"You're Pretty for an Asian Girl"
The burden of being beautiful in white America.
Last month, I went on a first date. I wore a slip dress with lace trimming that fell a few inches above my knees and kitten heels. When I arrived at the restaurant, my date was already there, waiting for me. He was, shockingly, even more attractive than his dating profile. He was actually 6’1”, so he towered over me. He had kind eyes and dimples when he smiled. He wore a navy button-down that complemented my baby blue dress. We looked good together.
The hostess seated us outside. The restaurant has a patio on one of the busiest streets in Chicago. It was strangely warm out, seventy degrees, the first (false) spring day. Anything above fifty is sweltering, so everyone takes advantage of the weather by being outside. As we sipped our drinks, we watched parents push strollers, dogs walking their humans.
About an hour into the date, we had the basics down: name, occupation, family. My shoulders relaxed, the initial awkwardness beginning to evaporate. From behind me, I heard boisterous laughter. I turned to see a large group of friends in their early thirties, led by a drunk man, approaching the restaurant. As the leader of the pack passed our table, he looked at my date and me up and down. He leaned over the short fence lining the patio to get closer to us and exclaimed, “I love when pretty people are together. You guys are beautiful together.” Later, when the group was seated at a table across the patio from us, the man caught my eye and gave a thumbs-up. “If this is a first date, great job!” Slightly tipsy, I replied, “It is a first date!” The man came up to my date and clapped him on the back. Good job, you got this, the gesture communicated.
My date and I chuckled and returned to eating our calamari. The date proceeded and though I remember lots of details about his personality and how the rest of the night went, that particular moment has stuck: the public proclamation of and congratulations to our beauty.
WHO GETS TO BE BEAUTIFUL?
I’ve always hated the saying “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” because it simply isn’t true. Beauty standards run rampant. My parents are Filipino, a country colonized by the Spanish, Japanese, and Americans. As a result, what is considered beautiful has been influenced by the forces that conquered its native people. Colonization taught me that beautiful Filipino women don’t look Filipino. They look white, white-passing, Spanish—anything but the indigenous roots of our country.
As early as five, my mom encouraged me to pinch the bridge of my nose to make it pointier. An orange bar of whitening soap lay on our bathroom counter. I scrubbed it all over my skin, hoping to erase the brown from me. Colorism, or preferential treatment to lighter-skinned individuals at the expense of darker-skinned people, was ingrained in me growing up, and it restricted my daily living. I shouldn’t play out in the sun or else I’d get darker and look like I was from the probinsya, or the provinces. The term is a dig at lower-class Filipinos who worked on farmland, doing hard physical labor, a form of classism that has its roots in colonization. Lighter-skinned Filipinos tended to be mixed with white blood and owned the farmland darker-skinned laborers worked on. Lighter skin and a bridged nose became a signifier of wealth and power. I internalized the belief that to look and be Filipino meant to be ashamed and self-hating. I was born in Los Angeles and hadn’t yet been to the Philippines. Still, I feared and detested my parents’ native country and what it represented: the antithesis of American assimilation. As a result, I’ve spent most of my life trying to change my body.
Beauty is political. Beauty is a way of gatekeeping resources.
Beauty is political. Beauty is a way of gatekeeping resources. In her landmark book, The Body is Not An Apology, Sonya Renee-Taylor discusses how the policing of bodies is one of the main tools to uphold capitalism, white supremacy, and misogyny. Those who establish standards of beauty get to determine who has power and who is marginalized. Bodies that are deemed ugly or abnormal—Black and brown bodies, queer bodies that don’t fit within gender binaries—are restricted. Marginalized bodies’ rights are taken away. Historically, Black bodies were dehumanized as inferior by white people and subjected to enslavement; today, trans bodies are dehumanized as not fitting in definitions of “womanhood” or “manhood” by cishet people and are subjected to silence and erasure.
