Hereʻs my question, and though itʻs mostly rhetorical, I ask in earnest: how the fuck do we know anything?
I posit that we know what we know because weʻve been taught.
Whether itʻs experiential or academic or passed down from older generations like second-hand clothes, what we know is learned, and in many situations, we only know as good as the information we are given. So, if our parents were raised with faulty logic, which they then passed to us, then we perpetuate this cycle of misinformation even if it hurts us, separates us, makes us feel like we want to die.
Your value is largely based on what you look like, and the better you look, the more value you have. But you must also have the right (silent and agreeable) personality.
1. Pretty = flat stomach, good boobs, tight ass, long hair, shapely hips, legs for days, symmetry.
2. Great personality = uncomplicated, happy, eager to please.
3. Sense of humor = laugh at the jokes. All of the jokes. That guyʻs hilarious.
4. Fashionable = skirts, dresses, form-fitting or otherwise; tiny shorts, skin-tight jeans, low-cut or cropped tops (or both!); slinky black dresses, cosmetics.
5. Bookish = boring, lazy, cerebral (read: smart [read: complicated]), too much thinky.
6. Loud = manly, masculine.
7. Muscular = manly, masculine.
8. Sensitive = complicated, emotional, stupid, crazy, naive, inconvenient, too much work. God, canʻt you just shut the fuck up and go to sleep already?
I know these things, like most girls know these things, because Iʻve watched enough television and movies, flipped through enough magazines, interacted with enough men and women, been called enough names, been given more than enough (well-meaning, unsolicited) advice.
I know enough to know that I have never been a pretty girl.
I grew up identifying as a tomboy because I knew no other words to describe what I was. None existed as far as I could tell. I grew up wanting to be just like my big brother and my dad. I dug for bugs, whacked whiffle balls with a whiffle ball bat, ran out for passes.
As teenagers, we turned tomboy into Ugly Girl-- a moniker I wore with pride. Iʻve never minded being an Ugly Girl. We were outsiders among outsiders. We were awkward and surly and unable (unwilling?) to hide it. We werenʻt popular. We were there to dance. To rock. To get sweaty, losing ourselves to the music. Not to be seen. Not to hook up. We moved in canvas shoes or Doc Martens, rocked slacks with button down shirts. When we were thirsty, we drank water out of the public bathroom sink. At one point in my youth, sick of feeling like I had to live up to the random beauty standard, I shaved my head.
Iʻve been asked many times, "Why ʻUgly Girlʻ?" It was in response to what we knew a girl was supposed to be.
But a more complete answer (and itʻs important that you remember I speak only for myself and not for any of the other Ugly Girls) is that I felt ugly.
Even as I rejected that archetypal pretty girl, I couldnʻt help but also buy into it. I was ugly because I wasnʻt any of the right things, I was all of the wrong things. I didnʻt have the ideal body, I was sarcastic, read a ton of books. I felt things deeply. I often spoke, sang, and laughed at max volume. I was smart and smart was bad, especially for a girl. I was headstrong, impulsive, defiant, and inquisitive-- all bad things for a girl to be.
These are things I knew. Things I learned.
When I was a kid, I was already self-conscious about the shape of my mouth when my dentist explained that the color of my lips was a result of me licking them so much. It made me feel like a freak because the color of my lips needed explaining. They required justification. I am still conscious of this today, folks. This shit endures.
How many different ways can a girl be told sheʻs fat? That sheʻs not enough? Her thighs touch, her face is too round, her calves too muscular. She ought to shave her legs, ought to have longer hair. Smile more, wear different clothes, put on some make up. My body seemed perpetually available for inspection and discussion in varied and humiliating ways.
My body has changed in the last few years, and especially in the last few months. I can see and feel the changes, but still itʻs confusing. Some people comment about how different I look, though most folks say nothing. And when I see myself in the mirror, I donʻt know who Iʻm looking at. I donʻt know what Iʻm looking at. When I see a photo of myself, I wonder, is that what I look like? Because the girl in that photo doesnʻt appear to be the same one I see in the mirror. Which girl is me?
