"Do you ever consider getting those removed?

"

Glancing at the administrative officer at the Ministry of Public Security, I turned the page of my
passport. It wasn't the first time someone had scoffed at the sight of my face.

Growing up with 43 prominent imperfections was a struggle: my moles weren't welcome in this
superficially judgmental society. Every morning, I would count them over and over again,
making sure no new ones had popped up overnight and hoping that even half of one would
disappear. Moles were the first thing people noticed. Were they the only details that defined
me?

I dreamt of my eighteenth birthday, when I could finally remove my moles through surgery. Yet,
a different opportunity presented itself for me to see myself mole-free: the photography
company had retouched my middle school graduation photos.

I thought I would be happy with flawless skin, yet I was uneasy. This version of me was clearly
more appealing to the photographers, but a part of me had been erased. I hardly recognized
the girl holding the graduation bouquet. She looked like a clone, dull and unidentifiable.
Fourteen-year-old me grabbed a black marker in an awkward attempt to restore my personal
identity. I drew each mole back carefully—in its right size and its right place. My mom saw me
trying to fix the photos. She rushed towards me and embraced me lovingly. Wiping away her
tears, she shared the Vietnamese traditional beliefs about the meanings of facial moles. To her,
my moles were symbols of courage and kindness: the two qualities in me she was the most
proud of. The moles were there for a reason. At that moment, I finally felt comfortable in my
own skin.

A year later while serving as a group leader at my high school's freshman orientation camp, I
showed my camper Mai the isosceles triangle of moles on my face. It was my way of connecting
with her. She didn't fit in with the rest of the group because her eczema flare-ups took a toll on
her confidence. I didn't want Mai to feel the self-doubt and fear of rejection I once had. I
arranged meals that would not exacerbate her eczema, prepared topical moisturizers and
antihistamine medications, and connected her to other freshman campers. To my delight, she
soon started to keep pace with the camp activities and open up to others, but I wanted to do
more. I wanted to emphasize the importance of appreciating personal differences to every one
of the 500 campers participating in the camp.

Along with other Orientation Group Leaders, I designed an icebreaker activity: each camper
wrote down their insecurities on a thin wooden board, shared questions and thoughts in small
groups, and then broke the board with their own hands. The effect was incredible—we were
able to understand their stories from their perspectives. The sound of the wood breaking
resonated powerfully: it was the sound of high walls between us collapsing. By the end of the
camp, it wasn't only Mai or me who had been empowered; all of us had reached beyond
ourselves and our doubts to arrive at a new level of compassion.
"Do you?"

The sound of the officer clearing his voice caught me in the middle of my thoughts, pulling me
back to the present moment.

Do I? Should it matter? My moles and the responses they elicit have shaped me and my self-
perception, but they do not tell my whole story. Differences do not make one an outcast;
rather, these very imperfections are what makes us unique. I cannot decide my outer
appearance, my race, or my ethnicity, but I can choose who I want to be. My identity is defined
beyond my moles or any other arbitrary features. I celebrate my differences. I empathize with
others' vulnerabilities. I am who I am.

"No, I do not. Never."