Women are most oppressed by beauty standards. Men indeed do face pressures to look masculine (muscular, big), but they are not criticized with such vitriol if they are not considered as attractive as women. Look at who is in the White House—newscasters rarely talk about Trump’s appearances, but when Hillary and Kamala were running, discourse surrounding their makeup, clothes, and weight dominated the conversation. There was a lack of focus on how much more qualified Hillary and Kamala were than Trump, a failed businessman and predator. The conversation was fixated on the women’s appearances: Hillary’s pantsuits, false implications of Kamala’s promiscuity. Memes may poke fun at Trump’s cosplay of an Oompa Loompa or bad toupee, but Trump’s appearance plays little to no factor in the support his base provides him or how mainstream media presents him to the public.
As women, and as a function of the patriarchy, we are raised to believe that our appearances somehow equate to our value. We are taught to assign morality to thinness and beauty, and by consequence, to the myth of virginity, purity, and finally, subservience to men. To be unattractive would mean to be unworthy of respect.
WHAT ARE THE COSTS OF BEAUTY?
In the early 2000s, Asian women weren’t present in American media or politics. The meager representation we had was the background character, the nerd, the prostitute white men fucked on business trips. They were also petite, so tiny that clothes and other people engulfed them. The women I was exposed to were heavily accented, othered, and incompatible with America.
These messages taught me that to be beautiful meant to be white, and since I was not white, I could not be beautiful. I couldn’t get white people’s respect, but I could at the very least get their tolerance. I strove to abide by the expectations set before me: small, soft, subservient.
At twelve, I developed an eating disorder due in part to the racism I experienced. It is true that all women face an inordinate amount of pressure to be beautiful, but for women of color, the added element of racism makes the goal even more elusive. You have to be the most exceptional and feminine version of yourself because you will never be better than a white girl, but at least you can be palpable. You will be tolerated by white people, and maybe they’ll tolerate you enough to not overtly discriminate against you. By sixteen, I weighed just over one hundred pounds. I wore rompers from Hollister and booty shorts from American Eagle. I was so thin that my dad said that I looked lumubog, sunken in and skeletal since I had no fat on my body.
Women of color are more likely than their white counterparts to develop eating disorders, and those who have faced racial discrimination are three times more likely to engage in disordered binge eating.
The thinness ideal has severe consequences. Eating disorders are the deadliest mental illness. Women of color are more likely than their white counterparts to develop eating disorders, and those who have faced racial discrimination are three times more likely to engage in disordered binge eating. Women are made to become preoccupied about their consumption of food and composition of body fat to the point of self-laceration. The patriarchy is so oppressive that women oppress themselves through strict and dysfunctional eating and exercise habits.
The psychiatric cost is high, as is the fiscal cost of maintaining beauty. The average American woman spends $3,756 on cosmetic products in a year, totaling $225,360 in her lifetime. It does not help that women face growing and changing demands. The 2010s saw the rise of reality television and social media—in particular, Instagram, a platform that encourages the propagation of highly-edited images and flaunting of wealth and looks. One of the most influential forces at this time was the Kardashians: a family of white women who made billion-dollar platforms by appropriating Black women’s bodies. It became trendy to have darker skin and curvier features, and the Kardashians capitalized on these projections.
Coinciding with the fetishization of Black women’s bodies was the body positivity/diversity movement, which increased the representation of women of color in advertisements. Women of color received increased visibility and tolerance in clothing and makeup campaigns, a virtue signal of inclusivity. On the one hand, to be included in these images may have expanded the definition of beauty to a small degree, but on the other hand is the nefarious motive behind such decisions. Including women of color in mainstream culture targets these communities into spending money to purchase the company’s products. The goal is not to uplift but to profit from women of color’s lived experiences.
Finally, the amount of time that women spend to maintain their appearances is staggering. A 2022 study found that women spend nearly four hours a day on activities that manipulate their looks, whether it be applying makeup or exercising. To abide by patriarchal views of womanhood, women end up giving up valuable resources to the very men that they are trying to please—resources that could, instead, go to improving their quality of life, building community with other women, or tearing down the hegemonic power structures that oppress them.
WHY DOES THIS MATTER?
