Ladies,

I met you at the beginning of seventh grade, when my skin was still unblemished and my body retained the soft curves of baby fat. You were so welcoming then, all smiles and curious questions—I think it was the novelty of my presence in your gentrified school that interested you. I was a new kind of new girl—brown eyed, brown skinned, curly-haired, with a name that looked like you needed to practice saying it.

I, for my part, thought you were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen in my life. Your hair fell where you wanted it to and glowed like spun gold in the sun. Walking with you on late August afternoons taught me to hate the inky tangle that grows out of my scalp; by December, I was using a flat iron daily.

Your curiosity in me was quickly sated, and your attention moved on to people who looked like you…and it only seemed to make you prettier. Your porcelain skin and stick-straight locks went from enviable to unattainable as I realized that being with you was synonymous to being you.

So I set out to become you.

You wore makeup, so I did too. I remember watching you apply a magenta Maybelline lipstick—one of those Color Sensational™ ones with the colored plastic caps? Do you remember that lipstick?

You probably don't—it was just a lipstick to you. But every time you let me borrow it, I would close my eyes and fantasize that swiping it on would transform me into a lithe, blonde someone worthy of your time and notice.

I wrote your essays just so I'd get the two little text message hearts you'd send when I was finished—a glimpse, a glimmer of success, something I could hold onto when you planned group meet-ups for everyone in the grade…except me.

Eventually, the divides between us grew. You went from excluding me to using me, from using me to labeling me, and from labeling me to discarding me. You called me "chubby" and "bitch," and I still wanted to be you.

I'm in college now. My curls were dry and damaged from years of flat irons and chemical treatments—they're healthy again. I wear makeup when I want to. I've spoken about race and cultural divides at national conferences. I hold my Tamilian-American head high.

And yet, you're still with me—the echoes of you, now all grown up, telling me I'm not you, that I couldn't hope to be you.

Good. I think it's time for me to tell you that I don't want to be you anymore.

I'm worth your time, energy and attention now, and I was worth it in seventh grade, too. With curly hair, with straight hair. With a skinny body, with a plump one. With my brown skin and brown eyes, acne scars and crooked smile, I've always been worthy. It just took me until now to see it.