A Woman Like Me

There would be times when people wouldn’t know what to make of me, and because of that, I wouldn’t know what to make of me either.

In the middle of my living room, Cindy Crawford taught me how to do a perfect lunge. “The key is to never let your knee go past your ankle,” she advised. Her confident super-model narration and 90s new wave background music guided me throughout The Next Challenge Workout on VHS every day after school. As an eight-year-old, I marveled at the contours chiseled along Cindy’s perfectly sculpted legs, which seemed long enough to constitute their own separate being. I focused on them as they moved faster during scissor lunges. While my girlish body wobbled and my breath quickened, her legs looked back at me and said, “Keep going, little girl! One day, you too will have legs like us!”

I had idolized Cindy Crawford ever since her 1992 Pepsi campaign. As a toddler, I was ready with one hand on my hip and my other hand holding an imaginary soda bottle whenever her commercial came on. I’d take a sip, tilt my head back, and let out a thirst-quenching ahh sound, perfectly timed with Cindy’s. She was my first impression of beauty that didn’t include blonde hair and blue eyes. Even as a young Filipina-American, I appreciated this. Her dark features may have been on white skin, but at least they mirrored something closer to my own. From that point on, I learned to admire her. I saw her and her signature beauty mark on magazine covers, movie screens, and even MTV. Sure, there were plenty of 90s Glamazons to choose from. But, thanks to her line of at-home workout videos, Cindy was the only one I saw every day. Watching her in my living room made her beauty not only inspirational but somehow attainable.

Every now and then, Cindy’s personal trainer Radu stepped into the frame to adjust her form. (Wow! Even supermodels needed a little help.) Radu Teodorescu was a no-nonsense Romanian man, who undoubtedly knew his stuff. He called out Cindy when her high knees were drooping and even corrected her lunge in order to optimize her stretch. But, he also wore white socks way above his ankle and proudly sported a receding hairline. I had no clue how this stocky forty-something-year-old man became a fashion model’s right hand in fitness, but I went with it. If the 90s (and its countless Adam Sandler movies) taught me anything, it was that average-looking men always ended up with gorgeous women.

While Cindy had Radu, I had my mother. As someone who completed the workout tape several times over, Mom not only did a perfect lunge but she also did it with ankle weights and ten-pound dumbbells in each hand. She taught me to workout with her until it became our everyday after-school routine. She’d eagerly put her hands around my waist to adjust my stance, pushing me further and further and further down so that I too could maximize the full stretch of the lunge. “Yan! Good job,” she’d say. She was proud to watch her young, cardio-blasting daughter get stronger. When she noticed my scrawny legs becoming flexible and lean, she’d exclaim with genuine praise, “’Galing! You got those legs from me.”

The amount of workout tapes covering our television stand seemed to triple ever since Mom left Dad a few years prior. I had to sort through The Firm: Total Body, 6-Minute Abs, Pilates Basics, Pilates 20-Minute Workout, Pilates Body Sculpting, and Billy Blanks Taebo before finally finding the latest Days of Our Lives episode that she had taped for me. Although I was dying to know if Bo and Hope’s love would survive the wrath of Stefano DiMero, I didn’t mind the clutter. Those workouts made Mom feel confident, which was a feeling she never had when she was married. As a young woman from the Philippines, she never went to the gym or worked out at home. Pinoy culture considered those activities as a guy thing. The divorce — and the workout tapes that came with it — changed all of that. Now, as both a thirty-something divorcée and an emergency-room nurse, she felt herself rising to a certain level of badassery. For the first time, she wasn’t just in charge of her body, she was in charge of her life. And, when she found empowerment through exercise, she immediately took her only child along for the ride. Junk food was eliminated from my school lunch, Santa Claus received a can of Slim Fast every Christmas Eve, and our pantry was stocked with brown rice. A healthy alternative that most Asians — who solemnly swear by specific brands of white rice and scrutinize every grain for density, moisture, and taste — consider as nothing but a cruel joke.

Mom hit eject on Cindy’s workout tape soon after we completed the lunges. She said the warm-up and leg series were good enough — just the right amount of cardio an eight-year-old. Arms, abs, and back exercises were for grown-ups like her. She fixed us a light merienda of pandesal with cream cheese, and we ate the post-workout snack from the breakfast counter where we could still see the living room TV. Mom watched the news, but every so often, I caught her attention with something I did wrong.

“Why are you sitting like that?” she asked with mild disgust.

