“
I stare at the mirror, running my fingers around my round face and my wide nose and wondering if Mom really does think she could have done better than Dad—better than Asian—and if she does, does she think she could have done better than me?
It hurts. It hurts hearing her vocalize my fear—that people might not look at me the way they look at her. And it hurts to think she looks down on Dad, and maybe down on me, and Taro, and Shoji.
Closing my eyes, I think of all the faces in my sketchbook. The ones I’ve drawn since Hiroshi told me beauty isn’t just one thing. They’re all different and special and unique. I don’t look at them the way Mom looks at the faces in a yearbook. Because it wouldn’t be fair. It feels cruel, like I’m saying one type of face is better than another. Like I’m saying one kind of heritage is better than another.
It’s an ugly thing to do. I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart.
I let my hands drop to my sides and shake my head at the mirror.
And I decide, right there and then, that I don’t care if I’m not someone’s idea of pretty. I don’t care if my name might disappoint someone, or if my face might disappoint someone’s parents. Because that says so much more about them than it does about me.
Who cares what anyone else thinks? Who cares what Mom thinks, when she’s immature enough to keep a last name she hates just to maintain an imaginary war with Serena?
I love my last name. And maybe I’m even learning to love my face.
That can be enough. It has to be. It will be.
”
”