Hidden Colorism

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 else 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

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