CN: weight loss and body image
Freshly out of lockdown and desperate to get back into my daily routine, I’m scrolling through active wear sites in hopes of finding my motivation in a new pair of bike shorts. I stumble across the Lululemon homepage and wonder if I can pull off being a “Lulu girl”. In the corner of my eye, I see the words “Asia Fit”.
My curiosity peaks, as I wonder if their HQ in Hong Kong have designed a special range, championing Asian designers. I double-click on to the words and I see dozens of perfectly manicured Asian women in slicked high ponytails, wearing singlets and figure-hugging tights, staring at me through my laptop screen. Surely, it couldn’t be?
According to Lululemon’s sizing guide, the Asia Fit range has "narrower waistbands, are slightly longer down the hip, have a better fit on the knee and calf and a shorter inseam". From what I gathered, this was the classic Lululemon leggings in a petite fit.
I was instantly taken back to the days where I pursued ballet as a professional career. Constantly type casted as the “exotic” and ethnically ambiguous character being half Japanese, I’d play conniving gypsies and the flirtatious Spaniard, often front and centre for more ‘Oriental’ pieces that moved to Chinese string instruments.
Reading the size guide, I felt 16 again – wearing baby pink tights, sweat seeping through my navy-blue spaghetti strap leotard, as I catch my breath after a particularly hard combination. My teacher’s words echoing through my head.
“You don’t have legs like the others. You’ve got Japanese legs,” she snickered.
Source: Supplied by Danyal Syed
I knew I was blessed with my Japanese mother’s metabolism; my size was never a big issue. If anything, compared to Western standards I used to sit on the top of the red zone labelled “underweight”. So, what did she mean by “Japanese legs”?
She meant my legs didn’t stretch as long as my peers. That they weren’t crafted as straight as theirs, bowing slightly, leaving a gap where my knees should be touching. My calves and thighs stronger and wider, causing unwanted curves. The distance between my hip bones and pelvis too long. Some girls would complain of their ribs grinding against their hip bones – I could almost fit a fist in between mine.
My less than ideal body type was constantly pointed out to me, as I dove deeper into the industry. The odds were stacked high against me, but my love for the artform remained strong and I dug my heels into the ground, determined to make it as a ballerina.
After graduating high school, I somehow clawed my way to the Bolshoi Ballet Academy in Moscow, Russia. Tradition runs thick there, both inside and outside the academy. I was thrust onto scales within the first few weeks of my arrival.
Weighing in at 50 kilos, I was told to lose nine kilos to comply with their in-house charts. Or, I would be penalised 20 per cent of my overall mark for my exam.
“We want you to look like a corpse,” my teacher yelled. Rolling her eyes backwards and sucking her cheeks in.
My classmates were told to take two kilos off their weight loss plan, as their legs equated to 52 per cent of their body, deeming them more aesthetically pleasing. If it weren’t for the lost points for my physique, I’d have received full marks in my final exam. My “Japanese legs” haunting me once again.
It wasn’t just blind optimism that pushed me forward through my pursuit to be on stage. I had people who believed in me, that against the odds with some hard work and luck that I – even without the perfect ballerina body – could make it.
I’ll never forget one of my teachers, Miss Jane, cast me as Tinkerbell in a production of Peter Pan. I was bursting with excitement to be playing one of my favourite Disney characters. At first, I felt as if there may have been a mistake – a heavy weight of responsibility looming over me. What I really wanted, was to make Miss Jane proud. For her not to feel regret by casting a spotlight on me. I wanted my parents to look up and feel that it was all worth it – the hard work and love they poured into my life.
There wasn’t a doubt in Miss Jane’s mind that I could play the part. Despite having a school full of talented, fair headed students, she chose to put an ethnic Tinkerbell on stage. She made it feel normal, that it was okay to break the mould and be a bit different.
Those open arms are what gets marginalised people through hard times. A glimmer of hope that you can pursue that job or go to that bar or even buy those leggings. No one should have to feel shackled by their heritage or how they look, whether it be dancing on a stage or shopping at Lululemon.
Emma Sullivan is a freelance writer.
