I never really thought of myself as a handsome fellow, which to some people comes off as a surprise.
In fact, earlier this month, I was talking with a good friend’s grandmother, who was meeting me for the very first time. She asked me what I did and I told her that I was a journalist. She smiled and said, “I can see that, you probably captivate people with that beautiful smile.”
As soon as she said that, my hands flew to hide my mouth, suddenly self-conscious of my “bridge over trouble water” mouth with the buck teeth overlapping onto my front teeth. She looked at me funny and said, “Why are you hiding your smile?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my hand slightly enough to not be rude, but still ready to cover up my flawed smile. “But no one has ever told me that I had a beautiful smile before.”
“Well you do,” she said firmly.
Once more, my mouth was hidden by the shadow of my hands. She sat up a little straighter.
“You have a beautiful smile and don’t put your hand back up there again to hide it. You let that smile shine.”
Those words have rang in my heart for the past few weeks and mean so much more than she knows. Having grown up teased by family and friends about my smile, I would do everything in my power to try and hide it. But when it came time to take pictures, I wanted to show the world that I was proud, if for a moment, of the moment, only to endure the jokes later.
But even more than my smile, I just always pointed out my flaws. Growing up in elementary school, I was one of a few African-Americans in the school, so I endured the fact that my skin was darker than those around me, that my hair was thick, curlier, and kinkier, and often was teased about my wide, broad nose that spread across my face. By middle school, I was sinking in self-conscious depression and became more painfully aware that I didn’t look like the other kids; I was gaining unwanted weight in undesirable places and other students pointed out my round stomach, full face, and heavy chest. In high school, it grew worse, but I also hit a growth spurt, so I was tall and heavy, confusing people who came in contact with me. Pushing the scales at over 250 of pure fat, struggling for breath, I just learned that there was no hope in finding myself referenced as “handsome”.
So, I began to overcompensate for it. Finding a sense of style in “thug fashion” (baggy shirts, sagging pants, baseball caps, matching sneakers and shades) and “Baptist wear” (brightly-colored, three-piece suits), I hoped that these would distract people from my heavy body that was sheltered underneath. But even more, I was sheltering my insecurities. I grew so sick and disgusted even with my own body that I REFUSED to look in the mirror if I was not fully dressed. Even the idea of me in a sleeveless shirt was a horrifying idea for me to grasp.
College, at first, was no different. Everyone knew me as a sharp dresser, walking around in my now famous, three-piece purple suit. Anyone who cared thought they had better fashion sense than me was challenged and stared down, no one was taking away from me what i lived behind for so long.
But by sophomore year, something began to change. It started when I got a part-time job as a sales associate at a fashion store called J. Crew. It was a very upscale store, the likes of which I was not accustomed to shopping in. But, suddenly, I was selling articles of clothes I had never heard of before, such as cardigans and chinos. What was worse was I was required to try these clothes on to see how they fit. And I KNEW I couldn’t fit 1/4 of these items of clothes!
That same year, after much heavy encouragement, I entered a male fashion show/scholarship pageant. One portion of the show was known as “The Bedroom Scene” in which we had to model sleepwear. I wasn’t overly concerned about that portion until I realized that the contestant before me was a former football player/wrestler, who would go on stage without a shirt. I instantly felt ashamed of my own body and decided right then and there to try and gain a six-pack of abs and a rock-hard body…in two months.
Well, clearly, I didn’t reach that goal, but I didn’t realize what a difference I had made on my own body at the time. The summer after the pageant (I didn’t win by the way), I was at work at J. Crew, trying on some more new clothes. But the regular size that I grabbed was not fitting eright; they kept slipping off me. Confused, i asked my manager if the design had changed.
“No,” she said simply. “You’ve lost weight. I’ve noticed. Try a smaller size.”
I wasn’t overly convinced, until I tried on some pants that actually were a size smaller…and they FIT!!! I was blown away; I was under a size 38 for the first time in years.
Fast forward to today: I’m a lot smaller now then I was years ago. But more than that, I’ve gained a lot of confidence in myself and that was a long and painfully slow journey. See, growing up, I understand that manhood was your look; the bodybuilder body, fuzzy face, and cavern-deep voice. But, today, I look at my own reflection and realize that the outward appearance is now catching up with the manhood I’ve been displaying for year; firm, confident, solid, yet loving and compassionate. My biceps may not be big, but my heart is. I may not have a deep voice, but my knowledge and understanding is down in the depths of my mind.
Manhood is not a look, but a reflection of your heart and actions. Now, let me brush my short-cut hair and smile; there is a man in my mirror and that man is me!
The Book of James 