Kiwi Illafonte

I used to curse my height. Always the shortest boy in class. Always the last one picked for kickball. Always bullied. Always treated like a mascot.

I used to curse my quietness. Always invisible. Always drowned out under the piercing voices of popular kids.

I cursed my skin. I cursed my nose. I cursed my need for love, my vulnerability.

I overcompensated. To be the better ballplayer, the better skater, the better rapper. To build a bigger and stronger shield—a thicker mask—than everyone else. My late sleep patterns attributed to evenings spent trying to prove that I belonged.

Only to realize that the acceptance I did all that work for wasn’t worth it. That the lens I saw the world through, at my size, in my silence, was what gave my story its edge. What gave my perspective its worth. And now I walk with the irony that it is those abnormal parts of myself that are actually the most beautiful things I can offer to the world.

If only I can remember where I hid them.

When I was old enough to feel shame, one of the first things I hated was my skin. I’d turn on the TV, all the heroes were white. The little Irish kids at my Catholic school walked around like badasses, as if their paleness afforded them special privileges. Even the lighter skinned Filipino kids around the neighborhood got extra love. One day my mother noticed me soaping my skin extra hard:

“Anak, what are you doing?”

“I want my skin to be light like the kids at school,” I replied.

“Ay nako! Give me that!” She snatches the soap out of my hand.

“Listen to me,” she says. “You think those kids have great skin? Their parents are probably at the beach right now laying out in the sun, trying to get THEIR skin to look like yours.”

Thank you ma, for teaching me to love myself.