It’s bad luck, makes you cry a lot.” I thought about how often I cried, which was actually pretty often. Then he’d point with his pinky to the dark-brown dot underneath the outer corner of my left eye, a perfectly round spot no wider than a slightly used pencil eraser.
ON FRECKLES AND ASIAN FETISHIZATION
The first time he mentioned it I was 10 years old, my feet barely touching the floor from the sofa of my grandma’s living room that was adorned with her growing collection of Lladró porcelain figures. Immediately I became embarrassed and could only muster a nervous laugh in response. I had never seriously considered “removing” such a defining part of my face, Korean superstition or not, even if there were moments when I wanted to rip this so-called “beauty mark” right off along with all of my freckles.
In sixth grade, a particularly ruthless eighth-grader who kind of resembled a cartoon chicken took pleasure in taunting me, mockingly asking if there was chocolate on my face. She did this without fail during free period for the entire month before summer break. There was also this toxic high school crush, a boy with a raspy voice and messy blonde hair, who fetishized my mole to the point where I felt wanted at best and objectified at worst. “Your eyes are so cute, especially right there,” he pointed at my mole. Meanwhile my freckles — which appeared in kindergarten as a sprinkle of light brown flecks on both cheeks, a product of my genetics and a Californian childhood spent in the sun — had been a source of self-consciousness since middle school when teen magazines in the late nineties promoted page after page of poreless, spotless Noxzema-clean complexions.
ON LIGHTENING THE COMPLEXION
At thirteen I was already uncertain of the expanding constellation across my face, connected by newer, darker spots that bloomed just below the nose bridge, when I was flung into the world of department store beauty counters thanks to my hormonal acne-prone skin and my gift-with-purchase obsessed mother. Most brands, especially the Asian ones, promised skin-lightening results. In an attempt to fit in, to meet white-washed Western standards, I wanted to scrub and cleanse and tone and moisturize my identity away. I tried it all, from squeezing lemon juice across my cheeks and slathering on brightening creams to only wearing SPF 50 and limiting the hours I spent outdoors. Instead of becoming “beautiful,” I was closer to becoming a vampire, in both lifestyle habits (avoiding sunlight like the plague) and resemblance (think a less milky and more deathly pallor).
By the time I moved to New York for college as a bronzer-dusted Los Angeles transplant, my attitude shifted alongside make-up trends. “I love your freckles” was a common icebreaker during rooftop parties. “I always wanted freckles,” a sweet barista remarked at the register. I grew more comfortable, even more confident, about my appearance with each compliment. Suddenly there were felt-tipped freckle pens at Sephora and YouTube tutorials on how to use them. It seemed almost unreal but at the same time reassuring to witness friends paint faux freckles onto their faces. “You’re so lucky to have them naturally,” one of them said as I watched her reflection while getting ready for a concert. It was as if I had what everyone desired, an unfamiliar feeling that I slowly allowed to take up precious space in my mind.
FINDING CONFIDENCE AND ACCEPTANCE
This newfound confidence also encouraged me to develop a fondness for the birthmark that I began to see as a signature trait of mine instead of a blemish or a curse. It wasn’t just the effects of external validation; I was finally learning to see, know, and accept parts of myself that I wasn’t able to before. Maybe that was the magic of maturing, the beauty of time passing. It may have taken decades to get here, but I now take pride in my extra patches of pigment (while still remaining diligent about sunscreen, of course).
Sometimes I imagine my face sans dot and spots. I don’t recognize that person in the mirror, that bare-naked stranger. Who is she? Definitely not me. Not the person who for her whole life has identified with — and been identified by — these facial markings. Recently, I was sitting at the counter of a neighborhood bookstore-slash-wine-bar when a new acquaintance, a friend of a friend with a soft smile and calming voice, expressed how they found my mole to be beautiful. Not only was I blushing, fully flattered, but I finally agreed with them.
Mia Kim is a writer, copywriter, and copy editor based in New York City. Read another AAPI story about Tracy Wan’s experience of learning to care for herself despite her immigrant mother’s asceticism.
