'My freckles became a source of beauty and pride, not shame.'
Body Language is an essay series that speaks to the ongoing conversation about beauty standards around the world—an exploration of where we came from and where we’re headed.
My mother and father escaped Vietnam five years apart, after the fall of Saigon in 1975. My mother fled by plane, my father by boat. My connection to the country was through their story: the knock on my mom’s college dorm. The helicopter ride back to Saigon. How she and her six siblings scrambled to pack up their lives in less than two hours. How my father and his three brothers fled, not knowing if they’d survive or ever return.
I watched my mixed identity play out with every meal at home. My family embraced Vietnamese customs, eating on special occasions traditional foods like thịt kho and bánh xèo . My parents spoke to me in Vietnamese, and I responded in English. Toggling between these two cultures felt natural and easy. To me, they were never in conflict; I never felt like I had to choose one or the other.
She booked a package of laser sessions at a local Vietnamese dermatologist’s office. Every Wednesday, for six weeks, we’d make the 30-minute drive to the dermatologist’s office. It was like clockwork: I’d sit in a chair as the doctor would laser off my freckles, one by one, lightening them more and more each time.