I didn’t notice my seated position until she said something. I checked myself and found my leg propped up with my foot on the bar stool. Still under five-feet tall, I had short legs that inched to touch the ground and dangled off the chair whenever I sat. They weren’t long and lean like Cindy’s (and as an Asian girl whose height wouldn’t grow past five-foot-four, they never would be). Propping up my legs felt so comfortable and natural that I didn’t even notice I was doing it. I looked back at my mom and replied with a shrug, “I dunno. Why?”

“It’s so unbecoming of a lady,” she said. That phrase was used more and more as I grew up, with glaring side-eye no doubt. While Mom became more invested in exercise regimens and self-confidence, she also became more critical of body language and ladylike behavior — both hers and mine. As a divorcée, she thought of criticism as her way of preparing me for life’s unexpected circumstances and never-ending challenges. Although I knew her words were nothing more than passing comments, I couldn’t help feeling hyper-aware of my shortcomings whenever I heard them. I was saddened to think that I fell short of being a lady. After all, ladies didn’t help themselves to too much cream cheese, they didn’t pick their lip when they were anxious, they didn’t burp, they didn’t curse, they didn’t have body odor, and they certainly didn’t sit with their foot on the stool. Even if I didn’t do these things intentionally. Even if they happened without me noticing. Even if I couldn’t help it. I learned at an early age that none of that mattered. If you were a lady, what was polished would always be valued more than what was natural. And yet, I was determined to be a lady. Some perfect combination of beauty, strength, poise, and all of the things Mom wanted me to have. So, I returned to the proper position and shifted my attention to the TV while eating my lightly cream cheese’d toast.

Inside Edition was on and they were covering star athletes for the upcoming Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan. I didn’t pay much attention to the skiers, hockey players, and bobsledding teams, but the figure skating segment caught my eye. What I saw on my screen was a living and breathing anomaly. An Asian woman named Michelle Kwan who was favored to win the gold. As if the fact that she was an eighteen-year-old wasn’t already cool enough, the reporter said she was Chinese but born and raised in the States. My mom told me tales of another Asian-American named Kristi Yamaguchi who had won first place, but those stories from six years ago felt more like folklore. I could see Michelle Kwan — she was right there on my TV screen! Like Cindy Crawford on VHS, this celebrity felt real and familiar. I looked at her and envisioned a woman who looked something like me.

When they played the footage of Michelle at the U.S. Championships in Philadelphia, I stopped chewing my bread. Her performance deserved complete silence. I knew nothing about Rachmaninoff, but I heard the sound of cascading piano keys followed by crashing percussions. The song felt beautiful and crazy all at once, but throughout it, Michelle managed to strike the perfect balance between elegance and power. Mom and I watched as she lifted and lifted and lifted one leg while the other continued to glide throughout the rink. As a native Filipina, my mother was always amazed by what white people could do on a floor made of ice. So, when she saw Michelle’s mid-air vertical split, she exclaimed, “Oh my God! And she’s Asian?” Her performance was rumored to bring one of the judges to tears, and I understood why. I was witnessing a woman of color defy the odds while making all of it look so easy.

Leading up to the 1998 Winter Olympics, Michelle Kwan became the subject of magazines I flipped through and even homework I turned in. My fourth-grade class had a “Current Events” assignment due each week, so all of the kids could learn to appreciate the news. While my classmates wondered what their next weekly topic would be, I immediately got my glue stick and People Magazine cutouts ready. I stuck an image of Michelle Kwan onto a sheet of loose-leaf paper with an oddly detailed write-up of her ice-skating achievements. I had never done that for Cindy Crawford. It wasn’t that I stopped working out with her or even idolizing her, but Michelle spoke to me in a way Cindy couldn’t. I had never witnessed America embrace an Asian woman to this degree. They didn’t love her any less for having jet-black hair, a flattened nose, or a height of five-foot-two. She didn’t even need the long, lean legs of a supermodel. She was able to utilize both her natural features and polished techniques into the perfect combination of grace and power. She became my new architype for what it meant to be a lady. Because, when I saw this country accept her, I was hopeful it could accept me too.

When Mom and I gathered around our television, we watched the same Winter Olympic program everyone else did. We watched Michelle Kwan perfectly execute her routine, and we watched Tara Lipinski perfectly execute an even better routine. The February 20th performance became one of the greatest upsets in Olympic history, and yes, it broke my heart as a young Asian girl. Even before the judges announced their scores, I had already visualized Michelle Kwan standing on the highest podium with the gold medal draped over her chest for all to see. This short Asian-American woman with dark features would be named the best in the world, and an audience of white spectators would get up from their seats to cheer for her. I wanted that for Michelle, and selfishly, I wanted it for myself too. I wanted her win to validate my worth.

