Beauty
If women are lauded as some of the most beautiful creatures our planet has to offer, what is a woman without her beauty? Quite often, she is depicted as a woman past her prime, undesirable, and less deserving of attention. Beautiful people captivate us, inspire envy in us (oh, if I could only look like them!), and make us want to change certain aspects of ourselves. While we yearn to be more beautiful, we become prey to companies wishing to capitalize off of our insecurities. At any given moment we are told, “Buy this to look more beautiful! Eat this to enhance your beauty! Do this workout to unleash your inner glow!” As a woman, it often feels like you’re constantly at war, fending off the expectations of others on how you should look and act. In my imagination, I’m akin to Wonder Woman, deflecting these bullets of expectation with my armguards like a bad mamajama. But I digress. It sometimes feels like you can’t win. You’re damned if you do too much, and you’re damned if you do too little.
Women are constantly told that we must be beautiful but not too much so, otherwise we’re reduced to nothing more than our looks. We must be smart, but not too smart to make others feel uncomfortable about their lack of awareness on a variety of topics. We must be in good form, but lest we be too muscular, too squishy, or too lacking in the curves department, we are constantly given “helpful” reminders of how we can change our bodies to become more like the ideal. I don’t know who was in charge of deciding what the ideal is (let’s be honest, it was probably a group of rich, old white men somewhere), but there’s no denying the fact that this ideal permeates our psyche. Beauty is associated with desirability, and every human desires to be desired in one way or another. It’s natural that we strive to be this ideal; we want to be the most desirable people we can be.
In the West, we love all things European. So much so that our “ideal” is based off of traditional European features, despite so many people living in the West carrying features in stark contrast to these. Mainstream media tends to celebrate those possessing paler skin, thinner frames, and smaller facial features. People of color in the U.S. have fought against this ideal that excludes them and the way their bodies are naturally for years and years, leading to the ultimate creation of their own spaces where they could celebrate themselves and their beauty. This seems like the obvious solution to the problem of feeling like there is no room for appreciation of your features on a societal level—construct your own space where you can appreciate yourself if no one else will. But what does one do when they’re a temporary transplant into a new culture where the “old” way of thinking runs rampant? Do they take the time and trouble to employ this solution when they’ll be leaving almost as soon as they came? Is it even worth it to do so?
The fact of the matter is: it’s easy to reject European beauty standards when you’re not in Europe. When you are able to physically separate yourself from a problem, it can cease to exist in your world. The problem still exists in the universe, but it’s much less pervasive when there’s a large ocean separating you from it. Where do you go to escape these things when the place you will now call home is the birthplace of the things you reject? You can lie to yourself and say that it doesn’t affect you, you barely notice it at all, but one day it’ll start eating at you until it’s all you can think about.
I suppose I would’ve had this problem living pretty much anywhere in Europe, but fortunately for me, I chose to come to one of the meccas of Beauty That Isn’t Meant For Me. French women are supposed to possess some of the best beauty secrets in the world, according to American media. It’s like if you find a French woman, she is probably more effortlessly beautiful than you are and she harbors some long-kept family secrets concerning this beauty that you must extract from her so you can be just as fabulous as she is. You must shake her down until those golden apples fall from her tree of knowledge about a beauty you don’t possess. Look for yourself: a simple search of “French Beauty” on Google will yield almost 200 million results. The notion that French women have some superiority over the rest of us mere mortals when it comes to beauty is prevalent; they are doing something right that we must follow. It’s as though they were born with some extra node in their brain that makes them just “get it”. But who are the women sharing these secrets? They’re representative of the 92% of France that is white. Yes of course, I can learn something from anyone, but are these really the only beautiful women here that are worth listening to?
Imagine, after a life of learning self-acceptance to have everything turned upside down in almost an instant. Thoughts of doubt about my own superficial value in a foreign environment slowly crept into my mind around the one-month mark of being in France, and they’re still here in some capacity as I approach the nine-month mark. Over the years, I’ve found confidence through owning all parts of myself: the good, the bad, and the soon-to-be-improved. However, even the most confident person in the world isn’t immune to experiencing moments of doubt from time to time.
When it’s quite obvious that you’re an outsider, you can’t help but wonder whether the attention you receive at any moment is because your presence has commanded it, or if your otherness makes you a desirable conquest. When you see beauty ads all around you and not one of them has the image of someone that looks like you, you begin to wonder if there’s even a place here for people that resemble you. When your friends seem to be objects of attention but you are casually looked over, your shield of confidence lowers slightly, leaving you more easily penetrable to those bullets you so easily deflected before.
The one good thing about the passage of time and my knowledge of my inevitable return home is that eventually, I got over my whatever-it-was. Call it insecurity, call it an accurate perception of my environment; it was something, that’s for sure. When it seemed like my presence didn’t take up as much space as it once had before, I found myself searching for the previous signs I’d once had that signified that I was at least seen by others. It’s quite a disgusting feeling when you wonder why you’re not being catcalled or at least given a second glance when entering certain spaces. After over a decade of being reduced to some sort of object when minding my own business and walking the streets, somehow this objectification was partially likened in my brain to being recognized as someone or something worthy of obtaining. I truly hate how men have normalized this phenomenon in the U.S. but as a self-aware adult, all I can do is acknowledge the long-term effects this can have on the mind. It’s never been more clear to me than it is now that deep down, there are parts of all of us that would rather be looked at than looked over.
Beauty is something we ascribe to other people, other things, and other places, but it’s hard to find that same beauty in ourselves. How misfortunate are we that we will probably never get to see how beautiful we are to our loved ones in our lifetime. The thing with beautiful people is that their beauty is encompassed by their entire essence. Beautiful people have beautiful spirits that engulf you in a soft and fuzzy blanket of warmth whenever they’re around and stay with you when they’re gone. It’s difficult being young and unsure of yourself at times, but I’m over the uncertainty. It’s more useful putting my energy into being someone that is remembered for what they did and how they made people feel. Maybe my spirit can someday be like one of those beautiful ones that linger well after the person has left the room. Here’s to being beautiful, in my own way, aka the only way I know how to be.
-XO, Court.
(P.S. In case it wasn’t clear, I’m not looking forward to being catcalled again. I’ve got plenty of retorts just waiting to be unleashed on the filth that occupies space on the streets of New York City. Just you wait.)
