Children are cruel. Among adults so used to flattery and platitudes, this is a shared sentiment. However, here’s a query– where did children learn these words of cruelty?
A child called you ‘ugly’, but who taught her ugliness?

(Ooooh snap! Gotcha, didn’t I?)

I.
“I can’t eat this,” You shake your head, waving away the offered crisps. “I’ll get fat.”
What you mean is ‘I’ll get salt and flavourings all over my hand, and I don’t want to go to the restroom’. What you mean is ‘The last restroom break was only 5 minutes ago, and it would be awkward if I asked to go to the restroom now’ . But that reply was too long, and it might incite more question. You quickly calculate the costs and benefits of a honest reply and decide to not further strain you warbled English. So, for the survival of your over-worked brain, you search for a more convenient reason.

This is what you said instead: “I’ll get fat”.

Your explanation tasted foreign to your own tongue. A new, peculiar sort of foreign. Not the ‘did I translate this word correctly?’ foreign, but the ‘two-dots one line (两点⼀线)’ foreign, the ‘Chop chop kiddo, time is money! (莫咪咪摸摸啦囡，時間就是⾦錢!)’ foreign, which is to say– you had no idea what you were translating. You were a child, an echo, repeating words of wisdom you could not yet grasp.

You remember your parents calling you ‘fat’, jokingly, prodding your tummy and pinching your cheeks. You remember your grandparents calling you ‘too skinny’, piling a Pisa Tower of roasted pork ribs onto your bowl of rice. You recall the sharp jabs girls eagerly threw at each other on the playground, ranging from ‘Piggy’ (an allusion to Lord of the Flies, but you don’t think they were complimenting Miley on her intelligence) to ‘Zhubajie’ (the lazy pig monster from Journey to the West, and yes, that was most definitely not a compliment). You sit with Charlotte on the spider climber and you nick slices of her cinnamon apples, all the while questioning your own intelligence, because, to your untrained eyes, the warring female factions all looked the same (?).

So you reject the crisps with a smile and a foreign excuse. You push down the urge to respond to his indignant question (“You’re the size of my hamster! How are you fat?”) with your own contrarian retort (“Ha! Define fat. Define hamster, actually.”) and instead, you sit down on the prickly blue carpet, criss-cross applesauce, pretzel buddha style, awaiting the next Battle of the Monkey Bars.

This time, you’ll get it. You’ll understand who’s in the right.

II.
Pop quiz! Six years old, 2014. What do you remember?

i.
You remember being introduced to the evil twin of Viktor Frankenstein– Dr. Seuss. Your
mother told you the only way to stop the Fox in Socks from locking you up in a glass bottle is by pretending to be the Cat in the Hat, and that was how she tricked you into taking DIY crafts classes.

ii.
You were a pioneer. That is to say, your actions made your teacher aware of necessary
updates in the Class Rules. (Rule #?: Plastic or metal bottles only– your teacher printed these words in elegant blue ink. “But Maggie has a glass water bottle!” Your classmates whined. “Nope!” Ms. Cox disagreed, cheerfully, sweeping away broken glass by your seat. “Not anymore!”)

iii.
Ms. Cox wore a nose ring. You thought it was the coolest thing. Your mother thought it
made her look like a cow. Hesitantly, you agreed.

Presently, you are a fifteen-year-old teen rebel and a proud owner of four piercings – three on your left ear, one on your right, zero through the curve of your nostrils. You plan on getting a new piercing.

On the helix of your right ear, maybe.Whether you cared or not,

Mother’s words meant something to you.

iv.
Mion giggled. She leaned towards Nellie. She drew two circles on a piece of scrap paper.
She drew two dots, one at the centre of each circle, respectively. She did a quick jutting motion with her v-shaped chin, directing your attention to Hilary, who was reading a novel two tables away.

Mion giggled. Nellie giggled. Confused, you giggled.

“Hilary doesn’t wear glasses.” You reminded them, because that’s what you decided the
circle-dots were. They were too big to be Hilary’s eyes, after all.

They startled. Identical pictures of shock. Jerkily, they repositioned their Anti-Cheating
Spelling Test Cardboards, shielding the paper they were scribbling on. Then, like the magnets you learnt about in class, their heads gravitated together again.

Mion told you her name means ‘Sea’ in Japanese. She lied, by the way. (Fifteen-year-old
you googled it just now. It means ‘beauty’.)

(But what is Beauty, and more importantly– how much is it worth?)

v.
On the day of the Talent Show, Lauren came to school in a golden ballgown. She got
badgered with questions endlessly. “Which princess are you?”, demanded the girls, flocking to stroke the metallic material of her skirt. It felt like sandpaper beneath your fingers (another foreign phrase: beauty is Pain). As your class climbed the stairs, she lingered back (bad behaviour, she’s out of the running for line leader next week), and in confidence, she whispered to you: “I’m actually not dressed as a princess. But don’t tell anyone else.”.

“Okay,” You whispered back. You understood the importance of your task. The general
consensus between six-year-olds was this: one had to be a sparkling princess to be beautiful.

(Afraid of being shunned, you didn’t say it then, but you still don’t get the point of the dress. After all, Lauren in her sweatpants is just as beautiful. She is still Lauren.)

Is Beauty a concept attached to appearances? If so, has the world agreed on what’s beautiful yet?