Then, in the midst of my disappointment, my broken adolescent heart was immediately repaired by the second-place winner herself. After Michelle bowed her head to receive the silver medal, she wore a wide smile as she lifted her face to the crowd. She stood proudly on the second-place podium where she waved to the crowd and to viewers like myself. She reassured us that she was alright. And if she was alright, then we’d be alright. “Now that’s a lady,” my mom said. While Tara Lipinski soon faded from the spotlight, Michelle gave us eight more years on the ice. She continued competing until she became the most decorated American skater of all time. Michelle taught me many things, but resilience was her greatest lesson.

Soon after Olympic fever died down, I had a playdate at my friend Cherylynn’s home. When I wasn’t doing after-school workouts with Mom and Cindy, I was usually hanging out with Cherylynn and her three younger siblings. All of us would make up games and play pretend, but in the late 90s, there were only five types of people you could pretend to be: Ginger, Baby, Posh, Scary, and Sporty. Spice-Girls mania made it perfectly acceptable for kids around the world to pick up imaginary microphones and speak in bad British accents. As a girl who talked her mom into vocal lessons only to practice “2 Become 1” on repeat, I was an avid fan. Especially when it came to Sporty Spice. Melanie C sang the best solos, had abs, and did backflips. Between my experience with Cindy Crawford workout tapes and my admiration of all-American athlete Michelle Kwan, I knew I was the right fit for the role.

“I’m Sporty! I’m Sporty,” I told the group.

One of Cherylynn’s sisters corrected me, “You can’t be Sporty.” Marissa already had her sneakers on and was halfway done putting her hair up in a ponytail. “I’m Sporty! You’re Scary Spice,” she said.

We ran into this issue before. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be Scary. After all, Mel B had a ton of killer solos. I just hated the fact that I always had to be Scary. Anisa was the youngest of the siblings, so she was Baby Spice. As the oldest sibling, Cherylynn let her middle sister Marissa take her pick from Ginger, Posh, or Sporty in an effort to keep the peace. She then picked up one of the remaining Spices. This scenario should have left me with at least two options. Unless her brother Georgie felt like playing with us, in which case he was automatically Sporty since he was a boy. But, it never mattered who picked what. I always had the same role in their home. As a brown girl in a group of white siblings, I was their Scary Spice.

“But I can be Sporty,” I argued, “Michelle Kwan is Asian like me, and she’s sporty!”

“You don’t even look like her,” Marissa insisted.

Even Cherylynn agreed. “It’s true,” she said quietly, begging me to give up the issue. It wasn’t the kind of girl power I expected, but my friend’s timid response was strong enough to make me back down. I knew four against one was a losing battle (and, in a few months, Ginger Spice would know exactly how I felt). I picked up my imaginary microphone and got ready for Mel B’s part in “Spice Up Your Life”.

In the car ride home, I vented to my mom about reprising my role as Scary Spice. “Anak, it’s okay,” she reassured me. She tried approaching my dilemma with a carefree attitude,“C’mon, cheer up. Don’t be so sensitive.” That was one of her favorite words she used to describe me. Mom called me sensitive whenever she felt like I was reading into something, taking criticism personally, or dwelling on an issue for longer than a child my age should. She didn’t like seeing me hurt, so she believed the best way to remedy my sensitive nature was to call it out and snap me out of it. She wanted to make me stronger, my attitude tougher, my skin thicker. However, her words only made me more aware of my flaw. I knew I was sensitive, but I had yet to develop the divorcée-level of confidence she had. As a native Filipina, my mom also couldn’t quite understand the true root of my adolescent angst. In the Philippines, she looked up to celebrities and grew up with people who looked something like her. As a Filipina-American, I was born into a country where I was different. I tried my hardest to find a familiar face in a workout tape, on a television screen, or even in school, only for every attempt to miss the mark.

There would be times when people wouldn’t know what to make of me, and because of that, I wouldn’t know what to make of me either. I certainly wasn’t white like Cindy Crawford, but I wasn’t exactly Asian like Michelle Kwan. I was this dark little foreign thing, so it was a lot easier to label me as Scary. Being Filipina would mean a life filled with nuance. Certain distinctions that were difficult for people, and even myself, to comprehend. Although in time I’d become the strong, resilient girl who so many women molded me to be, as a child, it was difficult to not be sensitive. Especially when it seemed like everything about me — every natural feature that I had no control over — felt so unbecoming of a lady.