Dark skin vs. Light Skin
Stop asking me 'what' I am
By: Juliuna Mitchell
Issue date: 11/19/09 Section: Features
Having fairer skin than a White girl with a tan, and curls better defined as ringlets than coils, I've had some big choices to make early in life. I took serious time to decide how I'd answer the question.
"What are you?"
The question arose. And it will still arise long after I write this.
What am I? I'm multi-racial, and a little multi-cultural. I'm mixed and a little mixed up.
I'm an unsuccessful chameleon. I'm the one in the group of White girls who is a little too wide-hipped and big-lipped for the crowd.
I'm the one getting her hair braided by a black girl who giggles every time she makes a part with the comb. "You know these ain't gon' last for long," she says.
I'm an insecure little girl. Black girls say, "If I had your hair..." I remember when I searched the aisle for what would make my hair look like theirs.
They figure I just don't understand, but I've had a pressing comb hot off the stove burn my ear. I have had tamed hair burn my hand.
I'm an outcast activist. In elementary school, my White friends called me colored and I felt uncomfortable when I had to argue about a word that didn't seem right. Later, another friend would say I wasn't even Black.
In high school, the local chapter of the NAACP washed cars to get to the National Convention.
"Isn't that something for Black people? Then why is that White girl out there washing cars with you?"
When we got to the convention, I was protested against with everyone else. I rode the shuttle bus past the same sign screaming up at us "children of a Lesser God."
During this time, I fell in love with Huey Newton because he looked like I do. I also love Langston Hughes.
I identify with men who made the choice I did, to categorize themselves where others may not have and to stand where they didn't have to.
I'm a safe start for new situations. People say it's easier to be light-skinned. I used to argue that it wasn't. Now I've accepted that it is.
"What are you?"
The question arose. And it will still arise long after I write this.
What am I? I'm multi-racial, and a little multi-cultural. I'm mixed and a little mixed up.
I'm an unsuccessful chameleon. I'm the one in the group of White girls who is a little too wide-hipped and big-lipped for the crowd.
I'm the one getting her hair braided by a black girl who giggles every time she makes a part with the comb. "You know these ain't gon' last for long," she says.
I'm an insecure little girl. Black girls say, "If I had your hair..." I remember when I searched the aisle for what would make my hair look like theirs.
They figure I just don't understand, but I've had a pressing comb hot off the stove burn my ear. I have had tamed hair burn my hand.
I'm an outcast activist. In elementary school, my White friends called me colored and I felt uncomfortable when I had to argue about a word that didn't seem right. Later, another friend would say I wasn't even Black.
In high school, the local chapter of the NAACP washed cars to get to the National Convention.
"Isn't that something for Black people? Then why is that White girl out there washing cars with you?"
When we got to the convention, I was protested against with everyone else. I rode the shuttle bus past the same sign screaming up at us "children of a Lesser God."
During this time, I fell in love with Huey Newton because he looked like I do. I also love Langston Hughes.
I identify with men who made the choice I did, to categorize themselves where others may not have and to stand where they didn't have to.
I'm a safe start for new situations. People say it's easier to be light-skinned. I used to argue that it wasn't. Now I've accepted that it is.
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