Girl Talk

My youngest host sister and I have a pretty close relationship. For starters, she’s the most patient family member when explaining things to me and engaging me in conversation (probably because, as the youngest, she doesn’t have to rein in the cows every afternoon or feed the pigs or do the laundry or wash the dishes like my younger brother does), and is always willing to repeat something or explain it in a new way or draw me a picture to show exactly what she’s talking about.

Her personality is also strikingly similar to mine—it’s almost as if I’m glimpsing into a much skinnier, darker version of myself some 13 odd years ago. She loves winning, she has a great sense of humor and is always laughing and getting laughed at, and she’s never afraid to tell it like it is or share her opinion on anything. Whenever my brother would give a vague reason for why my host pa is sleeping in until 11AM (“He has a headache”), my youngest sister will chime in from the other side of the room: “…because he drank too much beer last night!”

I think the best indicator of how she just takes everything in stride is when people start teasing her for her dark skin. In Cambodia, the whiter one’s skin is, the more “beautiful” one is perceived by society. My youngest sister has the most beautiful (by American standards) chocolate skin and looks great in bright yellows and oranges, but to fellow Khmer, she’s far too dark. In fact, my pa (the person whose dark genes she inherited) likes to joke around and call her “black shoe”. Aunts and uncles will call her “master black” and even my host brother will chime in with “blackie” in attempts to agitate her. She never responds, though, and just lets it roll off her shoulders.

Early on in my homestay experience, I commented to everyone at the dinner table about how I want my skin to be as dark as my sister’s because it’s so pretty. Everyone laughed uproariously like I had just told a joke but afterward I made sure to periodically drop “black is beautiful” around her because a) it’s honestly what I think and b) girl could use a little positive body image. Since then, whenever someone makes a black comment at her and I’m within earshot, she’ll ask, “But black is beautiful, right?” and I’ll smile and agree with her.

I didn’t really think much of these little exchanges until a few weeks ago when my aunt was sitting around shooting the breeze over mangos with me and a bunch of other staff at the health center. One of the staff asked my aunt how my youngest sister was doing and she said,

“Oh, she’s so funny. The other day she was complaining to everyone about how no one says she’s pretty and that everyone calls her ‘master black’ and that bong seen [what she calls me] is the only one that says she’s pretty.”

My first reaction was one of surprise. I didn’t know she minded. Then I was incredulous that I was actually surprised. What little girl doesn’t like to be told she’s pretty? What little girl doesn’t mind being called something that’s the societal equivalent of ugly?!

From then on, I’ve made a conscious effort to compliment her; for example, when she dresses up to go on trips, I’ll make sure to say she looks pretty. The other day, she shyly showed me the new shoes host ma bought her: bright pink replicas of the beat up vans I wore (I vaguely recalled my ma telling me how she had wanted shoes like mine one day when I wore them). When I put on sneakers and a skirt to go to a wedding, she put her hot pink sneakers on under her dress until ma told her to stop being ridiculous and change into jeans instead. While we were standing around waiting for our ride, she sidled up to me and said, “Look, bong seen, we have the same shoes. Yours are purple and mine are pink.”

I guess you can say this is kind of like youth empowerment. (As I do everything I can to show Peace Corps admin that I’m “doing something” even though all I want to do is chill out.)