When I was born, my immediate family consisted of my mother, my father, my dog, and me. My mother’s parents had already passed so I was never able to meet them. My fathers parents were still in South Africa, and it was decided that they would live with us. They would be able to be with their only son, the daughter in law they adored, and the granddaughter they had yet to meet. For six years, we were all together and every single photograph and video we have from that time is nothing short of joyful.
But then things changed, and my oupa died when I was six, before we moved to Florida. Four years later, my ouma passed.
From the first loss, I remember things changing. I moved into adolescence and teenage years lonely, resentful, isolated. The family that I had once fit into perfectly as a puzzle piece had lost a few border pieces, and the fit didn’t seem quite right anymore. And I seemed incapable of finding a fit with my peers, which only sharpened my own edges. The place for me, and the two pieces that had helped me find a place to settle into comfortably, didn’t seem to exist anymore.
I was bullied and teased for anything that could elicit a reaction out of me, which ended up being most things. My looks were a particular target. Simply, I don’t have the all American features that so many of my peers did. I have a heavier brow, a more prominent nose, and a chin that likes to assert itself in profile. I was not as delicate as my classmates, and they were sure to tell me.
For a long time, I resented my features. I blamed them for part of my ostracization. I remember researching rhinoplasty as young as 14, because even though I didn’t know what was wrong with my face, I knew there must be something. The problem had to be with me, didn’t it? And if I could fix it, and blend in better, maybe that would be my answer. If no one else could accept my features, why should I be forced to?
The idea hung around for years, many many years. And as plastic surgery became a more common conversation, the idea seemed attainable, practical. A logical solution to a seemingly simple problem.
But the problem was not simple. As I got older I realized that my bullies did not look for a particular target, instead they threw whatever they could find at me. I had changed how I dressed, how I acted, what I did, and none of it worked to abate anything. What if I got all these procedures done, and the bullies didn’t stop? And so, as I went into college and the teasing ended, the idea slowly slipped from my mind. Until, however, I decided to try my hand at Instagram and makeup.
So many makeup bloggers and vloggers had procedures done, and so many of them did not look like me. The thirteen year old in me felt like she was looking in a time machine in a way. I, again, was trying to fit into a situation that I in no way fit the part of. My features didn’t allow for it, I didn’t have the suitable levels of glamour and aspirationalism. And the thought returned that maybe I needed to look more like the other kids if I wanted to make things work.
A couple more intervening years, and I found myself one day reading the beginnings of a story that I had only heard snippets of, in the form of a few pieces of paper on the dining room table, carefully typed out. Somehow, my mom had left lying on the table the first few pages of the story my oupa was dictating to my ouma before he died. The story of when he was a teenaged fighter pilot in World War II, shot down behind enemy lines in Italy, and forced to find his way home. It was a story that has remained unfinished, and will never be finished. I began trying to remember the stories my ouma and oupa had told me, perhaps to see if I could somehow contribute to this unfinished manuscript.
Then I realized how many memories have been lost over the years, unable to be salvaged. And that was the thought that broke me.
I sobbed when I realized how little I remembered, and my heart broke when I realized that there was a hole in it that wouldn’t be filled again. I wanted my family, I wanted my grandparents that had traveled across the world to be with me for too short a time. I cried and I cried and I cried and I told my dad how I just wanted them back.
While trying to comfort me, my mom and dad mentioned that I had my grandmothers eyes, identical to the point it disconcerted my aunt, her sister. And that began a process of emotional healing I had never been able to properly address until then.
I have been able to mourn, properly now, those losses, and the losses of my mothers parents that I never directly experienced. I’ve poured over pictures of them, listened to stories of them, ran their birthcharts to look for astrological markers we share. I’ve found letters written to me, to other family members, pictures, keepsakes. But, most of all, I found a very permanent remnant of all of them.
Me.
I am a near physical copy of my mother from the front, but my father from the side. I walk like my mother, and I talk like my father. But I have my ouma and grandpa’s eyes. I have my grandmothers eyebrows. My oupa’s forehead and chin. My oumas lips. I smile like my father and my oupa. For as much as I am a mixture of my parents, I am even more so a blend of my grandparents.
The ouma who taught me to sew and crochet, who put rum in almost everything she ever cooked. Who taught me about karma, reincarnation, and the power of gentle leadership. The oupa who taught me to play chess, who danced with me on his feet. The oupa who would watch The Sound or Music with me and would send me out of the room so I wouldn’t have to watch Nazis chasing the von Trapp family.
The grandmother who was a fit model in her younger years, who could dress anyone and make them look like a million bucks. Who was comfortable anywhere, from the beachside to military functions to a ranch. The grandfather who raced motorcycles and went to war for his adopted country. Who had said he didn’t want a dog and eventually learned the precise cut of meat Friday the shepherd liked.
I want my memories back, and I want my grandparents back. Desperately I want them back. But there is no hole in my life now. The puzzle pieces were never missing, because I hold those pieces. In my eyebrows, my cheeks, my chin, my nose, my lips. Spiritually, yes, they’re with me. But physically, they’re here too.
And if I change my features, I will lose the markers of my family. I’ll lose the ability to look at pictures from a century earlier and see the connection between me and the people who brought my parents into the world, leading to me.
Now, as my parents get older, I have to face their mortality. And I am yet again faced with the knowledge that I am a physical artifact of their presence here. Moreso than possessions and video, I am a record of my family. I am the record of my mother, my father, my grandparents, and all those who came before me. I want to be able to see them when I look in the mirror, I want to be able to see the phenotypic signatures of my family.
I find comfort in the features that I once would have done anything to change. The features that I was once mocked for have become a source of strength, because I can see who they once belonged to. For me, to change the things that I share with the people who I adore more than my own life would erase a memory of them. I want people to be able to look between a picture of my ouma and myself and see the connection. I want to be able to look around the dinner table and see my father with the same nose that I have, and my mother with the same eye shape. I want these things, because I want them to live on through me. A genotype is too abstract to bring me comfort, as I’d considered that. I want the world to see the features that have been passed down to me, through generations.
I do not view plastic surgery as evil. In terms of plastic surgery and how it relates to society, I have some difficult to articulate feelings that I may share one day. For those that choose it, I celebrate their choice and I wish them easy procedures, quick recovery times (if necessary), and happiness. I encourage people to consider their options, and to make informed decisions in peace and without input from others. For some, it can be a complicated choice, and for others it’s an easy decision to go through with it or not.
Ultimately, my choice was hard won, and not easily decided. It took years, and cost me emotional security and confidence for a long while. But now, my answer is clear and simple: I want to see my family in my face. I want others to see it, too.
This is honestly one of the most moving and beautiful pieces of writing I’ve read in a very long time. I had always longed to change things about my face (well, my whole body if I’m being honest) and had never considered that these features were things I treasured on the faces of the people I have loved and lost. yOU’VE REALLY OPENED MY EYES TO THAT, AND i GENUINELY FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE CHANGED MY WHOLE OUTLOOK ON MY APPEARANCE. i AM SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSSES, IT NEVER GETS EASIER BUT i AM SO GLAD YOU HAVE FOUND SOME COMFORT FROM YOUR REFLECTION AND WILL ALWAYS BE CARRYING THEM WITH YOU.
sENDING YOU LOTS OF LOVE!
Beth x Adventure & Anxiety