Build-A-Barbie: The Cycle of Foreign Beauty Standards and Trauma

Author's Note: Please be aware that this article mentions topics that may be triggering like commentary on weight. If you're sensitive to anything along these lines, I ask you to stop right here and check back for my next article. You are worthy and loved.—Typewriter

Can we all agree that our foreign families have no filter? Somewhere down the course of history, it was decided that commenting on people’s appearances was absolutely a-okay and even encouraged. The amount of times I’ve had Polish aunties come up to me and say “wow, you’ve put on so much weight” or “why do you have so many pimples?” is ghastly. It got to the point where I avidly avoided certain family members because I couldn’t understand why they would make such unsolicited, hurtful comments. As I grew older though, I quickly realized the culprits— a lack of empathy and cyclical beauty standards. The model of the perfect person has been passed down and bombarded on each generation and no one has felt the need to break the pattern. Both women and men internalized the comments made to them and dumped their pain on the next person that they could judge. The cycle only worsened when our families moved to The States.

While a part of me is still angry for the comments that were made by family members and friends in regards to my appearance, another part empathizes with them. When every person you know is studying your appearance under a microscope and checking off which categories you fit into, you have no one to turn to. Who do you express your pain to when it’s become such a normalized conversation? The worst part of it all is the armor that you need to build in order to endure these situations. Immigrants are tough and because they’ve jumped through every obstacle to make something of themselves, the least of their worries is hurting someone’s feelings. And that, my friends, is the root of the problem. Emotions are swept under the rug and empathy is a rare occurrence.

The irony of it all is that foreign people don’t have time to worry about how their commentary makes someone else feel, but they have all the time in the world to judge and criticize. Somehow in the midst of starting a new life, building a family, and finding a job, our immigrant families have prioritized appearances and fitting in the cookie-cutter mold of beauty. They can’t find the time to ask you how your day was but they’ll sure-as-hell make it known that you’re “getting fat.” This logic has never made an ounce of sense in my brain but nonetheless, I’ve tried to understand it. From my experience, I believe it comes from the fact that from the second they step foot into America, immigrants are already looked down upon. First impressions are crucial in order to even be accepted as a valued human being. If someone looks disheveled, dirty, or has the smallest ounce of a flaw showing, they’re automatically outcasted. That fear is then internalized and pushed onto the children of immigrants because of course, they only want the best for you. If you have acne, if you’re overweight, if you don’t look absolutely perfect, no one is going to accept you just like they refused to accept us.

So where do we even go from here? If this trauma is generational and we know that it lives in the deepest parts of us, how can first-generation and immigrant children alike, make sure they don’t inflict the same kind of pain? Your coat of armor needs to be traded in for the gift of compassion. When I was a child and into my early teenage years, my weight was the one aspect that always haunted me. I was told time and time that my worth as a person depended on the number of the scale and my jean size. At eight years old, I cried in a dressing room on Main Street in Passaic, New Jersey because I couldn’t find a Communion dress that fit me, and feared that my family would think I was ugly because of it. I was angry, I was hurt, and above all, I had the need to lash out. But the thing that stopped me from doing so is remembering the pain in my chest that I felt when someone commented on my weight. Why would I ever want to inflict the same kind of damage to another human being? I knew that I never could because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that I hurt another person so badly. From a young age, I chose compassion and empathy over using words as a weapon.

Little me, circa 2005; This little girly didn't need to be told how she was supposed to look, I promise.

At twenty years old, I still flinch every time the topic of weight comes up. I go into an anxiety induced spiral when I need to go to the doctor’s for a physical. I still worry if I’m eating too much or too quickly when I’m out at a restaurant with friends. While a part of me still struggles with these battles, I can at least pride myself in knowing that I refuse to put anyone else through them. It ends with me. I was blessed with a niece and nephew who I’m fiercely protective over. If I’m able to, I shut down any conversation that involves the idea of them “gaining too much weight” or any negative comments that deal with their appearance. I see a lot of myself in my niece especially and I bombard her with as much self-love and kindness as I can so that she knows she’s worthy and beautiful, no matter what her outward appearance may show. If I can help it, she won’t know the pain of growing up and feeling like she’s “not enough” because of a number on a scale.

So my lovely company, this is where today’s conversation ends. I want to remind you to be kind to yourselves and those around you. If any of you are victims of foreign families with sharp tongues, I empathize with you and you are not alone. You are worthy and loved, no matter what they say. Remember to choose compassion and remember that dumping your pain onto someone else, will not fix how you feel inside. Be kind with your words, they mean more than you might think.

Love always,

Typewriter