I grew up ugly.
Well-meaning family would probably tell you otherwise, but by conventional western 21st century societal standards of attractiveness, it is objectively true. I tried not to be, of course. In a rough secondary school in the early 2000s, “ugly” was just about the worst fate to which one could possibly succumb. But whatever I tried, it didn’t work. I would always be too fat, too frizzy haired, too hairy, too unfashionable, too this, not enough that, to be anything other than a perpetual joke.
The words people said to me for the first seventeen years of my life were so vicious and cruel that even now, I can barely bring myself to repeat them. I still feel the sting when I think back, like an old injury that still twinges from time to time.
Growing up, The Ugly Duckling was my favourite fairytale. I used to dream that one day, maybe I could wake up and be pretty. Then everyone would realise I’d been a swan all along!
I very much painted this hypothetical scenario in my head as a kind of justice, perhaps even revenge. When I was pretty, I thought, the bullies would realise they were wrong about me. They’d see I had never deserved all the cruelty they threw at me.
I actually got my wish. Okay, it wasn’t quite so sudden, but sometime between seventeen and nineteen I got hot. It’s taboo for a woman to love herself at the best of times. Typing these physical attributes that I like about myself is surprisingly difficult, but here goes: I have a pretty face, hourglass figure and an ass to die for. I’m pretty fucking cute.
For a good couple of years after I finally escaped the constant bullying for being ugly, I would frequently comfort myself with the thought that I’d got the best possible revenge by becoming pretty.
Being pretty affords me certain privileges. Of that I am absolutely certain. It is well documented that people perceived to be “beautiful” are often treated better by society. It also comes with some downsides, which Emilie Autumn described better than I ever could.
But you know what? The Ugly Duckling is fundamentally a lie.
Growing into my looks and becoming hot wasn’t the thing that saved me. It sure as hell wasn’t what made me happy. And it absolutely wasn’t what made me grow into the amazing, worthwhile human I am today.
We shouldn’t be reading a story to kids where the moral is “don’t be mean to someone who isn’t pretty because they might be pretty some day”. How about, “don’t be mean to someone who isn’t pretty because looks are 99.9% genetic, and seriously how decorative they are is literally the least interesting and important of a million awesome things about them?”
I’m a success despite the intense trauma I experienced as a child and young adult. I’m smart, I have a killer work-ethic, I put myself through two grueling degrees. I have a job I love that makes a real difference to people’s lives. I’m indulging my passions for writing and sex education and starting to build a name for myself in those worlds. I have amazing partners who love me. I generally strive to be kind and compassionate and make a positive difference in the world.
If I’d stayed ugly, I would still be absolutely everything else on this list.
My “fuck you” to the bullies wasn’t growing up to be hot. It was growing up to be a hundred awesome things that have absolutely no bearing on whether I’m hot or not, and that will make a positive imprint on the world long after my looks have faded.
Pretty is not my success. Beauty is not my justice. “Hot” is an accident of biology lining up at least somewhat with arbitrary societal standards.
It’s not true to say that I didn’t deserve the cruelty I received because I was a swan all along. I didn’t deserve it because I’m a goddamn person and don’t deserve to be abused because someone doesn’t find me aesthetically pleasing enough.
So fuck that story for teaching me that I’d eventually become pretty and then it would all be okay.
Can we have a realistic version where the “Duckling” wakes up as a swan and then spends ten years in therapy to overcome the horrific lookist bullying he suffered in his formative years?
Or better yet, a version where the Duckling goes “oh fuck this shit, these people are petty bullies and pretty is only surface deep” and whether he becomes a swan or not is totally immaterial because he’s off curing cancer or flying to the moon or becoming a badass sex educator and saving the world with dildo reviews or some shit?