For a few years, I worked on a professional development program in the US. Our students were government officials from ASEAN countries. These are top-class middle management fellows, primed for bigger things, some earmarked for high-profile placements. At least 10% have a PhD. Despite often being the youngest one in the room, on top of having zero education in International Relations, I was confident enough to run the classes. Well-traveled and well-experienced in maneuvering Asian politics, these are just about the most polite, non-confrontational group of people to work with. If they are courteous enough not to ask questions about my seniority, I shall not challenge their conventional structures of hierarchy. Think of it as a big inconvenient truth we’ve all silently agreed to disregard.
One morning before start of class, a lady from Myanmar gestured for me to come closer. She whispered discreetly, “You need to wear lipstick, it’ll look good on you”. Then she smiled, and I hesitated, unsure how to respond. If this was a stain in my shirt or food on my face, I would’ve remedied the issue immediately. This being mid-term in nature, I needed time to process that feedback. I peered below her colored eyelids, saw sincerity, and thanked her.
And so it took a full year before I finally started wearing lipstick. Thanks, lady.
The hard part was to understand why she found it so important and urgent to save me from apparent self-destruction. As it was only a few days after we’ve met, she’s probably noticed it since day one and heroically restrained herself. I pictured her in agony, late at night in her hotel room, Skyping her loved ones, debating the pros and cons of raising the subject. “I know it’s too forward, Mother, but I just can’t stand it. The girl needs help. I’m gonna say something tomorrow.”
Of course I know this comment came from kindness, an honest observation that should have been obvious to everyone. A big inconvenient truth we’ve all silently agreed to disregard. Like at my sister’s wedding, when I asked for an approximate duration for hair & makeup, and the lady said “oh nothing much, we’re just gonna work on the nose.” Or at the dentist, when we were discussing teeth whitening procedures, and the nurse chimed in, “I mean, maybe the gums thing, but whiteners? You don’t need it.” These comments inject a surprise humility, a polite chuckle, followed by crippling self-doubt: What’s wrong with my gums / nose / unadorned lips, and how long have you thought this?
How often do we get reminders to be more insecure than we are?
Tika Anindya 