.1

My grandma has freckles all over her face.
She is a respectful yet unhappy woman. I barely remember her smiling. She is always worried, complaining about everything a six-year-old can imagine: food, weather, her freckles, her late husband, and her grandchildren's mistakes.

I grew up with her. Long story in short, my mom had to work, so my grandma moved in with us to take care of me. Biologists and socialists claim that one's maternal grandmother would be the person who loves the grandchild the most, because only the maternal grandmother can be sure the grandchild has her blood. I highly doubt if it is true - no offense to the data or the experiment result - I just want to say this rule does not apply to me. Instead of loving me, my grandma was more like performing her duty. My mom paid her to look after me.

To be honest, I was a little afraid of her. Except for her complaints and criticisms, I felt monitored. Once after dinner, I still felt hungry, and I grabbed another piece of chicken breast from the refrigerator. I thought about how to avoid being noticed by her in my head hundreds of times before I did it, however, my grandma still caught me. She asked: "Did you steal the meat? Why are you still hungry? Don't you already eat a lot? Try not to put on weight." Yes, she used the word steal. Weird that I felt like a thief in my home. A hungry eight-year-old. The feeling of being monitored influenced me a lot. Even when I went to school, I did not dare to walk from the first row to the last in class because I worried that someone might be watching and judging me.

In this case, it was hard to be close with my grandma. I did not know her well, even after spending ten years living with her. I knew all the grandma-related things from my mom's mouth, or from my grandma's complaints. Though she complained about everything, she would not do anything to change them. She just complained about them and tolerated the things that she disliked, including her freckles, and me. I guess "let nature take its own course and complain about it" is my grandma's life philosophy. Maybe to her, I am a freckle in her heart. When she sees the freckles in the mirror, she starts complaining; when she sees me doing something, she starts judging.

Interestingly, unlike the word "grandparent" in English, in Chinese, the names we call one's dad's parents and mom's parents are different. In China, most southern people call their mom's parents "waigong" (outsider grandpa) and "waipo" (outsider grandma). Because in traditional Chinese culture, people tend to believe once a woman marries a man, she no longer belongs to her family or herself, like merchandise purchased by the man. Naturally, her children should value the man's parents more. Most children, including me, are told to call them with the word "wai"(outsider) before we realize the meaning behind it.

Another reason I could not be close to her was that I was a girl. She preferred boys to girls. She had four children: three daughters, and the youngest one, a son. Finally she had a son, which means that she would have grandchildren that call her grandma instead of "waipo" (outsider grandma). I was the oldest in her grandchild generation. Twelve years later, my maternal uncle's son, her grandson was born. I witnessed how my moody grandma suddenly changed into my little brother's kind grandma. Unlike me, my little brother is not a freckle but a treasure in her heart.

After I grew up, I met friends from different places. It was until that time did I know that girls can also be loved by grandparents so much.

.2

As far back as I can remember, my mom had already started her life of finding methods to remove freckles on her face. She tried so many ways: Chinese traditional medicine, laser treatment, chemical peel, and so on. Guess what, none of it really worked - after twenty years, I can still see the freckles on the same spot. Maybe some of them became lighter. I don't really care. Those freckles do not affect my love for my mom at all. She is always the most beautiful woman in my eyes, with freckles and wrinkles.

But clearly, the freckles mattered to my mom. After trying on herself, she turned her object to me. When I got my first period, she prayed and prayed that I would not have freckles like her. Her prayers failed. But now every day she is still praying our freckles do not grow darker.

My mom was a busy accountant. Her gradually hunched back showed how difficult it was to raise me alone. Under the same light, on the same table, I wrote my homework when she was doing tax. Sometimes her colleagues visited her office, and I would hear them talking about freckles:
"You know what, my nephew tells me that in some countries, people like freckles. They would even draw freckles on their faces!"
"How weird is it? Why would they like freckles?"
"They think freckles are angel kisses."
"Oh, I would rather not have the kiss."

Why did my mom hate freckles so much? Was it because she got divorced? No, her divorce was due to my dad's cheating. Was it because she wanted to attract someone with a pretty face? No, she did not date anyone until I went to college. Maybe she just grew up in an environment that everyone found freckles displeasing. She deeply believed that freckles were shameful. In her generation, many things we see as normal today were shameful: divorce, freckles, and so on.

