What's Wrong with the American's Face?

One day I was walking around the batey with a kid who had decided to join me, chatting idly with him and greeting the people we were passing. I raised my hand in greeting and wished one particular woman a good afternoon. She looked up from what she was doing and said in a loud voice, “What’s wrong with the American’s face?”

The kid looked up at me, either expecting me to react or waiting for me to give her an answer. Outwardly I showed no sign that I had heard or understood, but mentally my shoulders were drooping slightly as I continued on. After dozens such comments I have learned to let them roll off me quickly, but it always stings a little.

Ever since I was fifteen years old I have struggled with acne. Okay, at this point some of you may be wondering why I’m talking about something so superficial when I could be using this blog to talk about international politics or world hunger or something less fleeting than my physical appearance. This subject is definitely a bit different from my usual topics, but for some reason it has been weighing on my heart, and so I will give it some space to be discussed.

Obviously acne is something almost everyone can relate to, but for me it was a pretty major struggle, and very quickly became the thing I hated most about my body. I can’t remember a time when I had smooth, clear skin. I use two prescriptions to help keep it under control. One of my medications makes my face sensitive to the sun, which means five minutes outside—even five minutes while using sunscreen—will turn my face beet red for the rest of the day. And in case you didn’t remember I live on a tropical island, so every day my face is spotted with acne scars and reddened from the island sun. Make-up was like a little miracle when I finally figured out how to use it right, but when the year-round heat causes the make-up to sweat off right as you put it on, it kind of defeats the purpose.

In reality most comments I receive from the locals (ahem, I mean the local men) are pretty positive. I am called beautiful and pretty, mostly because of my white skin. But I also get fairly regular comments about my face, and because it is my biggest insecurity, they stick with me.

It’s not just in the Dominican that I have gotten asked about my acne. In every country I have visited, including the U.S., my face has been a topic of discussion, mostly from kids, but adults too. One of my worst experiences? I was in Haiti about two years ago visiting my friend who was living in an orphanage at the time. My sister and two other friends had come to see her too, and we were all walking down a street after enjoying some cool Coke from a glass bottle. Suddenly an old drunk man began to follow us on the street. He was harassing us a bit, first to ask for money, and then to bother us because we didn’t give him any. I was standing next to my sister, and he pointed a wobbly finger at her.

“You are beautiful,” he said in half Creole and half pantomime. I couldn’t argue with him on that. My sister is beautiful, and I have spent my entire life looking up to her. I hated it when people compared us to each other, mostly because she usually ended up coming out on top. I couldn’t fault her for that because I typically agreed with them, but I despised them for pointing it out. I mean, just look at her:

Okay, but really:

Then the man turned to me. “You are not beautiful.” He gestured my face to drive in his point. In that moment all of my past insecurities flooded back to me. I became shrouded in shame, and then anger at feeling ashamed. The man asked if I had allergies, or if I had scratched my face. My answers were laced with defiant pride, but it was a facade; inside I was a broken little girl who had just been wounded by a stranger.

That man is a symbol of the rejection and condemnation that I fear from everyone because of how I look. His accusing words boom over all others, drowning out every compliment, every expression of admiration. In my warped moments of weakness I allow this to happen; I allow strangers and mere humans to assign me value based on what they see. And I close my ears to the quiet truth that is being whispered constantly to my heart, waiting for me to accept it.

The truth is that I am a perfect creation because I was created by a perfect being.

The truth is that my confidence comes from the Lord, and it is nothing I can muster up myself.

The truth is that God has designed me to do many things in my life, and there is no time to be dragged down by the ugly lies about me.

After eight years of being chained down by this insecurity, I have finally allowed God to tell me what my value is, and it is way more than I ever dreamed it could be. In fact, I am priceless. The comments about my face may still sting a little, but they no longer define me, which is probably why I am even able to write about this with no shame. I am not posting this so I will receive a bunch of comments about how beautiful I am; I actually happen to think very highly of myself, and the only approval I need is from my Creator. I know who I am, and there is strength in the knowing. My hope is that by sharing my struggles there will be someone who will finally let God tell them who they are. And who they are is beautiful.