Written by Craig Makhala
A child never allows fun to limit her imagination. At a mere five years only she decided she wanted to become a fire fighter, at six she wanted to be a super hero. At seven she wanted to become an ice cream truck driver, at eight she wanted to become a teacher. At nine, she wished for world peace. At ten, fairy dust. Twelve, lighter skin. She remembers the days in elementary when people would ask her what race she was. She never allowed black to be an acceptable answer They beat her blue until she bled acceptability,not blackness. She asked God everyday, Lord why did you make me black?
Third grade, eight years old . “Blacky,” she hears in the distance on the playground she swiftly turns around to see a boy, same shade as her cheering with his friends.She didn’t understand such nonsense. She turned around and continued to play in the sand. The school day passed, the boys haven’t said anything since. Later that night, she follows her nightly routine; brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed. As she grabs her tooth brush she catches her reflection in the mirror. Something felt different, off. She always looks in the mirror but something didn’t sit well, like a fish out of water she couldn’t breathe. Her face turns up in disgust as she studies her reflection. “Blacky, blacky,” the word rings through her ears and tears weld up in her eyes. The words grow louder, her confidence grows weaker. She picks at her dark skin and toys with her coiled hair. Black is the color of dirty clothes. The color of grimy hands after a long day of work. Black is the color of a bruised eye, the color of darkness, oblivion.. “Lord, why did you make me black?” She quietly whimpers.
Fifth grade, ten years old. She stays out of the sun as much as she can. You’ll never see a curly piece of hair on her head for it has been tainted by a press. You’ll see her hanging out with the fair skin people wishing she looked just like them. She watches tv and sighs as the perfect girl struts across the screen; Fair skin, straight hair, and colored eyes. She didn’t question why she never seen people that looked like her on covers of magazines or the star of tv shows. The answer was simple, we weren’t pretty enough. The white girl with the straight hair and pretty eyes is always going to be prettier than the dark skinned women with kinky hair and dark eyes. At night she fills herself with their words, they drip down the carefully creased seams of her lips and dents in her cheeks. “Charcoal!” “ Don’t stay in the sun too long!” She is tired of acting like she is the paper that holds the margins and the paragraphs to box in her feelings. “Where’d you go?” They say when the teacher turns off the lights in class. She wants to burst like a destroyed dam barricading a swift, roaring feline river. She waited every night until the clock struck 11:11 to make a wish, a wish for lighter skin. She pleaded to the skies, every night and when she realized no one was listening, she sank her head in her pillow and cried. “Lord, why did you make me black?” She screamed
Eighth grade, thirteen years old. “What are three words you would use to describe yourself?” She asked her friend. “Outgoing, funny-,” her friend started
“Beautiful,” She thought silently. At this point she’s only halfway engaged in the conversation. Nodding her head and giggling when necessary. Her mind is preoccupied with thoughts of how beautiful she was. She’s staring at her friend with a mixture of admiration, awe, and the slightest bit of envy. “Envy” triggered by various situations like every time they go out in public, she’s the one always getting talked to. “Envy” triggered by when men risk whiplash just to get a second glance at her. In her eyes in the black community light-skins are the goddesses. Men flock to their feet. So, there she was in a complete haze staring at her realizing the envy is very well inside of her. Because her friend was beautiful and when she was in her space she felt she couldn’t be beautiful. Under the scorching of the June sun, in class, at the movies, the world doesn’t have room for her kind of beauty when her friend was around. She put her head down in shame. “Lord, why did you make me black?” She thought silently
Back then, I had six twists that hung past my neck, high cheekbones which made my eyes seem extremely squinty, and my skin was chocolate brown, but by society’s standards I was no beauty queen. I understood that I would never be Americas Next Top Model or the the Beyonce of Destiny’s child. I was dark-skinned and my complexion reminded me of a culture I didn’t connect to and a history I was ashamed of embracing. I longed for the day my mom let me get a perm so my hair could blow in the wind a bounce when I walked. No
Matter how hard I searched there was no representation in the entertainment industry. No
black women in magazines, billboards, music videos, or movies. “You’re pretty for a dark girl” was something that I heard very often growing up. Sadly, due to my lack of self-esteem and longing for flattery and acceptance, I took this offensive statement as a compliment. I had no idea at the time, that my acceptance of this statement only created an inferiority complex within myself. It wasn’t until later that I came to identify statements like this as colorism, a principle that those with lighter skin are treated inferior to those of us with dark skin. But I am
Now free. Free of the backlash, the hurt, self loathing. I am free.
Sixteen years old, 192 months, 870 weeks, 6096 days. It’s easy to see why the world has fallen in love with her.And why she was given a title even many would envy.Her skin has been softly kissed by the sun.She glows intensely, vividly.Her hair, a sea of black kinks cascading down her neck. She is everything that this universe is made up of. She is whole, she is divine, she is dark skinned, she is me.
I am black coffee with hints of sugar. I am a spoon of chocolate. I am soul food. I am the full moon or a sunset. I am the light, I am the dark. I am a spark, a flame. I hated that I hated myself. I hated everything black. Hated black clothes, made me hot. I hated the night, a cold harsh wind seeping into my skin. I hated the sun, I was scared of it. I hated that they made me hate me.
I let it consume me, eat me, tear me down until I was nothing. Things are different now, I’m better,my thoughts are stronger, my vision is revived, my body feels lighter, my smile is brighter. I’m in love with my skin. I am a black woman, and I wish to be nothing else.
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