You earned the right to be different

For as long as I can remember, I've always defined myself as being different. I realize now that this started in seventh grade, when I was an awkward, lanky pre-teen with glasses, braces, frizzy hair, and big eyebrows (think Mia from Princess Diaries, pre-princess makeover). The 'popular kids' (aka boys basketball and girls cheerleading) had their fair share of laughs at the expense of me and my friends, and often enough I wished that I looked like and acted like them.

To drive the point home, I know that I was seriously awkward at this age because a month ago I was putting together a slide show of pictures for my younger sister's high school graduation and included a picture of our family that showed 13-year-old me drinking a smoothie with my sister on the beach. My mom suggested I pick a different picture because, as she pointed out, there exist more attractive pictures of me.

Though I looked quite odd at that age, and probably acted just as odd, I was fairly happy with myself. (Note: I was not happy when my parents told me I couldn't shave my legs until I was a teenager, but at least I talked them into letting me do it during the summer before seventh grade.) These days, I'd like to believe I'm a little less awkward and a little more attractive, but it also concerns me to think that while I'm no longer criticized for having furry eyebrows and shiny metal braces, there were and continue to be children out there that are criticized for things they will not 'grow out of,' such as their skin color or family background. While I looked at the pictures of my pre-teen self I wondered, why exactly do we ridicule others for being different from us?

I discovered today at work that it seemed as if I already knew the answer to this question, though I forgot it while at school this spring because at Villanova, I'm not different.

I've mentioned before that I'm a waitress, well paying for an LSAT class forces me to be a workaholic and have two jobs this summer. Today at my other job in the school cafeteria, my boss for the day identified other employees to me either by hair color or race. She addressed one as, 'the black guy with the beard,' one as, 'the Indian with the backwards hat,' and the other as, 'the girl with the long brown hair.'

That got me to thinking about my time abroad in the fall. Besides the cars driving on the opposite side of the road, one of the most shocking things about London was how different the British are from Americans, a point that they make sure to establish within hours of meeting you.

In my flat, I lived with two other Americans, three British kids, one Chinese kid, and one eastern European, (I never could quite understand what his name was or where he was from, heavy accent).

I immediately bonded with the Americans because they were 'the same' as me. I had naively gone to England thinking that the culture shock would be close to non-existant and the British were generally similar to Americans, mainly because of the language.

I soon discovered that the British made a point to establish every difference between us, and them. Their accent (which was correct, ours was wrong), their culture, their schooling system, their government, their clothing, the list goes on and on. I'm assuming it has something to do with President George W. Bush, but the British kids made it quite obvious that they did not like drawing any similarities between us and them.

My flatmates, and their rude friends who found Americans downright disgusting, made me understand that they were different from Americans. They were British.

While I was at work today, I was quickly reminded of how easily people point out how people are different from one another. Skin color, hair color, clothing, accent, basically anything. And really, I understand that it's because we define ourselves by how we are different from others. That's the beautiful thing about this world after all. If we were all the same, how would we get anything accomplished? I mean, I'm obviously a beautiful, talented young woman, but there are things that I cannot do. (Math, for example.) Yes, that's something internal, not relating to appearance, but as I established in my last post, appearance is how we present ourselves to the world.

Our differences are our identifiable characteristics and looking back at the pictures of my awkward self, I realized that that's why I've always defined myself as different. It's no fun being like everybody else.

Life is more interesting as a clumsy, frizzy-haired brunette with square maroon glasses.

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder

In my life, I've often wondered why exactly people are so self-obsessed, particularly with their image. I know I'm attractive, maybe that's why I'm in love with myself. It may sound conceited, but I don't really care, you can't argue with the truth. Anyway, that's besides the point. The point is, why are we so obsessed?

I recently start waitressing at a bar-restaurant near my new house near school. I live in a rather upper-class area, and their is a particular stereotype of the people that are native to this area. To put it simply, they're the country club type. I've had my share of experience with this type, as I lifeguarded at a country club for the previous two summers, and there is are two molds for these types of people.

Generally, the father is some sort of successful professional [insert businessman, lawyer, doctor, entrepreneur, etc] married to a trophy wife with the perfect children. Hopefully the mother cares enough about her children to actually care for them, but sometimes she cares more about herself than about them, as seen in her size 2 toned body.

The second mold, and the one that I prefer, is the successful father with the perfect children, but also involves a motivated, working mother that has a career of her own. I actually like this type of woman a lot; she graduated from college with the intent of working, not with the intent of finding a husband, but also expects to have a the perfect family and live in a beautiful large home. It was a woman like this that encouraged me to pursue my budding interest in law school last summer.

Every Friday night, the restaurant that I work at has a dance party for these country club types, let's call them Shore Goers, over the ago of fifty. It was at the third dance party that I worked at last week that I had an enlightened moment as to why we are so obsessed with our image.

A tan, thin woman donning a fitted purple knee-length dress approached me, fanning herself with a red and white paper fan. She leaned against the table that I stood next to, waiting for me to talk to her, about herself of course.

Suzanne, as I found out, was a 60-year-old widow of seven years who came to the restaurant every Friday night. Dancing was her exercise she said. She had two children and six grandchildren, and while her oldest son often pleaded with her to babysit, she had a life of her own, as she said.

"You look great," I told her. "I wouldn't believe you were sixty unless you told me yourself." Though my compliment was slightly facetious, it was mostly genuine.

"I know I look great," she responded. I must have looked taken aback because she said, "I know I'm vain. I always have been. My appearance means everything to me. It's who I am to the rest of the world. It's how people see you."

With that, Suzanne spotted an older gentleman in a creamsicle colored button down and dashed across the dance floor in his direction, never giving me a second thought.

While I watched the rest of the dance party that night, including Suzanne flaunt her size 4 fit body in leopard print pumps, I realized that she was right.

In most ways, at least.

A person's appearance is how he or she represents themselves to the outside world. Though we may not boast it, we all know that first impressions mean a great deal and sweeping judgments are made as a result of appearances. Though I didn't agree with Suzanne's neglect of her grandchildren for her 'life of her own,' I did admire her confidence. The fact that Suzanne was confident about being a 60-year-old widow and grandmother, with a bangin' body, made me wonder, why shouldn't she show it off?

I got to thinking ... I've spent 21 years in this body, might as well be proud of it.