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Remember when light skin
used to be in style?
I don’t,
because I never felt I fit the profile.
If I was armless I could count
the number of times
on both hands the frequency
with which I was called “fine.”
You see, Papa was dark skinned,
but Mama had dominant genes,
so me and my sister slid out in between,
but with a heavy lean
in the direction
of Mama’s complexion.
And not fitting the stereotypes,
I longed to be more his physical reflection –
smooth and brown like chocolate.
But like film negatives,
I was the opposite.
With that said,
the inferiority complex
in my head
was largely sub-con-scious
until a sista on deck
looking to fix up her chicks
pointed out there were no other
light skinned brothas in my clique.
That epiphany was profound.
Had I chosen to surround
myself with homies
all much darker shades of brown
unbeknownst to me?
Even the ladies in my life
except for two
were never bright in hue.
I thought light-skinned girls
had funky attitudes.
When in truth,
it was my attitude that stank.
No one to thank
for my internal schism
my reverse colorism
was finally exposed.
A lack of love for my skin color
self-imposed.
I was a walking contradiction.
My sense of self
at an unhealthy juxtaposition.
So I analyzed my pre-teens,
and realized
what I had seen
I internalized.
Where I grew up
light skinned brothas didn’t seem
to get the same respect.
I recognized that disconnect.
The hustlers and thugs
was pulling chicks I couldn’t get.
And unfortunately for me
these kats were disproportionately
more melanin saturated,
reinforcing my self-hatred:
A casualty of internalized
racism with a twist.
Light skin might have been in style
but I didn’t experience it
as a net positive –
evident to me
of just how damaging
white supremacy can be –
demanding hands-on management
of my self-esteem regularly
so I don’t lose myself again…
so I can love me as I am.
-HymnAgen