Sometimes she sighed at sleepless nights: "My little girl, the world is like this. We have to accept it to survive. We have to. "

Now I am 26 years old - sometimes I do compare myself with my mom. When she was my age, she had a two-year-old daughter, me. I ask myself if I have a two-year-old right now, would I do better than her? Would I still find the strength to fight against the common values?

.3

When I was in middle school, the freckles finally found me. Seeing me, my relatives could not help sighing about the strong freckles gene in our family. Sensitive and young, I did not know how to respond to them - laugh or cry? Was it my mistake? Should I not be who I was? Must I have a perfect version? I was confused.

Teenagers can be mean. In high school, a classmate told me in front of everyone: "My mom tells me that if someone has freckles, the reason must be that they do not wash their faces." I explained that it was a gene thing and all the women in my family had freckles. She could not care less: " Oh really? I only believe in my mom. I have never met someone with freckles. You are the first one." Not the first one to land on the moon, not the first one to invent electricity, but the first one to have freckles. Hearing my classmates burst into laughter, I just ran away. It wasn't just freckles; it felt like a family curse.

But books and many wise brains saved me from the curse. In the books, the authors all believed that a great soul made a beautiful person. I started to believe that inner beauty and inner peace were the most important. In college, I happened to meet a great portrait photographer, and I believed in her taste. The moment she saw me, she told me she loved my freckles. In the pictures she took of me, she did not erase my freckles. It was the first time that I felt proud of my freckles. I recalled my mom's talks with her colleagues about the freckles, about the countries where people see freckles as gifts. I knew I needed to be strong, to have more knowledge so that I could see a different world and meet people with different perspectives. So after college, I decided to go to another country for graduate study.

I was struggling. Part of me wished the freckles were gone, yet another part loved the freckles. I wished they would disappear because I did not want to be bullied. I loved the freckles because they belonged to me - I loved my body, and the little differences made me special. Which one is right?

Deep down, I knew I was always waiting for someone to tell me: I love you just the way you are. I love you because you are you. You do not have to be perfect to be loved. You just have to be yourself.

.4

After living in a culture other than Chinese culture, I find "love yourself and love your body” is not propaganda but a real attitude. Within the family, people do love each other no matter of gender and appearance.

I never had a chance to talk with my grandma. If I had, I would not even try to convince her of anything. I would never challenge her because it is meaningless. With my mom, it is a different story. Sometimes she thinks I am over-sensitive, but she loves me, and she will at least try standing in my shoes.

When I was abroad, I usually video chatted with my mom. It was three years ago that I saw her in person. Since the Covid-19, it was too damn hard to buy a plane ticket to China, let alone the annoying countless nucleic acid tests before taking off. How could we not miss each other?

One day, in the video, she asked: "Are you putting on weight?" I answered: "Maybe. I have stayed at home for months. Do you want me to be skinny?" "No no no, if you lose too much weight I will be heartbroken because life must treat you in an unfair way. Maybe just lose a little bit of weight. " I smiled and she kept saying, "Wait, why are your freckles darker? Be careful and do not let it grow. You do not have a boyfriend yet. Oh my god, what should I do about it… " Her voice sounded more nervous.

After hearing what she said, I found myself angry, helpless, and sad. I pretended to be interrupted by something important and ended the video call. I felt angry because I knew it was wrong of my mom to say these words to me. I felt helpless because my instinctive reaction was to avoid rather than argue with her. I also felt sad because I knew that I could not blame it on my mom. She grew up in an environment where everyone else told her that freckles were ugly, and that girls needed to have spotless skin as well as a slim body to be pretty. She did not see the outside world, she might not even hear of them. She did not read Michel Focault, she knew nothing about the male gaze. I couldn't bring myself to blame her. I felt privileged to have different values from the woman who paid for my tuition fees and monthly rent. Would it be too cruel to tell her? To let her know that what she's believed her whole life isn't the only way to see things? I pity her.

I guess I will just carry on – after all, what choice do I have? I will carry my wound, my beliefs, and my freckles with me.