Complexion

Complexion examines racial stereotypes and the value society places on physical appearance. The opening scene, where Rodriguez describes the different facial characteristics of his family is something to which I can wholeheartedly relate. Both my brother and I were adopted as infants, and as I grew up, I often felt like I did not fit in with the my extended family. My cousins, all slender, tall and blonde, seemed to me like towering goddesses; as a child I always felt plump, short and out of place when I looked at my family.

Where Rodriquez's mother often seemed overly concerned with appearance, so too does my mother.

When was when I was a little girl, I would sit on my mom’s bed every morning before school while she brushed my long, golden hair. She would neatly pull it into a ponytail, and send me off on the bus.

My mom loved my hair. When I was nine, she wanted a portrait of my brother and me. She waited until the middle of September to have it taken so my hair wouldn’t be summer white blonde or too dark from the winter. One of the portraits didn’t turn out quite right, so in October we retook it and I wore the same outfit I wore during September. Both portraits hang on our wall now, and if you don’t look at them intensely, they look like they were taken the same day. But my hair is a few shades darker. Whenever my mom talks about the portraits, she always mentions the slight difference.

I used to think that her love for my hair was a simple admiration of natural beauty. But as I’ve grown older I’ve often felt that my mom thinks my hair and other physical attributes add value to me.

Just recently I lost thirty pounds. Every time I would go home for a weekend or a break, I’d lost a little more weight and my mom was just a little more fixated on my appearance. Over winter break, I finally reached my weight loss goal of thirty pounds; I also began seeing someone for the first time in four years. I met him in an online political forum, and through a lucky string of coincidences, we found out we’re both from Philadelphia. We talked every day for hours, about music, religion and sex. The night of our second date, I stood in front of my mirror while my mom watched me brush my hair. I wore skinny jeans, a slim sweater and brown, suede boots. It had been a long time since I could wear a slim sweater, let alone skinny jeans.

I smiled as I exhaled and let my guard down for a moment.

My mother snapped. “Suck in your gut!”

I stared at her reflection in the mirror, not recognizing her for a second.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You look beautiful.”

“I think Mike and I are past the point of focusing on bodily imperfections, Mom. I’d like to think we have a deeper connection than that,” I replied.