Growing Ugly

is this okay?

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Here’s my first encounter with the importance of not being ugly. When I was born, I’m told, my proud daddy wanted to send around baby pictures to friends and family. My mother said, “Wait until she’s prettier.” She’s the one who told me this story, many times, matter-of-factly saying that newborns, across the board, are ugly.

I wasn’t bothered by this account, nor did I place much importance on the scrutiny of my body: that I might need a surgery on my ears — they stuck out, and my hair was too thin (ears stuck out through hair), I might need a surgery to have the small light brown circular birthmark removed from my calf. My mother sewed most of my clothes, allowing me to choose fabrics and patterns, which I enjoyed, until she had to measure me. The conclusion was always the same: I didn’t have a waist; I was short, and I had my dad’s football-player neck. Mom wasn’t trying to be mean. She saw my body as a mannequin for her work, and the measurements that didn’t match patterns were a challenge. When she praised me, however, she was mean. She was jealous.

Her eyes weren’t as pretty as mine, she lamented. My hands were prettier. And she grew older: my neck was smooth. I didn’t have wrinkles. I was fifteen.