Dear Perfection,

Every time I think of “beautiful,” I imagine wavy chocolate hair, deep blue eyes, and a lean build. Tan skin, large breasts, about 5’6” and a smile that makes any man’s heart melt. The antithesis of me.

You put this image in my head. You’re the one who deceives me into thinking that I am full of nothing–a 5th generation Japanese girl who is too whitewashed to fit in with Japanese people, but too “different” to fit with the Americans whom she grew up with. Because of your prevalence, oh Rejecting–One, I have constantly stared at myself in the mirror, wondering if I will ever see myself as valuable. Wondering… if you will ever recognize me as beautiful.

I look at everyone around me and I see beautiful blonde hair, or a fiery (but natural) red, or a chocolate brunette. I see sun-kissed skin, since Cali has only girls who are “beach babes.” Every girl seems happy with herself. Effortlessly, they flaunt their razor-sharp winged eyeliner and evenly toned skin. Where do I fit in?

I loathe you, Perfection. You take my struggles and make them look as if everyone has their shit together except me. You take my differences and waggle them in front of my face, reminding me once more of my Asian appearance and crushing my hopes of fitting in. Even my strengths don’t matter to you.

You’re fake. You. Don’t. Exist. It is all a façade. Then why, please, tell me why I keep comparing myself to you, only to be told again and again that I am worthless and that I don’t matter? My life is a mess because of the standards that I am compared to.

You alienate me from my white friends and you continue to attack my self-esteem. Why are you so cruel? And why am I one of your targets?

You fill the media with images of yourself–an unattainable and debasing perception–and you crush me. I have nothing in common with these women. I’m too short to be able to reach anything. Including your standards. My eyes are too small, my voice is too squeaky, and my eyes are brown while yours are blue. I don’t fit in.

How am I beautiful? The answer is simple: I’m not. At least, not according to you. But I don’t need your approval in order to be confident with who I am. I’m glad I know that now.

You bastard.

-An Americanized Japanese Girl