Because it seems like the world has forgotten to tell you.

Between the pin-prick organza skirt and psychedelic polka-dot leggings, a golden friendship bloomed. It would continue to grow, just like the headache that plagued your teacher’s soul, sighing as she collected her two lost ducklings from the third floor corridor, silver nose-ring glinting under fluorescent lights.

What is Beauty?

III.
“Hi! My name is Dianne– that’s Dianne with double ’n’, D-I-A-N-N-E, Dianne Ma – nice to
meet you!”

Damn, was your first thought (a wonderful reflection of your masterly eloquence with the
English language).

She is the prettiest person you’ve ever met.

It isn’t something you can put into words, really– but there was something that clicked in
your head, the instant she spoke. She’s a little shorter than you, a little tanner, with doe-like eyes that would crinkle into crescent moons when she laughed, heart-shaped lips that would push out soft dimples when she smiled. But that’s not it. How do you explain her beauty to the unfortunate souls that have never been graced by her presence? She is a magnetic force– scratch that– she is a gravitational force. More than her facial features was her presence. She would be beautiful to you, no matter what skin or body she’s in. In your humble opinion, she is undeniably more lovely than a Summer’s day, though your older self would politely argue that she is less temperate. Then again–
it’s all part of her charm.

This must be what they wanted me to appreciate, you thought, thinking back to the (many) near-fails in Aesthetic Appreciation on your primary school report card. And then–

Damn.

She’s gorgeous.

Three weeks later and she’s instructing you to “plan a revision schedule”, to “sleep before
your dark circles reach your chin”, to stop “winging it on the spot and actually practice beforehand, Maggie! It’ll make your life so much easier!”.

You think its hilarious to provoke her. On occasion, you listen to her advice, but only a little bit.

Okay. Maybe more than a little bit.

(You use calendars now, damn it!)

Between cashmere dresses and short-sleeved blazers, another golden friendship blooms. You think Beauty is a thing of the soul, and you’ve met the walking proof.

IV.
“Don’t you think Dianne’s a little…” They trail off, waiting for you to finish their sentence.
You frown. “No?” You’re not sure what they’re trying to say. Which is a rare occurrence, as you’ve known them for a long time – long enough to develop telepathic abilities.
“That’s why you failed art class!” They roll their eyes, and you scowl at them half heartedly.
“I got an A.”
“For writing an essay on how your three random shapes symbolise death. Doesn’t count.”
“And colour theory.”
“You suck at colour theory.”
You continue the conversation, but your mind is distracted.
“Purple is– actually, what do you mean?” You interrupt yourself (because that happens).
“About Dianne.”
They scrunch their nose. “Really? Dianne’s short. And stocky. And tan. Like a dog.”
“I mean… I think that’s fine.”
“You also think your painting’s fine.”
“No, like seriously.”
They frown. “Wait– like seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“But she’s fat!”
You’re baffled by their opinions, just as much as they are by yours. You know your friend.
You know they would never say malicious, hurtful things on purpose, but–
“Her thighs are huge!”
You are upset. Confused. Both at the same time.
“Is that bad?” You demand.
They shrug. “I mean, beauty is subjective. It’s bad to me. It’s bad to most people, honestly.”
The bell saves her from you. You from her. Both, at the same time.
Beauty is subjective. But does that justify enforcing your standards onto other people?
You think society should not expect anyone to achieve ‘the Beauty standard’ when the
standard itself is not standardised. You think the concept of ‘Beauty’ should not be attached to physical characteristics, because it is not these traits that make a person.
You think back. When the two of you were younger, Beauty was found in people who shared sweets and homework answers.

(When did that change?)

V.
Dinner, with your unnamed, crisps-offering acquaintance from I..
“Chips?” He asks, scrolling through the menu.
“Nah,” You don’t bother to look up, polite exterior whittled down after years of friendship.
“Get the salad.”
“Lose some weight, mate.” He agrees. “You’re filling up your clothes.”
Now you look up.
“That is literally the point of clothes.” You point out, deadpan.

He puts in the order for milk tea (no sugar), snorting. “But I can’t even pick you up
anymore! What if we get trapped in this building and I have to lift you up to carry you out?” He pauses, as if he made a good point. “I wouldn’t be able to. Because you’re getting too heavy.”

“Don’t play up your strength,” You roll your eyes. You think about the texts he’s sent you at 3AM, working out, dissatisfaction turned into motivation in a fight against an invisible enemy. “You couldn’t pick me up when we were younger either.”

“Because you were too fat.”
“No, because you were too skinny.”
When did we change?
The words no longer taste foreign on your tongue.

When did both fat and skinny hold negative connotations? When did the right to judge a
person’s weight shift from the shoulders of medical professionals to the hands of public opinion? When did it become justifiable to shame a person for failing to achieve the unachievable?

The glass shards you dropped at age six dig into your palms. Crafts classes did not teach you how to glue together shattered innocence. Duct tape cannot mend cracks in your broken worldview.

When did you change?

Children are cruel. Honest, merciless executioners of the tender adult heart.

But how do children know what is unacceptable? How do children know what facial features are ugly?

Children are mirrors reflecting society.

Children are cruel. But from where did they get their cruelty?

When did the glass crack?

(Ooooh snap… gotcha.