At seventeen, I moved halfway across the country to attend Northwestern University, which is in Evanston, Illinois. The demographics of the college are a stark contrast from the predominantly Filipino and Latino neighborhood I grew up in. When I entered a room, I found that I was the only person of color—much less woman of color—there. I felt both invisible and hyper-visible. I hunched over to avoid drawing attention to myself but knew, subconsciously, that every move I made would stand to represent my entire culture. If I was too smart, it’s because I was Asian. If I was awkward, it’s because I was Asian. So I strove to fit in, wanting my white classmates to think highly of Asian people or even forget about the fact that I was not white. I started wearing makeup, had a pretty girl who I met do my eyeliner. I joined a sorority full of white women. I went to parties, drank Pink Lemonade Burnetts and played Stack Cup. White women wanted to be my friend, white men wanted to sleep with me, and they all thought I was pretty.
For the next four years, I dehumanized myself. I molded myself into an object of desire: a plaything for men, an inspiration and costume for white women. I was okay with the tradeoff. Here is a part of my humanity so that I can infiltrate spaces that I thought weren’t meant for me: white spaces, wealthy spaces, privileged spaces. Within my sorority, I networked to get internships and entrance into the dating pool of white fraternity men. As a student at an elite institution, I gained a world-class education—and, since I was well-liked at Northwestern, I gained relative power as a member of the student government and freshman orientation leader. I ended up graduating with a job lined up right out of college and thousands of Instagram followers.
A girl’s body is always up for scrutiny, and it is her responsibility to make sure she passes the litmus test of acceptable femininity; and, as a non-white girl, not only is her body suspect but so is her entire identity, raising the stakes.
I must acknowledge my role in my objectification. From the first time I pinched the bridge of my nose to make it pointier, to spending an hour getting ready for that date last month, I knew that there were unspoken norms I needed to follow. A girl’s body is always up for scrutiny, and it is her responsibility to make sure she passes the litmus test of acceptable femininity; and, as a non-white girl, not only is her body suspect but so is her entire identity, raising the stakes. Though these standards are unfair, I did not try to fight them. I submitted to American misogyny and white supremacy because the alternative—rejecting the beauty myth narrative—was a task too daunting to take at five, thirteen, sixteen, or even twenty-one years old.
I’m twenty-six now. In the past five years since I’ve been out of college, I’ve sought to unlearn my internalized racism and shame. I’ve surrounded myself with friends who wish to see me for my whole personhood and celebrate every part of me, including my culture. I talk extensively with my therapist about how my college experience shaped my current views. I look to social media for positive representations of Asian womanhood. Currently, Asian women have more visibility with increased diversity in marketing and entertainment. Not only that, but there is pride. Olivia Rodrigo, a white-passing popstar, regularly shares how proud she is to be part Filipino. There is mainstream love for women of color now. But the love is not spread evenly. It is reserved for pretty women—and somehow, I’m one of these women.
This designation makes me feel empty. Beautiful. It’s not that I disagree. I have straight black hair, warm brown eyes, and full lips, features that I accentuate with makeup and styling tools. In the winter, my skin is the color of sand, and in the summer, the color of a latte. I’m short, 5’0”, and petite. My body is sculpted from the hours of training for a half-marathon and lifting weights at the gym to grow my glutes. I have spent thousands of dollars and hours to be considered conventionally attractive, and now I reap the benefits as such. People tend to be kinder and gentler with me—probably because I am a pretty girl but also a small Asian girl who needs to be treated daintily. Older people, in particular, extend care to me. “Just be careful when you’re on the train by yourself,” a coworker told me. “A pretty girl like you needs to watch out. If you need a ride instead, let me know.” On my first day at college, a man walking past the Arch asked if I was an actress. Professors and teachers have told me, repeatedly, “You’re a beautiful, smart girl. You have a bright future ahead of you.” They mean well, but they all reinforce my insecurity: I have not earned their kindness. Their kindness is contingent on my appearance, and I must maintain my beauty or risk losing all the good that’s come my way.
Ultimately, the label of “beautiful” or “ugly” reinforces the basic tenet that a woman’s physical appearance takes precedence over her intelligence, interests, personality, and overall humanity. We’re damned if we’re beautiful, damned if we’re not.
