When I was a little girl, I remember asking my mother what color my eyes were. When she told me they were dark brown, I was in love with them immediately. When I found out my skin was brown, I fell in love with it, too.
Because I want everyone else to feel the same, it’s hard for me to be at a meeting with Black women and hear one of them say, “I’m trying to stay red.” And for others to chime in with jealously at her light skin color.
I don’t know if these preoccupations come from trying to achieve a level close to whiteness or if we think they are aesthetically pleasing, but it’s a problem for us to envy someone for their skin color.
Your skin color is so much more than meets the eye. It’s a story.
It’s your mother and your father. Your grandfather and your grandmother. It is a story of marches and sit-ins. Days spent in factories and coal mines. Railroads built with hard work and sweat. Chains and bondage. Boats to the New World that were filled with death and destruction. Prosperous villages and centuries of dynasties.
Your skin color is a past. A genetic representation of every thing your family has been through to get you to this world. Love it. Don’t wish it away for something brighter or darker. Don’t feel superior because of your tone is light or inadequate because it’s dark.
Be proud of the story written in your skin, your eyes and your hair. It’s a past and embracing it is part of your future.
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