by Dominique Malone, Assistant Editor-in-Chief The mirror deceives us all. When I see my face, I see a forehead that seems to be growing each day. I see a nose that isn’t too big or too small. I see eyes that smile even though they are hiding so many secrets. But, isn’t that the point of faces? We never know the true story behind them no matter how hard we look.
From preschool to college, it has always been the same thing. People stare at me and then the questions start to form:“Why do you look like that?” “You’re not really Black, just look at your hair.” The most prominent example always seems to come to mind at the most unexpected times. I see my six-year old self sitting in the cafeteria eating Goldfish enjoying a little alone time from my classmates. My solitude is then interrupted by three kids who thought it would be funny to pull my hair. “I saw your mom when she dropped you off today. Is she even your mom?” “Of course she is.” “Yeah well I think your family lied to you.” My day was forever shifted by what those kids believed. Why is it necessary to criticize what you don’t understand? Maybe it's because our insecurities get the better of us more than we’d like them to. Regardless, ignorance doesn't excuse hateful actions or words. But the thing that I've come to realize is that I can't let others dictate what I do or how I feel about myself. After all my face (out of anything) should be a treasure, right? The first thing that people see (my skin color) shouldn't be faced with such criticism. But that's never been the case. My fair complexion couldn’t be categorized as African-American, so I started out my elementary years thinking I wasn’t. I would look in the mirror and my childlike face would never have the glow or radiance of childish innocence; rather it would be filled with concern and worry on how to change my situation. My parents attempted to change my mind, but I could never get the words of the kids out of my head. I would look in the mirror and what would be staring back is not what I actually was. I saw exactly what the kids in my class wanted me to see. This feeling never seemed to change and it led to a long time of self-hate. Years passed of me refusing to look in the mirror because what I saw was inevitable. I can’t change my skin color. I can’t change my eye color. I can’t even change the way that I am. These thoughts always plague me and I felt that there was nowhere to turn. I figured that my family would always be there; I was incredibly wrong. The constant jocular phrases and swift comments that only seem to hurt me after they've quickly been spoken are what await me when visiting family. I remember walking into my graduation party and being excited about my recognition as holding the 2nd highest GPA among all the African-Americans in my class. Yet, the reaction that I received from my family was, “What do you mean? You’re white Dominique. You may want them to check that award again.” Although they may be unintentional, they always seem to transport me to that little girl in the mirror. Looking back at herself always wondering why she could never change. That all seemed to dissipate when my grandmother passed away. She was the single person in my family who I resembled. Standing five foot one with dirty brown, blonde hair, she was radiating in her light brown color, complete with yellow and red undertones. To top off her beautiful facial features, she had light brown eyes. She always knew what I carried with me and how I felt being surrounded by my family. After she passed, I was a constant reminder of her memory to everyone who walked past me. I used to think it was terrible because when people would see my face it would make them cry; my own father couldn’t be in the room with me for almost two years after. Yet, this loss has truly made me examine myself and it seems like I resemble her for a reason. My mom always says that everything happens for a reason and I believe that I serve a small part in keeping her memory alive. My remembrance of her has shifted many things in my life that I never thought would. She was the one person I could turn to that would understand how I felt. Losing that light sent darker days my way. However, through this sad time I was able to discover more about myself and more about my relationship with her. It’s a blessing to have unique features and stand out in a crowd. Unfortunately, due to the negative experiences of my childhood, I never really thought these things through fully. Because of my introspection, I've stopped noticing the small things that made me emotional: the slight jabs, the weird glares. They've all seemed to fade as the strength within myself has grown. The little girl who cries in the mirror is in the rear view and everything that reminds me of my past is gone.
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December 2018
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