Hot Topic: Being Dark In Asia

I remember the first time I realized I was dark, and not just tanned, but dark. During Church, my family compared my chocolate tone to that of their ivory skin. I thought that my being dark was just a result of genetics—a trait I received from my equally dark-skinned father. But it was not the case, or at least, my mother thought it wasn't. For years she tried to convince me that my darkness was my own fault, that I spent too much time outside and not inside. My cabinet was stacked with skin-whitening products and I once submerged myself in a milk bath to rid myself of my unwanted pigments.

Let's get to it:

I was shades darker than my friends but since no one brought it up, it was just as a part of me as the darkness of my hair. But at home, my skin was a constant issue to be poked and prodded with by my mother, who believed that the beauty of a woman stems from the glow of one's complexion. My mother has pale skin bordering on light yellow. The translucence of her skin reminded me of a porcelain doll, while mine reminded me of old leather.

Being dark meant being perceived as poor. People who stayed indoors were seen as rich because they didn't have to do the back-breaking work of the slaves. It's the opposite of white people, where they fake-tan to give the illusion of being wealthy enough to afford to go on a trip to the Maldives.

In Asia, the most cherished physical trait is your skin; the glowing complexion that we're all so revered for. We should be pale, baby-smooth, and blemish-free. However, this is an East Asian trait that has trickled down to Southeast Asia, where the skin of the natives are much darker. We strive to look like our upstairs neighbor and we have adopted their standards of beauty instead of creating one of our own.

I am an advocate of knowing the difference between being a conventional beauty and what society deems as 'ugly'. I can say outright if someone looks attractive and if someone doesn't. I do not cower behind empowering slogans of 'everyone is beautiful'. However, I do have a problem with borrowing the standards of beauty set by another country. If Indonesia wants to make its citizens know the difference between pretty and ugly, then let the examples be Indonesian celebrities. I am fine with believing that I am ugly when I look at local celebrities like Luna Maya or Dian Sastrowardoyo. But when my self-esteem gets trampled by old Chinese/Japanese/Korean beliefs then yes, I do have a problem with that.

Indonesians have skin that's darker than the rest of Asia. Some parts of the country can have people with black skin and to give Indonesians one standard of beauty that isn't even ours is just ridiculous. In America you have ladies ranging from the pale Emma Stone to the night-shaded Lupita Nyong'o applauded for their beauty, and yet in Indonesia we have only the fair.

After I moved to Melbourne, I stopped playing outdoor sports. I learned to entertain myself indoors with Tumblr and books. Slowly, my pigments returned to its original form—to the skin I had when I was a toddler. I became fairer, but not fair enough. But this drastic change in my appearance brought some unsolicited compliments. I did not realize I was getting paler, but from the comments made from my mother and her friends, I have indeed fallen into the category of 'beautiful'. For the first time in nearly 19 years, I was considered fair in Indonesia, and yet I felt the same inside as I did when I was considered dark.

I hope that for the sake of 250 million Indonesians that we have more celebrities to look up to that look like us. Because for so long, I tried to rid myself of my sun-damaged skin when there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. I hope Indonesia will have more women with darker skin, because people from Medan look nothing like the ones in Maluku, and we all need someone to look up to. If the black Americans have Lupita Nyong'o, then the black Indonesians should have one too.