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My name is Kikuchi Sachie.
I'm a fifteen year old high school student at North Star High School.
I'm the daughter of two humble people; my father, Kikuchi Ryu, is an accountant and my mother, Kikuchi Fumie, a housewife.
We come from a simple household in a village near Tokyo named Aogashima. It's a pretty peaceful place, and I found myself there the moment I opened my eyes.
Speaking of which, it was a very strange shock when I came into the world. It wasn't very apparent in my infantry days, but as I started growing up, even I was noticing it. Nobody really brought it up, even my family members. That is until the day I spoke up about it.
While we were brushing our teeth, I was standing on a chair to reach the sink while mom and dad stood beside me. As I rinsed my mouth and spat onto the sink, I looked up into the mirror, and for the first time, my five year old eyes gazed into their reflection for more than a few seconds, and I contemplated about it.
I contemplated upon my frizzy hair, flowing down on my head like a mop and circling my round face, mismatched moles scattered all around my forehead, cheeks, and down to my neck. Upon the early acne dotted across. Upon my thick, bushy unibow that ran from one ear to the other. Upon my tiny beady eyes that looked upon my reflection from behind thickly rimmed glasses. Upon the wide nose. Upon the protruding buckteeth with braces lining them. Upon the little stuble on my chin. All of it.
I told my mother and father that I didn't like my face.
Their reaction was, to the say the least, very... unresponsive.
Mom just continued brushing her teeth, and Dad spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth. And I stared at them, waiting for an answer.
Mom finally looked down at me and shrugged.
She told me that I was simply ugly.
I didn't understand what the word meant, so I asked about it. Dad explained that it had to do with things that are not fun to look at.
I gave an, "Ah..." of understanding.
That was my first time hearing of the word ugly, and as I recall, I suppose it was very weird. It was as if I met a creepy stranger and shook hands with them, and successfully didn't scared. To five year old me, it just happened to be a simple word that explained why I didn't like my face.
And the thing was... we didn't even talk about it. That was as much as we said. We never really said anything about my looks, or other people's. It's not that it was a forbidden topic, nor was it deliberately avoided, we just... didn't bring it up that often, and when we did, it was simple comments here and there—ranging from casual nods of approval to a celebrity on TV to, "oh wow that's nice," about a fancy dress in a boutique.
As you can see, appearances were very much thrown into the margins of my life. This constant ignorance of physicalities made me become desensitized towards comments and remarks about my appearance—or anybody's, for that matter. Looks became... gray. Just like any other feature of the human body.
And later on, this familiar co-existence between caused a huge rift to emerge between my classmates and I in first grade. I became aliented.
When I tried to talk to them, they'd flash me their disturbed or disgusted glances and side eyes. It felt weird, and we all somehow felt weirded out by each other. Each time they talked to me, they'd only question why my eyebrows are connected, or why my nose is so big. I'd always explain that I was just born that way. That my appearance is just naturally dislikable. I would explain all of that with pure confidence, and they'd give me the weird looks again. Soon, I found myself unable to talk to anyone.
It continued until fourth grade, where kids started becoming more bold and daring and prone to being rebellious, and so the usual remarks became direct bullying (if we don't consider marginalization one of its forms, that is.) It started as tiny comments, until it became straightforward insults... which didn't really feel like insults.
Really, they didn't.
I was a smart kid, but sometimes, I could feel the greatest mountain of density dawn upon me, and I don't even know why.
Because, when they kept calling me "ugly" and "gremlin" and "goblin," I kept questioning why they looked so displeased when they said it, as if they were disgusted. I was genuinely confused and experienced a hard time trying to understand why they were behaving in such a way, even though I was always nice to them.
So I asked my parents.
Their reaction was, as usual, unenthusiastic. Except, this time, they looked disturbed.
They held onto an interrogation session longer than the tiny lifespan of an eleven year old like myself at the time, and I almost fainted because of it. I explained over and over again how my classmates kept calling me weird names and stuff, and I think my parents seemed amused when they saw my confusion.
It was on that night that I truly understood everything.
Everything.
I understood why I always saw commercials and ads constantly trying to convince people to buy cosmetics; why people got too upset when they stained their clothes; why girls obsessed over clothes and makeup; why parents always made sure to dress their kids well; why the beauty industry was so dominant within the field of cinema and film; why fashion even exited. And why my classmates didn't like me.
It was one of the heaviest times of my life, where I had to face a whole new plane of knowledge. The realization was... daunting, because I thought that it was simply, oh so utterly ridiculous.
I was like, "WHAT!?"
My parents had to calm me down from my flummoxed frenzy. I wanted to laugh until my throat constricts and my lungs fall off.
As they explained how, when, and why, I started understanding more and more, nodding to every word.
Mom and Dad explained the world, and I got it.
All I did that night was shrug and say, "that's dumb," and go to bed.
The next day, I experienced the same bullying, and it got worse by the day. Thankfully, it never got physical. But the verbal torment could be considered figurative violence. Especially in nine grade, where it became a literal massacre of words that I never even heard of, but the context could be easily understood when you're glared at with such alarming intensity. But I never really held onto the disdain or anger I felt. I never really harbored it towards anyone.
Mom always told me to forgive and forget. If I can't forget, I can forgive. If I can't forgive, I can forget. Either is good, as long as I don't hate. She always told me to understand people's circumstances; to even think of millions of excuses in their stead. Mom knew how judgemental we could be, so she always reminded me to stay reasonable and understanding towards people, no matter how invalid the reasons were.
It sounds dumb, but it works. I'm sure it does.
And now that I was a first year highschooler at North Star High, I'm going to tell you a story.
Not about how I learn about inner beauty, but about how people come to learn to accept me as I am.
