I Was One Of The Only Nonwhite Kids In My School. Here's What I Wish I Could Tell My Younger Self.

I distinctly remember the first time a boy called me beautiful — because it was a joke. I was 12, standing in a Target near my home in Scottsdale, Arizona, and loitering in the book and magazine section. As I waited for my dad to come back, I heard a boy’s voice from the other end of the aisle: “You’re beautiful.”

I burned red, trying to get the massive smile off my face before I turned around. I tucked in my baggy gray Arizona State sweater, silently praising myself for making the right outfit choice. When I finally took a deep breath and turned to face the person who had spoken, I saw a group of boys instead.

“Oh, shit,” said a kid with freckles and a baseball cap. “I think she heard us,” another said, as they began laughing hysterically. “I think she believed it.”

When my dad returned to drive me home, I said nothing. Who wanted to tell their parents that they had an ugly child?

I grew up with a Japanese mother, born and raised near Tokyo, and an American Jewish father. Being a mixed-race teenager in Scottsdale, I had many experiences like the one above. No tales of being shoved in lockers or bashed in the head, but constant, near-daily reminders that I did not look like others in my almost totally white school.

According to the 2000 census, at the time I was growing up, Scottsdale was 92% white, making it one of the least racially diverse cities in the United States. I stood out comically from the endless parade of spray-tanned, blond girls at school. And yet, I seemed to be invisible. No one asked me to prom, no one asked for my number, and I found myself forgotten even in the smallest ways.

When people had conversations, I often stood awkwardly on the outside of the circle, unaddressed. When papers were