As someone who was socialized to believe they were ugly growing up, and is now socialized to believe that they are beautiful, I am unsure which is more harmful. Ultimately, the label of “beautiful” or “ugly” reinforces the basic tenet that a woman’s physical appearance takes precedence over her intelligence, interests, personality, and overall humanity. We’re damned if we’re beautiful, damned if we’re not. Being beautiful means that men have granted us access to their spaces and presence. Not being considered beautiful means blockages from such privileges. Either way, we’re not taken seriously (at face value, pun intended) and we’re subjected to comments and questions about our bodies. What’s your workout routine? Are those your real lashes? How do you get your hair so shiny? Did you gain weight? Did you lose weight? Where are you from—no, actually? You’re really pretty for an Asian girl. You’re an Asian girl—everyone loves Asian girls. You’re my type. I’ve never been with an Asian girl before. I want to scream. It feels as if this is my biggest contribution to the world, being nice to look at or something to ridicule. My exact function just depends on if my womanhood is trendy at that time.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
After my date, I felt hollow. He did nothing wrong; I had a lovely time. But there was this gnawing sense that something was being taken from me, and I couldn’t quite articulate what until I started writing this article.
Being a woman of color means facing a series of extractions. Our land and resources were plundered by colonizers, traditions upended, and female ancestors raped or trafficked. Now, in a country that has normalized overt racism and values profit over people, all of our interactions are transactional. Women of color are expected to educate the masses on racism; our time is spent fighting to be seen as humans deserving of decency; we carry men’s emotional labor in exchange for safety (sometimes). In our dominant culture, we lust for women of color, but we do not love them; we do not protect them; we take their energy and company and give them nothing in return. Women of color who are not considered beautiful are discarded, relegated to the sidelines, or subjected to aggression; their bodies are expected to take in pain or perform labor without recompense. The beauty myth offers no protections for women of color, just a false sense of security that is shattered the moment white supremacy is threatened.
Sonya-Renee Taylor, author of The Body is Not An Apology, posits that liberation can only be achieved through radical self-love. Radical self-love is different from the whitewashed, capitalistic version of “self-love” that is espoused on social media; it is not meditating in a $30 affirmation journal, buying expensive skincare products, or neglecting to tend to friendships for your own “mental health.” According to Taylor, radical self-love is transformative. If we inherently love and accept our own bodies, we then build institutions predicated upon loving ourselves and others, rather than the extractive foundations of our current sociopolitical and economic systems. A salient example is the 1960’s “Black is beautiful” movement, which promoted appreciation for Black women’s natural hairstyles and darker skin as a means to achieve Black empowerment and liberation.
I do believe this is the goal, but I will also be honest with you. I don’t know if I will realistically ever achieve unconditional love for my body. I’ve been made to place such high value on my body, to worship my appearances above all, as it has provided me with proximity to men. My obsession and insecurity with my looks are directly correlated with my compliance with the patriarchy, so I think my next step forward is to decenter both.
After two dates, my date ghosted me. It’s vulnerable to admit; being ghosted used to make me feel inadequate. I’d find some way to blame myself. Maybe I’m not hot enough. Maybe I’m too hot and he’s intimidated by me. Maybe this is all you’re good for and he got bored of you. Maybe you’re actually a boring, vapid person. This time, my initial reaction was to deflect with humor. “At the end of the day, I bagged the hottest guy I wanted to bag,” I texted the group chat. This move did not serve me, as I am still placing this man—a thirty-year-old who is afraid of direct communication—within my orbit, when he should be knocked off my gravitational force for being incapable of giving me basic decency and respect.
I wish to have a healthier relationship with this vessel that contains my mind, spirit, and soul. But I also wish to not use up so much of my energy thinking about it. I want to respect my body, care for it so that I can care for my community, intellectual growth, and responsibilities. I want to detach my worth from my looks, from how men look at me. I want my worth to be predicated upon the integrity and sanctity of my life and what I choose to do with it. Hopefully, I choose to do better for myself and others.
Girl you ate that!