Where I was dirty, dark, and depressed, Mom was a blooming flower, white as snow. Her face was a bright moon that shone on everyone.

When the sun fired its flare at afternoon, I rode my bike, unaware of its consequence—I became blacker. After the ride, I locked myself in my room until Nanny called for dinnertime. Dad finished his work late at ten, so I only met him during weekends. Mom was too caught up with her work; she had countless office friends to hangout with. Growing up, old-nanny was my childhood mother. Her skin was darker than mine, which made me feel comfortable to talk to her.

In primary school, I was the fattest and shortest girl in class. On my first day of school, a white boy pushed me to an open locker, and a stupid accident happened. A pencil pierced through the center of my right palm, leaving a sharp pain that would last forever. I also had an ulcer skin all over my hands and feet. My friends called me “sampah jalanan”, which literally means the ‘rubbish from the street’.

How did I survive my bleak childhood? My big brother, Putra, told everyone I was stupid at math. In Asia, mathematics is the most important subject, then sciences, humanities, and arts at last. Putra was always better than me; in counting, memorizing, playing sports and reading music. Nevertheless, I accepted my limitation and unattractive look, moved on and sucked every bitter pill of life.

Besides my abnormal skin, everyone, including me, hates my calf, which Mom thought looked like a big papaya. That was a disheartening comment, yet a perfect description for my fat legs. To comfort me, Nanny gently brushed my long hair and whispered, “It’s alright, Putri. As long as you can walk and run, having a huge calf is totally okay”.

In middle school, I found my voice on the court. Putra and I joined a basketball club, where I was the only girl. I instantly fell in love with the orange ball. When the school-bell rang at three, rain or shine, I dashed to the schoolyard to play basketball alone. While running commentary was playing on my head, “3…2…1…”, I drove to the hoop, knocked down jumpers, and hit the game-winning shot. Basketball was the reason why my pale skin turned into a macho, dark-brown, just like the color of a low-class Indonesian.

For the first fourteen years of my life, Putra was my morning mirror. I became so competitive that I strived to be better than him, at least in basketball. Given my short stature, I utilized my speed in every game, dribbled like a street-baller and broke my opponents’ ankles. Putra was a good player, but my shooting and agility were unmatched. The only time he could beat me was when the pain on my palm relapsed.

On Sunday services, we played for the church orchestra while mom sang in the choir. When my brother gave up piano lesson, I continued with mine. That marked the first time I stopped shadowing his move. God touched my heart when I learned the piano accompaniment of “Lord, I gave you my heart”. Since then, I became a nerd at learning Christian songs as I figured its chords by ear. I soon realized that I’m gifted in music. I wrote my first composition at fourteen, self-taught the electric guitar at fifteen, and conducted the High school Orchestra during my graduation.

On the last day of March 2085, I was overjoyed to receive my acceptance news from Berkeley College of Rockers. I also led the Berkeley Women Basketball team to win our first NCAA title. I graduated Cum Laude, and married the guitarist of the rock band “Re-imagine Dragons”.

Having been disillusioned by the wrong mirror, I finally found my true mirror. I saw myself on the lake, which calm waters reflected a blurry but pretty face of mine. I stood and stared at the radiant sun as its rays lighted my soul. The standard was no longer Putra or Mom. I stopped comparing myself with others and became a master at remembering my exact look.

This morning, Pastor George preached, “Life has its own, cruel way to make us look ugly in any mirror. Even after discovering the right angle to take selfies, you keep thinking you’re a hulk, a beast, or an alien.” I pondered on his wise words and came to an “Aha! moment”.

We lost fifteen pounds, stopped eating ice creams, and failed to have a model-body. We are masters of look-fakers, and chasers of inglorious dreams. In life, there are more things that we cannot control than the few ones we can, such as attitude and choices. I can choose to bully myself or be thankful for my healthy body.

I can’t control the burst of my tears, or the color of my skin. So I won’t waste my time to cry over them. Why try to be God, who has the hardest, unpaid job?

Why does everyone repaint her skin? The whites pay hundreds of bucks to get tanned; the blacks wish they were born whites. The tallest girl dreams of growing shorter to date someone taller; the shortest one wears a 5-inches high heel.

The ever-phenomenal Maya Angelou told the world where her secret lies: “It’s in the arch of my back, the sun of my smile, the ride of my breasts, the grace of my style… and the palm of my hand.” For a brighter world, I will stay positive, grateful in all circumstances, and take pride in the sun of my smile.