Abandoning The Dream Of The Lighter Skinned Offspring

Stable minds have almost always come to terms with a consistent sense of self-identity. Which is why you'll hear comments, "Boy does he sure have his head on straight", "That girl has got it together". I personally have made it clear and have adhered to the notion that identical priority should be based on a strong sense and awareness of creational and relational existence through Christ. Albeit, priority does not mean exclusionary. Over my life span I've had to come to the realization that the wholeness of my identities would be vital to any form of personal, family, communal, or global success that I desire to attain.
Young
Christian
Black
Woman
Young Christian Black Woman.
One by one He takes me on this journey of self-discovery. Starting with Him. Ending with Him. Young Christian Black Woman. Black. Woman. Black. Woman. Black Woman, Black Woman, Black Woman. As I sat in my classes and as my family infused stories of historical triumph and victory through the pain of slavery and discrimination, I listened and I learned, aced tests and typed out pages and pages worth of Harriet Tubman and Martin Luther King Jr. research. So while we continue to educate ourselves and our children on the problem of the white man, our little brown boys and little brown girls wage wars within themselves caused by those people who look like themselves. Who'd like to raise their own hand for their own contribution to politicking skin complexion even in the most trivial manner? Anyone? Anyone?

"Get out of here darky".
"You're kinda cute, for a dark-skinned girl".
"I could never date a dark-skinned girl. No offense."
"You know for a minute there I thought you had good hair."
"Khristi you sure are holdin' it down on the looks for all the dark-skinned girls".
I remember feeling ugly. I remember feeling black. Not the same black as the caramel complected little girl in my youth group, or the lighter complected little girl in my class, but in my own class of black. Having to come to terms with the idea that I am the lowest order in society's class of privilege, even amongst my own. I was black. A differently defined black than the universal black that my schoolbooks had mentioned or my grandparents had insinuated. I was black.

I remember being black in a white school. I remember the handful of brown girls and brown boys and the brown boys dating the lighter-skinned brown girls with utmost priority. Sloppy seconds was what I was. If I reached second at all.

I remember taking a convenient liking to lighter skinned men with "good hair". (What the He…aven is good hair anyway?) Coming to terms with the affliction of my own and hoping for redemption through the joining to another on the contrary of me. Thinking that his liking of me was my good fortune and holding on tight…so tight. Maybe we would have kids with my eyes and his complexion. My teeth and his hair.

I can't revere the totality of black pop-culture for a variety of reasons, as I recall unconsciously growing my hair out, losing weight and purchasing Ambi skin cream, convincing myself that if I could change what it was that God had given me, then maybe my acceptance would equal to that of those on the television screen. Pointing fingers was never my thing, however, the silent agenda of media manipulation has generated a society of insecure, promiscuous, self-hating little brown girls. Voice of reason enters the scene. And here come the India Arie's and the Lauryn Hill's and the Jill Scott's and the Floetry's with their brown skinned lyrics and embracing of the black woman and all of her features and all of her complexions and hair textures making the pretty little brown girl ponder, "I'm pretty after all."

So I grew up. And I traded my baggy clothes in exchange for more fitting attire. And I became, the pretty dark-skinned girl standing out amongst the others. Making me feel better? Truthfully, yes. Officially holding it down for all of the lesser privildged darker-skinned brown girls without the features that were identifiably more able to be accepted in exchange for their darker skin. Funny. Inching over to the other side of pride, not making me better, but worse.

So I grew up. And I looked in the mirror and I was proud of my brown skin and my white teeth and my "good" hair. And I embraced black and all of it's mocha, caramel and vanilla lattes. I embraced other cultures and colors and glean and learn from them. I am proud to be the me that I was created to be as a feminine coco complected black woman of God, loving black people, loving black men, loving black babies. Loving black.