There it sits in the corner of my bedroom,

tucked behind the drawer and laced with dust.

Forgotten for two years.

 

It consists of four colors and a serious expression on the canvas.

The painting is of a familiar face framed by a cascading waterfall of ombré hair.

The girl in the painting has dramatically different features than I.

 

The girl I see in the mirror has a flat nose.

I painted her with a sharper nose,

vigorously casting shadows and highlights

upon her with my paintbrush.

I wanted to contour her nose so well

that no one would deprecate her genetics again.

 

Now I see a charming nose.

My nose has taken in sweet scents:

fresh Vietnamese baguettes,

exotic Vietnamese fruits,

and my mother's homemade soymilk.

It tells passersby that I am my father's daughter.

 

Small eyes.

I crafted her eyes as large, piercing, teal windows to her soul.

She glares back to remind me of the shame I had

in my perfectly dark brown, small, almond eyes.

I want to sculpt her eyes so they can see the lovely images of life

as mine do.

 

Thin Lips.

I exaggerated her lips with each expanding brushstroke.

The more I enlarged her lips,

the less familiar they became.

Those lips did not possess the voice of a self-confident girl.

 

Now, I use my voice to string meaningful thoughts together.

I contribute my ideas to discussions,

and no longer simply nod in agreement.

Whenever I curl my thin lips into a smile,

I think of my mother who shares an identical one.

 

The girl on the canvas helped me grow these past two years.

In her silence, she taught me to value my thoughts, appearance, and aspirations.

I no longer wash away my identity

with four colors of paint and self-deprecating thoughts.

I have learned to construct my own mold:

one of gratitude for my Vietnamese features.