There’s got to be more to life than just being really, really, really ridiculously good-looking.
— Derek Zoolander, international male model
I was in Ethiopia when someone told me I had an enormous nose.
“Are you Italian?” he said.
No, I replied.
He continued, “I ask that because you have such a huge, huge nose.”
Nope, not Italian, I confirmed.
“It’s just that your nose is so big,” he said. “I knew an Italian woman once, and she had a nose big like yours.”
I understand what you are saying, I told him. But I’m still not Italian.
His words stung. I’ve been self-conscious about my nose for as long as I can remember. It’s a defiantly bulbous thing that descends off my face like a lumpy potato. From the side, I think it cuts the profile of a turtle head. I do my best to ignore it and pretend like it’s not even there.
Unfortunately, this nose has become a major topic of conversation along my travels.
“So, tell me about being Jewish,” said a man at a cafe in Uganda.
I’m not Jewish, I told him.
“But your nose …” he said.
I explained that there are many different Jewish people around the world, and they all look different. I, however, am not one of them, because I am not Jewish.
“So you are a Christian woman with a Jewish nose,” he said, shaking his head. “Very sad.”
Though these discussions are uncomfortably direct, they are not always negative. On a train in India, an entire family examined my nose from all sides. Then the father pointed to his 9-month-old son.
“We massage his nose every day so it will be strong and proud like yours!” he said.
Thank you. I think?
People have been equally blunt about my shape.
“Oh my god, you are so huge,” said a motorcycle taxi driver in Uganda. “I don’t even know if this moto will go, you are so enormous.”
I’m having a difficult time now in Southeast Asia, where almost everyone is lean, petite, tiny. At a shop in Thailand, one clerk shook her head as soon as I walked in the door. “No size for you!” she yelled. I had to pay extra when I had clothes tailored to fit in Vietnam, because, as the tailor pointed out, “We need much, much fabric for big, big body.” I tower over people on the street.
I have seen so many beautiful women around the world. Plump Indian grandmothers wrapped in gold and green saris, with buttery baguettes of flesh tumbling out of the layers of fabric. Ethiopian tribes where the women rub red ochre in their braids, their skin pulled shiny and tight over firm muscles. Vietnamese women who have the complexion of eggshells and eyelashes like moth wings. Argentine women who effortlessly look like supermodels while eagerly shoveling down steaks as big as bistro tables. Egyptian women who have the entire universe in their charcoal-lined eyes, their hair pulled back and covered like a wonderful secret.
Every woman is exquisite in a multitude of ways — so you’d think after witnessing this scope of beauty, I could ease up a little on myself. Still, I crinkle my nose in the mirror and wish that I had the money to slice and dice what I see. Too big.
I have also seen so much hardship around the world. I met people who struggled to survive through genocide, famine, political unrest, abuse, inadequate health care. How could I possibly complain about my reflection when I have limbs that work, a constant supply of food and water to sustain me, a support group of family and friends and a future of wide, open opportunity? Still, I curl my hands into fists and beat on my thighs. Too big.
I thought I could out-travel my own issues and insecurities.
Instead, they’re still staring me in the face.
