My grandmother was vain.

She bred that vanity, nurtured it in all her children, and then her grand children.

My hair was my crown she would tell me. When I was 11 I talked a hairstylist into cutting it to my shoulders and my grandmother was so angry she left me at the salon for two hours and made the stylist cry.

When I was twelve she took me to a consultation with a plastic surgeon to have my birthmark removed and she asked for a consult for a nose job as well. My nose was the focus of so many conversations as a child. It was my ancestorial “Indian nose" carried down through her family tree unwillingly. She hated looking at herself for it. She hated looking at me for it. How much prettier would I be with an English nose? Even an Irish nose would have been acceptable.

My hair was fire red as a toddler, then went white blonde, then settled into a strawberry blonde as an adolescent but was deemed “not red enough" quite often.

I remember as a middle schooler playing volleyball in my yard and a carload of boys driving by and catcalling me, a child, my grandmother watching from a window and proudly remarking that its because my hair was dyed redder cause “thats what the boys want".

I often find it ironic how into my sexuality ive developed. I feel almost groomed for my current state all the while simultaneously being shamed for it.

7th grade was such a time for me. All the girls I knew were developing breasts and finding hairs and starting periods and i was left behind. My grandmother took me to specialists who determined i had a growth deficiency and offered human growth hormone trials but part of the trial would require that i allow them to photograph me naked and I was terrified my grandmother would allow it.

After all she had already taken me to a doctor that molested me during my exam and she refused to believe me. I was so scared that it would happen again i cried everytime until she decided it was too aggravating to deal with and gave up.

She instead started sewing shoulder pads into bras and making me wear them everyday. These only accomplished shrinking me even more as if I wasn’t awkward enough.

Everything in my life was pointed towards what men would think. I was required to wear makeup at a young age while also being told how sinful and awful my body was.

My vulva was an open wound, she said. Disgusted at the idea of my anatomy, hoping to create the same disgust for myself that she held. My virginity was a rose and if I gave myself to someone I would lose petals until I lost my value. I was an object meant for others pleasure and not my own.

She created in me a sense of body dismorphia to which I’ve simultaneously stayed in awe of my skin and curves and looks while also feeling such disgust by them. A vanity I have yet to completely loosen my grip.

I’ve been on a constant journey of self love that is much like a tango…one step forward two steps back and a little cha cha here and there.

Its only grown more confusing as I age. I simultaneously feel more sexually empowered as I’ve grown older, loving the wiry white hairs growing in on my head and cringing at the lines on my face. Im shrodingers woman. Both in love with myself and wishing I were anyone else. Both in awe at how I can still move eyes in a room and also wondering if they are seeing what I see and maybe thats why they look. Both sure of myself and very unsure at the same time.

Over the years I’ve struggled to remove myself from the weight of the mold my grandmother created for me. I hope I can complete the process before im really old and gray, but its more than likely a ride ill never get off of.