Memory: I am seven years old, donned in an áo dài, the traditional costume of my country. Its color and texture is now lost in the hazy monochrome of recollection, but I will never forget how I hated its high collar, tight around my neck like a noose. I remember tugging on it, unfastening the buttons only for my mother to refasten them. Still, I admire myself in the mirror, twirling as little girls do, my long hair trailing behind me. I am pretending to be graceful, trying to be graceful. If I were to make a sudden, flailing movement, all the buttons could undo themselves, and there I would be again, with one arm up in the air as my mom fixes my dress. My aunt admires my hair, says to my mother, "Anh has such beautiful thick straight black hair. "

Memory: I am nine years old and sitting in the doctor's office for what seemed like the fourth time that month (it probably was). My doctor is listing off foods I should be eating, mainly carbs, things like sandwiches and pasta. My mom looks worried — she is pursing her lips and doing that thing she does where she tucks a fingernail underneath another and flicks it upwards. She reasserts that I am eating, that she doesn’t understand why I’m not gaining any weight, that she’s trying her best.

Memory: I am 12 years old and it is summer. I wear tank tops, skinned knees and no sunscreen. I spend my days racing boys in the neighborhood on my bike or acting out future careers with the girl who lives upstairs. At a family gathering, my aunt comments on my skin, “She is so dark, she looks like she could be black. She would be prettier if she were whiter.” My mom responds, “I know; she spends all day in the sun.” My cheeks feel hot and my eyes are fixated on the linoleum floor. I am counting the tiles, praying that perhaps, if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

Memory: I am 14 years old and it is my first day of high school. I rise before the sun, brush my teeth and cleanse my face. At this point, my once-sleek-straight-black locks are wavy, dyed and usually frizzy. As I straighten my hair, I think of the time my cousin tried to perm my hair with no lasting results. I think of my mother, looking at me with nostalgia. “Your hair used to be so beautiful. What happened?” When I am finished, I get dressed in the outfit I nervously set aside the night before. I am careful to wear loose fitting clothes like oversized sweaters and large T-shirts that I tie up. I think of my grandfather, saying lovingly, “If she gained some more weight, she would be beautiful.”

Memory: I am 16 years old, walking laps around the track with a girl I barely know. We are on the cusp of summer. I am dripping with glimmering beads of sweat, feeling like a dewy flower at dawn. I am cleaning my glasses with the bottom of my shirt when the girl next to me says, surprised, “Anh, you’re not as chinky as I thought you were.” I laugh — partially at her surprise, partially at the expectations she held without my knowledge — and thank her in the rising tone of a question.

It is no secret that the ideal "Asian" beauty has pearlescent, hairless skin, a thin, tall frame and satiny, thick hair. It has been a long journey of self love — almost 19 years, in fact. But "self love" is too hackneyed a phrase to aptly describe my ongoing 19 years of unlearning internalized beauty standards, of peeling back layers of expectations placed on me by my family members only to find more layers of self antagonization. I grew up looking at myself in mirrors and windows, constantly playing with my hair, twirling tendrils around my fingers as if they were tourmaline plates. I've been playing with make up for as long as I can remember and although I'm not saying it's a bad thing (I now proudly love makeup), I also can't ignore the young age at which I became almost compulsively obsessed with fitting in and feeling pretty. I went through a phase where I would contour my nose to make it look higher and slimmer. I tried out whitening creams. I straightened my hair every single day. I wanted to be like the "natural" beauties I watched in Asian dramas, or like the tall, blonde girls I saw in ads wearing the clothes I wished I fit in, or more recently, like the unrealistically fit, exotic, curvaceous Kardashians.

It took a long time for me to accept myself, but even longer for me to accept my family members, for me to realize that their criticisms were not out of contempt or disappointment, but out of love, expressed as a result of beliefs bred into them, forced upon them, just as they were forced upon me. I imagine my family of first generation immigrants — my mom, my aunt, my cousins — growing up feeling not good enough, insecure, all while dealing with poverty and the war-stricken countryside of Northern Vietnam. Maybe they were only passing familiar judgments, familiar words. Maybe they hoped that my appearance and my background would never hinder me from what I wanted to do in life. Perhaps the criticisms that left me with were actually hopes that I would go on to lead a better life than they did, a more perfect life.These memories were never painful for me — I swallowed them graciously, a bitter lump in my throat I had gotten accustomed to. But as I got older, they began to illustrate the insecurities and self hate passed down through generations of Asian women. Now, I eat coarsely. I don't let people comment on my weight. I've gotten better at taking care of my hair. I go out without makeup. I go out with a lot of makeup. I wear tight fitting clothes when I want to. Who cares if I don't have the boobs for that crop top? I'm wearing it anyway.