By Jenny Tran
To my eyes,
For the longest time, I hated you.
I hated how slanted you are, so unusually small you are. I hated that you didn’t make the cut for the beauty standard. I hated that I was often the only one in the room with eyes like you.
Because I didn’t have that extra slit, like everyone else. Because I believed that the non-existent creases might solve if not all my problems, at least most of them.
It might solve the short eyelashes, which were always prone to flatten into their natural state. Even after lighting a match beside an eyelash curler and pressing the burning metal into the folds of my skin, the stubborn hairs refused to stay upright.
It might solve the microaggressions. Though you’re not inherently Asian, you’ve still tied me so tightly to my heritage. It’s the first thing anyone notices about me; my eyes make me undeniably Asian.
It’s why the boys at the park yelled racist comments. It’s why a stranger said “nihao” to me on vacation. It’s why my family made jokes about how I never opened my eyes in pictures. It’s why a man walked up to me in Target and gushed about how he loved girls of my race.
I was fine with it all. My eyes have become this sort of constant in my life.
But it’s not like I hadn’t ever considered transforming them, bettering them. I used to wait patiently, idiotically, for my extra folds to slowly sink in, like new teeth. I dreamed of getting eyelid surgery, changing this very prominent part of my appearance for the sake of self-esteem and not having to always tag on “for monolids” at the end of make-up tutorial searches.
And neither of my parents has monolids. I can’t even boast about how I have their eyes since they have two lids, and nothing really close to my eye shape. Nearly all of my relatives do. Ironically, while I feel “too Asian,” I also don’t feel like I’m Vietnamese enough.
But, well. Does it really matter?
Do I really have to succumb to such beauty standards, to listen to these racist stereotypes of “Asian eyes,” to try to get rid of something that I’ve had since birth? How does something as simple as a non-existent fold make a difference?
I can still see fine. (At least with my contacts on.) I can enjoy the beauty of life like everyone else. Contrary to popular belief, yes, I can still see even when my eyes seem to disappear into the overwhelming skin. And no, I’m not closing them Dad, just take the photo.
While my monolids have made me question myself, as I float in this gray area of cultural self-identity, they’re also a part of it. And that’s something I frankly can’t choose, like how I didn’t choose to be named Jenny or be birthed in Vietnam. Even after moving to the U.S., my current address doesn’t erase my origins from a decade ago.
So instead, I choose to embrace my eyes, even with all of their struggles. They’re unusual, they’re unique and they’re mine.
