You're Not Ugly, You're Just a Person of Color in a Predominantly White Area
By Melissa Tinambacan, featuring Mari Joy
East High School, located in Salt Lake City, Utah, is often remembered as the High School Musical (HSM) series’ setting, but what I remember the high school for is its self-segregated lunch room. I spent my four glorious high school years at East between 2014 and 2018. This was prior to the filming of High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, but the legacy from the original movies weren’t forgotten. Visitors would come during school hours frequently. I rolled my eyes at them when they stopped by the pink locker (yes, it’s still there), and would frown when they interrupted dance company rehearsals. It is only now, four years later, that I’m wondering if they saw what I saw: a student body divided by race.
The segregation was evident in classrooms. AP and honors classes were primarily white — country club kids — and occasionally, a few people of color (POC), like myself. The lack of POC in these classrooms was not a reflection of their capability, but an overall social conditioning and lack of encouragement from counselors to take rigorous courses. With the ringing bell’s dismissal, integration was invited throughout the hallways as students pushed past each other. When the bell rang for lunch, each student found their place. At the time, I was indifferent to the implicit racism; truthfully, the majority of my lunches were spent doing homework for the next period. The lines of “us versus them,” set up within the hierarchy of high school popularity and race, are stark.
Just like the original HSM movies, there are levels in the lunchroom. The levels were for the popular white kids, and the occasional POC. The top floor was for white juniors and seniors. Juniors claimed one side; the seniors got the other. The second floor, where Sharpay frequently pranced around, was for white sophomores. The bottom floor was split between the white freshmen and, well, everyone else. The white lowerclassmen claimed the side that was closest to the steps leading to the upper levels. The rest of the student body assumed whatever leftover tables there were, or hallway floors. The message was clear: whiteness is prioritized and ascends to higher levels — figuratively and literally.
Utah, where I was born and raised, is a red state that champions whiteness. Although I couldn’t articulate it at a young age, I understood this. It’s the reason why I was confused and embarrassed when my peers asked me if I was adopted when my Black father picked me up. I internalized racism and let it grow in me: I didn’t want my papi to volunteer for school field trips; I refused to learn Spanish, and used to pinch my nose in hopes that it would shrink. I leaned fully into my whiteness. By the time I got to high school, I had pushed my Dominican heritage so far down that I only claimed it if I needed to check it on a box when my ethnicity was in question.
I hated my curly hair, so when I was required to straighten my hair for dance company performances because it was “more professional,” I was thrilled. I got spray tans with my white company members, even when they reminded me: “But you’re half Black.” Like so many teenagers, I wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to be different — but in Utah, Black was different. Black was not desirable for the prejudiced boys I, embarrassingly, had a crush on. The times I heard my peers talking about lusting after a POC, it was typically through the means of fetishization (“jungle fever”). I wanted to be blonde, with a lighter complexion and pointy nose. My low self-esteem was rooted in the dominance of eurocentric beauty standards, a lingering effect of white supremacy. I didn’t know this then; I just thought I was ugly. I should have embraced my biracial identity but instead I lost it, for the majority of my adolescence, due to insecurity.
In my adulthood, I am experiencing a delayed coming of age — one of self acceptance and actualization. I’m embracing the culture I once was embarrassed of. I’m finally taking steps to learn Spanish. The first time my hair was braided in cornrows, I felt the woman I had shoved down finally resurface.
Since graduating high school, I signed to three modeling agencies; although I do fit conventional standards due to my size, my differences felt validated. I was chosen because I had a unique look. My nose, olive skin and curly hair is what landed me in the September 2020 issue of Vogue, booked commercial shoots, and let me walk in New York Fashion Week.
Moving my way through New York and seeing people who looked like me was a comfort I didn’t get growing up. “Representation matters” is a slogan usually associated with digital media, but its importance exists in real life too. Spending time in cities larger than Salt Lake, I realize: I was never ugly. I was just a person of color in a predominantly white area. ♦
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A quick tip for finding self-acceptance and beauty as a POC:
Consume media (books, films, art) where people of color take the lead. Not everyone will have the ability or privilege to relocate to a city that mirrors back their complexion. However, we all have the power to decide what we consume. Following people outside of typical, conventionally attractive influencers, reading narratives written by someone who looks like you, as well as watching movies written by and about people of color have had an unexpected yet radical impact in my journey to self-acceptance.
