As a child, I was always in awe of blue eyes. I thought they were so beautiful. The first time I wanted blue eyes was in Kindergarten class. My teacher was saying something to me, but all I could see was the deepness of her ocean-colored eyes. It was like I was staring into her soul. I didn’t know that my childlike wonder could turn into a dislike of myself for being Asian. As I grew older, blue eyes and blond hair were hailed in school and the media as the beauty standard. When I looked into the mirror and saw my black hair and dark eyes, I couldn’t help but wish I were born different. The world told me that whiteness represented power and desirability.

Today, I still admire blue eyes. I like how clear they are, reminding me of the sea. There’s a depth to them that seems endless. But I no longer desire them. I’ve stopped comparing myself to the blue-eyed people I see everywhere. I love my dark brown eyes, how they gleam, and how kind they are. I love my black hair, silky and strong like my mother’s.

I draw my friend’s eyes from a place of appreciation, not of need.