I was assessing my face against my mother’s from my earliest memories, or rather the world around me was, and it was consistently communicating—in a quizzical glance or a compliment withheld or a hostile blank face—that I was falling short, way short. In fact, I remember the exact moment my ugly sense of self went from a hazy half thought to a bright hue of certainty. Article continues after advertisement * On a sunny day in 1986 on Cord Street in Downey, California, where I grew up amid a caricature of ’80s paraphernalia and cultural touchstones—Cabbage Patch Kids, Garbage Pail Kids, Little League, crappy fast food (McDonald’s, Burger King, Swanson TV dinners), CCD (bible study), talk shows (Jerry Springer, Oprah, and Donahue), sitcoms ( Family Ties , The Facts of Life , Growing Pains ), and regular trips to Blockbuster for movies we watched on repeat (John Hughes films, The Karate Kid , The Goonies , too many to name)—I was lost in a reverie of fun.…