I was 14 when my life became less about swim training and more about my waistline.
I’d won a modelling competition that got me noticed, which made no sense at all, because up until that point, I’d been doing everything in my mind to fit in.
"Have we been enjoying too much of mum’s curry?" my agent asked.
I laughed the question off, but something hit a nerve.
The modelling agency had check-ins to make sure I was growing in all the right places. I dreaded them. Not only were they a reminder of all your physical flaws, they made you walk up three flights of stairs just to see them. Despite the anxiety-induced butt sweat and inability to grip the railings, I always managed to drag myself to the top, ready for the next round of swipes at my dignity.
Perth was making waves in the modelling world. A sea of blonde, white, waify types with perfect height and cup sizes. But there was also a brunette model with pouty lips and olive skin getting attention. She was ‘exotic’. And so was I, apparently. My agency wanted me to be version 2.0. To be accurate we were biracial, a minor detail. What interested them was our racial ambiguity – not quite white, not quite ‘other’. In business terms, ‘safe’ enough for the supposedly white Australian market. But there wasn’t room for all of us. Especially if your measurements were pushing Height: 5’8, Bust: 33B, Hip: 36”; when really you were Height: 5'7, Bust: 32A Hip: 40. I’ve always hated the imperial system.
Jess (aged 15) with mum after a casting at McMahons Point, Sydney, 2004. Source: Supplied
A year before the competition, I’d just started modelling classes. My mum had been trying to get me to join for months but my answer was always no.
It wasn’t until a family friend started classes that I gave in. My friend was a 'halfie' like me and she got what it was like having an overbearing Asian mum. Despite the strictness, she seemed totally unaffected: free-spirited, fun and confident in her own skin. It was like she had mastered the art of living in two worlds. Our bonds went back to celebrating Hari Raya or Eid, a Muslim religious holiday that celebrates the end of Ramadan. Every year we’d pray in a cleared-out rec centre with other Indonesians after sunrise. We were the last to arrive ‘jam karet’ style.
We then dragged our parents to Maccas so we could line our stomachs with hotcakes before the real feast started – the Indonesian version of a pub crawl, where we visited Aunties and hobbled from overeating rendang.
My mum had it tough growing up and she loved to remind me of that fact. She was resilient, tenacious and would never take no for an answer. Mum wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea and I hated this about her. Why couldn’t she be softer? More patient? More agreeable? More like my (white) friend's parents? Every interaction we had was tricky. There was no hiding. Just me with my fire extinguishers, ready to put out her flames.
Jess (aged 3), with her mum and sister on a family holiday in New Zealand, 1992. Source: Supplied
"Why you try change mum? Why you so embarrass?!" she’d say.
I’d always say: "Why are you always so difficult?! Why can’t you be normal?!"
My dad and sister would play umpire. The stereotype of quiet and subservient Asian women always confused me. Sure, from the perspective of a bule visiting Bali but not the Indonesians I knew. Especially not my mum. She had fire in her belly. She was from Padang, a place known for its fiery rendang and matriarchs.
It was an Indonesian soap opera in our house every night. We had nothing in common, except modelling. For the first time our relationship felt manageable, so I went along with it.
"Mum always wanted to be model."
"Mum, stop referring to yourself in the third person."
"Mum wish I had your pointy nose."
I hated when she went on her complimenting spirals.
My mum adored me. Her heart was in the right place; but I now realise her compliments were always about my whiter features. It’s not that my mum thought Indonesians weren’t beautiful. Far from it. I think whiter features meant more than just skin. They meant wealth, class, and opportunities – perhaps the after-effects of colonialism.
You wouldn’t have to look far to find skin whitening creams and almost every model or actor on screen was fair or biracial. The beauty ideals didn’t stop there.
I remember at school, there was a group of boys crowding over and laughing at an image of a woman’s dark brown nipples. My ears pricked up.
Jess (aged 3), family portrait, Brunei, 1992. Source: Supplied
"Whoahhh, look at those nipples! Ewww gross," they said.
From that day I was obsessed with comparing my nipples to everyone else’s. My nipple anxiety hit its peak at the worst shoot of my life. We were taking shots for my folio. It was part of another modelling competition my mum encouraged me to enter. It started off great, until the photographer showed me the images. I could feel my butt sweat. In nearly every photo the flesh of my left nipple was staring back at me.
"I think my nipple is showing?"
"Oh yeah, I didn’t want to say anything. You were doing so well."
I could die a million deaths. I didn’t know how to assert myself and I didn’t want to ruin my chances of winning. My primary school days of being bullied came flashing back. Here was a 40-something year-old man who’d seen my 15-year-old nipples; and all I could think about was how ugly they were.
Eventually I quit modelling. I couldn’t lose the weight and trying to be good enough was exhausting.
Mum and I are now closer than we’ve ever been. We don’t talk about modelling anymore; we talk about Indonesian food.
If I could go back in time, I know exactly what I'd say to my agent: "It’s not a curry. It’s rendang and it’s f***ing spicy. You should try it."
Jess McLure is an Art Director and Designer based in Sydney. You can follow Jess on Instagram .
This article is an edited extract of an entry chosen from the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