And so if I take fifty photos of myself, they can all look drastically different based on the angle, time of day, amount of light, what Iʻm wearing, whether my hair is up or down, whether or not Iʻm wearing a cap, whether I smile or not. A million different variables and a million different Kananis. And cognitively, I can hypothesize that I am an amalgam of those images, but that breaks my brain. I still donʻt know what I look like. And because I canʻt verify the veracity of any photo of myself, all photos are lies.
Instinctively, I want to say that on the attractive spectrum, Iʻm closer to ugly. I would often tell people when I met them online that I look like any average Hawaiian Chinese girl. Most of them didnʻt understand, and I was okay with that.
I donʻt know what pretty is.
I donʻt know what I am. I donʻt know what I look like. And even if you said I was pretty, I wouldnʻt know what that means. What does that mean? What combination or configuration of features makes this so? Is it the way I look? Or is it the way you look at me? Or, and hereʻs a fucking crazy, hair-splitting idea, is it what you see when you look at me?
I donʻt know anything.
But let me tell you what makes me feel good about my body. I can dance. I love dancing and my body can move. I can throw and catch a ball. I can play the ukulele. Maybe not very well, but Iʻve learned you donʻt have to be good at something to do it. My legs are strong. They can pedal a bike or walk me up a hill or propel me through the ocean. I have great teeth despite my contempt for oral hygiene.
You know what I learned I could do the other night? I was sitting astride Judahʻs skateboard in the parking lot, and with nothing to hold onto for leverage, I came into a standing position using only my leg and core muscles. I didnʻt make any groaning noises. Nothing hurt. My ass was a couple of inches off the ground on a very roll-y machine, and I stood up from a squat without falling and without the board flying away. I felt strong and I was amazed.
It ainʻt easy, you know, loving yourself. Trying to love yourself. Youʻve seen something through one lens for so long, you can only see it that way. Sometimes
I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the mirror and I think, "Wow, theyʻre
so expressive," and then immediately shut myself down. Donʻt be stupid, Kanani. I see myself in my virtual classroom and think, "I look cute today!" And then immediately feel like shit.
I asked Mahana if it was as simple as me flat-out rejecting the idea that I can be anything more than ugly. In true Mahana fashion, she tossed the question back to me. I donʻt think itʻs that simple, honestly. Maybe it is. Maybe Iʻm in denial. But I think itʻs that I donʻt know a goddamn fucking thing about anything, and thatʻs what I told her.
Not knowing anything is fucking liberating. I can release all that old, worthless shit about what makes a girl pretty or wanted or desirable and replace it with stuff that makes sense to me. Itʻs taken me this long to realize that, like the Green Day song, all my doubts are someone elseʻs point of view.
But I cannot ignore the importance of having that kindness reflected back to me from the people I love and love me. Because hereʻs another thing I once "knew": you cannot love others until you love yourself. And yet another thing: if you truly love yourself, you donʻt need reassurance from others. I call bullshit on both counts, yo. I have loved others even as I hated myself, and your love, your gentleness, even your frustration supports me. We can be mirrors for each other, reflecting kindness, beauty, and even pain. We are not alone, we donʻt have to go it alone. We can teach each other and learn together.
I donʻt know that I will ever fully embrace this body and the weird soul it contains. And at this point, I donʻt know what new idea will replace the old. I donʻt know what my pretty is. However, the more I begin to recognize my own beauty, I feel more like me. Like Iʻm reclaiming geography. Does that make sense? I feel fuller and more complete. Definitely happier.
And you might say to me, "Kanani, your outward appearance doesnʻt matter. Itʻs the inside that counts!" You might suggest that this preoccupation with my body, with my appearance, is superficial and vain. I donʻt know if youʻd be right or wrong because I donʻt know anything.
Which means anything is possible.
Postscript:
There is a song, Not a Pretty Girl, by ani difranco. I donʻt think the message is the same as m blog, but definitely related. Because I used to think she was rejecting the pretty girl, but now I believe sheʻs pointing out the problem of the gaze and the relationship between subject and object.
"No one told me you were lovely, I just decided it was so
You got that glow
Like sunlight on the windows of an empty room
Like television snow"
-The Judybats
