"You don't look like you're from around here."
In Bullhead City, Arizona, "around here" means more than your zip code. With nearly 74% of the population being white, I learned early on that where you're from doesn't always align with where people think you belong.
If your skin falls just a shade past pale and your features hint at a lineage from somewhere else, people say you're "exotic." I think it's generally meant as a compliment, but something about the source makes it feel like ignorance dressed in admiration.
I live in this "brown area" where the things people say aren't mean, but they're not exactly nice either. It's more like they're pointing something out that they don't have the words for — and they think calling it a compliment makes it OK.
As a kid, I craved validation. So compliments, no matter how they came off, were welcomed with open arms. But once I finally held them, they felt hollow — because they weren't really about me.
"Geez, Aleah. You're so dark."
It's interesting how exotic just means tan enough to fascinate them, but not enough to make them uncomfortable.
I can respond to this in several ways:
"Thank you!"
"Thank you."
"Thank you?"
I make sure to smile, though. After all, it was a compliment.
Comments eventually turned into curiosities. Suddenly, my skin wasn't just something people noticed — it was something they needed me to explain.
"What are you anyway?"
I've heard this more times than I can count — sometimes met with a smile, sometimes with a squint, like they're trying to place my face to a country on a map. I guess my racial ambiguity is everyone's favorite icebreaker.
One time, I jokingly responded, "Why? Because I'm brown?"
Big mistake. Suddenly, I was the problem — too sensitive, too serious, too much.
"Oh my God, really? Why does it have to turn into something like that?"
It"s weird how fast a person"s curiosity can turn into guilt — mine, not theirs. I soon learned that when people asked me to explain myself, I wasn't supposed to question why.
Smile.
Answer.
After all, it was a compliment.
I've always been admired for my lip shape. And honestly, fair — they're great lips. But it's funny how something so small can hold so much meaning depending on who's noticing, and why.
"You have big Black girl lips."
Genuinely, how do I respond to that? It's not like there's a polite way to say: "That compliment is built on something you've never had to think about."
It made me think about how people define beauty depending on where they come from — it only seems to count if it feels palatable, pure enough.
The issue runs much deeper than my own experience. The moment someone sees a feature that isn't white, they feel the need to name it, claim it or fit it into the only context they recognize.
I tilt my head, unsure of how to react. "Beautiful," they said — though their tone didn't agree.
Smile.
Answer.
Nod.
After all, it was a compliment.
By summer, I became everyone's tanning benchmark — the local gold standard for just the right amount of brown. Somehow, I'd been volunteered as judge, jury and shade chart.
"Look, I'm tanner than you."
Like it was some kind of victory — a trophy for out-browning me. I get it, there's something satisfying about achieving that crispy orange glow for those of a certain color, or lack thereof. But I find it fascinating how melanin becomes the most coveted accessory of the season — and everyone wants it until it comes with an ethnicity.
My first instinct was to say, "Congrats?" but instead I went with the safer option: "Oh, yeah!"
By then, I'd already learned not to ask questions out loud. Just —
Smile.
Answer.
Nod.
After all, it was a compliment.
Of course, the commentary didn't stop at my skin tone. I had to go and bring around a brown, Mexican — exotic, if you will — boyfriend. Their curiosity just found a new subject, and suddenly, we were both being admired like collector's items.
Family gatherings were like a pageant for our future kids.
"You and Gabe will have beautiful brown babies." Not "you'll have cute kids" — brown kids. Al - ways that word, as if color was the main attraction. What's supposed to be praise feels like they're admiring the idea, or the product of us more than the people we actually are.
The thing about comments like this is they sound harmless if you don't sit with them for too long. But when you do, you start to realize how easily admiration and fetishization blur together.
Therefore, I chose not to. Instead, I'd —
Smile.
Answer.
Nod.
After all, it was a compliment.
Sometimes I'd catch myself feeling guilty for letting these moments inflate my ego. And, weirdly enough, I started looking forward to them. I pushed aside that uneasy feeling I carried as a kid and told myself it felt good to stand out, like an animal on display at the zoo.
Only I had the big lips. Only I had the brown skin. Only I had the exotic boyfriend.
Why did it feed me? Why did I start to like it?
Somewhere along the line, I realized that these were mostly the only compliments I'd ever get. People didn't want me, they wanted parts of me.
Not my laugh. Not my drive. Not my heart.
Sure, it propped my ego — temporarily. But it always ended in the same way: never truly feeling seen.
Every August, their favorite line came back around.
"You're Black."
I always wanted to ask — based on what, exactly? Too much time at the pool? Apparently, a summer tan is enough to rewrite my ethnicity. The ignorance almost feels impressive.
By the time I was 13, I was used to those kinds of comments and barely thought twice about them. The same shade and lips I always had somehow still managed to shock people. How these remarks never died out, I'll never know. But if the comments stuck around, so did my response. And so I would —
Smile.
Answer.
Nod.
After all, it was a compliment.
I'd cracked the code — a programmed response that never slipped up. I had the formula ready in my back pocket whenever I showed up around certain groups. I could rattle off 20 more comments, and they'd all end the same. By now, I'm sure you've got it down too.
I was so good...
So good, that when 13-year-old me was told I have "dick sucking lips," no —
I didn't frown.
I didn't question.
I didn't refuse.
Because after all, being sexualized was just a compliment.
It felt like the next phase of the same story. Their fascination just learned a new language, one that expected me to feel grateful — as if attention were the same thing as acceptance. What was once called exotic had simply become sexual. Either way, I was still the exhibit.
I'm 20 now, and looking back, I see how hard I tried to grow into the words people threw at me. But it was impossible; the comments matured long before I did.
When those comments find their way back to me now, my reaction's about the same — just for different reasons. I'm not sparing anyone's comfort anymore; I'm just trying to minimize my time with ignorance. I am who I am, no matter how anyone else chooses to see me.
Edited by Leah Mesquita, Natalia Jarrett and Abigail Wilt. This story is part of The Purity Issue, which was released on December 3, 2025. See the entire publication here.
Reach the reporter at amsteinl@asu.edu and follow @aleah.milan on Instagram.
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