The mole that sits in the center of my face above the cupid’s bow of my lip was a gift passed down from my 外公 — my wài gōng — my maternal grandfather to my mother to me. I only ever spent time with him three times in my life. When my mother was a child in Taiwan, he took her to remove her mole via laser unsuccessfully. When I was a child in California, my mom took me to get the opinion of a doctor who could remove my mole by excision. Surgically cutting it out, which would require stitches to bring my upper lip back together. My parents told me it was bad luck to have a mole there. It would make my life difficult.
I said no. I said no to the doctor who could surgically remove it when I was 8. I said no to my dad who suggested I find a Korean plastic surgeon to assess it when I was 23. I said no to the makeup artist at my friend’s wedding who tried to cover it when I was 29.
That mole felt as much a part of me as did my straight eyelashes, my flat nose, and my wide face. I didn’t like how I looked with it, but I also didn’t know who I’d be without it. I consulted a friend, a Taiwanese woman who had newly arrived in America for graduate school. Would I be doomed with bad luck if I kept it on my face? “You’re in America,” she’d said to me in English. Then in Mandarin, “I wouldn’t let their beliefs affect you so much here.”
It took me a few more years and a trip to Vancouver, Canada — where I attended with my mom the service of one of my maternal great-aunts and noticed I was the only guest who cried despite not having seen my great-aunt for over 25 years — to realize that I hadn’t ever minded my parents’ omen of bad luck. What I had minded was losing what I felt to be the little connection I could claim with my extended family through the darkened, raised bump above my lip.
That mole finally lost the battle when I was 31. The victor: the prospect of having this pigmented lump immortalized in my wedding photos as I started my own family. Family gifts or not, I was still a human with vanity. So I said yes.
I said yes to the plastic surgeon who promised she could remove my mole via radiosurgery without leaving a scar — but likely not removing it entirely, she cautioned. I reassured her that would be ideal. Forever tied to my birth family while feeling more beautiful for my new family. I said yes to the excruciating lidocaine shot. I said yes to the slipping bandages on my upper lip during work meetings. I said yes to the twice daily ointments and scabbing. I said yes to vanity.
I traveled back to Taiwan with my family and fiancé once after removing my mole. I was 32. No one in my extended family noticed. If they did, they didn’t say anything. My relationship with them remains quiet and distant. Unchanged.
The ghost of my mole sits in the center of my face above the cupid’s bow of my lip as a gift that was passed down from my 外公 to my mom to me. When I now send my parents photos of myself, they comment occasionally, “We can’t see your mole in this photo!” Then I’ll scroll back up to the photo and open it and squint at it a little to ensure that mole of mine is still right where it should be.
Courtney Cheng is a proud Bay Area native living in Dallas. She holds a BA in English literature from UC Berkeley and an MBA from UCLA. Her work has been published by Belmont Story Review, Third Street Review, and Asian American Feminist Collective. Beyond writing, she holds a wide range of hobbies including dancing bachata and salsa, investing in her health and wellness, and spending quality time with her husband. Keep up with her at courtneycheng.me.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Kevin Jaako
