Beauty is not just a white girl. It's so many different flavors

Host: The sun had fallen, and the city was glowing — a mosaic of light and shadow, faces and stories. The air outside the art gallery was still warm, buzzing with the last voices of the crowd that had come to see the new exhibit: “Reflections: Faces of Modern Beauty.”

Inside, the gallery lights still burned — white, soft, forgiving. Canvas portraits lined the walls, each one painted with a different hue, a different texture, a different soul.

Jack stood before one — a portrait of a woman with dark skin and gold eyes, her hair a crown of coils, her expression neither smiling nor sad, but complete. Jeeny stood beside him, her arms folded, her eyes glowing with that particular fervor that always lit her from within.

She read the quote from the wall aloud, her voice carrying through the quiet space like a song:
“Beauty is not just a white girl. It's so many different flavors and shades.”

Jack: “It’s a good sentiment,” he said, voice low, measured. “But it feels like something people say now because they’re supposed to.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s something people say now because for too long, they weren’t allowed to.”

Host: The lights hummed softly above them. A janitor swept the floor in the distance, the sound of the broom bristles against tile steady, like the heartbeat of the room.

Jack: “Sure, sure. I get it. Representation, inclusion — all that. But isn’t beauty just… subjective? Why do we have to politicize it?”

Jeeny: “Because it was politicized from the start. You think the ads, the magazines, the runways — all those faces they’ve shown for decades — you think that wasn’t politics? It was a system telling the world what was desirable, and who was not.”

Jack: “I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t see it that way. To me, beauty is personal. It’s not a debate, it’s a feeling. You either find someone beautiful, or you don’t.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the trap, Jack. You think you’re choosing freely, but your definition has been shaped. By media, by culture, by centuries of narrow imagery. You’ve been taught what to like, long before you ever looked.”

Host: Jack turned, his reflection caught in the glass frame of a nearby portrait — a man of mixed features, smiling, eyes alive with confidence. Jack’s own face, pale and hardened by years, looked almost ghostly beside it.

Jack: “So what, you’re saying everything I find beautiful is wrong?”

Jeeny: “Not wrong — just limited. Like someone who’s only ever tasted vanilla and thinks that’s the only flavor ice cream comes in. There’s no sin in liking it — but there’s sadness in not knowing the rest exist.”

Jack: “You always find a way to make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not poetry, it’s reality. Queen Latifah said those words because for generations, the world acted like only one kind of woman could be called beautiful — white, thin, European features. And everything else was ‘exotic,’ or ‘different,’ never just beautiful.”

Jack: “But isn’t that changing now? Look around. The gallery is full of diverse portraits. We’ve got Lizzo, Zendaya, Lupita Nyong’o, Priyanka Chopra — the world seems to be catching up.”

Jeeny: “Catching up, yes. But not arrived. You still have casting calls asking for ‘ethnically ambiguous.’ You still have skin-lightening products sold in billions. You still have little girls looking at their reflection and wishing it looked like someone else. Tell me that’s not a problem.”

Host: The gallery light dimmed slightly, set to an evening timer. A soft instrumental track began to play — a piano melody that drifted through the space like rain on glass.

Jeeny’s tone had hardened, but her eyes stayed gentle. Jack could feel the conviction in her words, and for the first time, his silence wasn’t defensive — it was reflective.

Jack: “You’re right. I remember when my niece came home from school crying. She said one of the boys called her ‘too dark’. She’s ten, Jeeny. Ten. I told her she was beautiful, but the way she looked at me — like she didn’t believe it — that… that got to me.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I mean. The damage runs deep. We can tell people they’re beautiful, but until society reflects that truth, it’s just words. Beauty isn’t about faces; it’s about visibility. About who gets to be seen and celebrated.”

Jack: “So what does that mean — redefine beauty altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. It means expand it. Let it breathe. Let it belong to everyone. Beauty isn’t a category — it’s a spectrum.”

Host: A young woman walked past them — her hair bright pink, her skin freckled, her clothes eclectic and bold. She paused, studied a painting of an elderly woman with wrinkles deep as valleys, her eyes fierce, her smile incomplete. The girl whispered, “She’s stunning.”

Jack and Jeeny both heard, and for a moment, they shared a look — the kind of quiet recognition that says, There it is. Proof.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, every billboard looked the same. Same smile, same skin, same standard. Maybe you’re right — maybe we’re just starting to see what we should’ve seen all along.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world is finally learning to look again. And not just with eyes, but with heart.”

Jack: “So, what’s the best definition of beauty then, in your view?”

Jeeny: “It’s truth, Jack. Beauty is truth — whatever form it takes. It’s freckles, it’s fat, it’s melanin, it’s wrinkles, it’s scars. It’s every story the world tried to erase.”

Host: The rain had begun outside, soft, steady, sincere. The streetlights reflected in the glass windows, and the portraits seemed to shimmer, as though alive — as though each face was whispering, “I exist.”

Jeeny walked closer to one — a photograph of a Southeast Asian girl, her eyes fierce, her smile shy. Jeeny’s voice was almost a whisper now.

Jeeny: “When Queen Latifah said that, she wasn’t just defending diversity — she was reclaiming dignity. She was saying: we belong in the frame too. That’s not just beauty, Jack. That’s justice.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real meaning — beauty as recognition. Seeing each other, fully.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because once we see each other, we stop just looking.”

Host: The lights began to fade, signaling closing time. The gallery was almost empty, the paintings now bathed in a soft gold from the exit sign.

Jack turned toward the portrait of the woman with the gold eyes — the one that had started their conversation. He looked again, but this time, his gaze softened; something in him had shifted.

Jack: “You know… she’s breathtaking.”

Jeeny: “She always was. You just needed to see her.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, warm, knowing, as they walked out into the night. The rain kissed their faces, cool, gentle, like a benediction.

Above them, the streetlights glowed, each one a different color, different intensity, different hue — and together, they made something beautiful.

Because beauty, like light, was never meant to be one shade. It was meant to shine through every color the world could offer.