For Colored Girls, Concerned With Colorism, When Racism Is Enough

“Yellow bone that’s what he wants.” We’ve heard it many times, in many ways, from many people. The insidious lyrics, the subtle imagery, the trophy wives all reinforce the same tired sentiment, white is right and the closer you are to it, the better.

& you are forced to face colorism when racism was enough.

It’s hard to put into the words the experience of being a phenotypically Black woman—where there is no room for misunderstanding, no Cherokee grandmother, no curl pattern to claim, Black on both sides. It can feel like learning to resent your features, hair, your essence. You learn to become less prominent, tame your hair, become more palatable. Eventually, you learn to do that in all areas of your life; shrink, bend, conform, flatten. You become the coolest homegirl, the straight-A student, the hardest worker, the loving partner, the lady in the streets, the freak in the bed. But there’s one thing you can’t change, that skin you’re in. No matter what you do, you can’t shake that skin and all it comes with. The trauma, the tragedy, the shame, the weight of the race. You get to wear it every day, and you better wear it with your chest poked out. “Pick your head up queen,” says the man at the corner store. “You should be proud to be a Black!,” and you are, but you’re scarred. Surviving this life with all the paper cuts to your self-esteem has left you open. Thick skin punctures too.

You survive. Maybe you become bitter, maybe you become strategic positioning yourself around lighter-skinned or more “attractive” women and living vicariously through them. Maybe you become invincible presenting yourself as a confident person who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Maybe you go into denial saying that you don’t see colorism, and haven’t been affected by it. You sing along to the songs, “I like a long-haired thick redbone,” even though it stings a little from the inside. You a Black woman, birther of nations, innovator, and muse to many feel like an outsider in your own race. You watch women who don’t look like you become the women who get to represent you. You watch men choose them over you. You watch those same men pander to you, use your image to spark their careers, and pay their bills but behind closed doors you know who they go home to. Watch them call on you for social justice issues, and leave you in the dust when it’s time to return the favor. You watch and you observe, and you learn how to navigate through this world. You learn how to survive, and you may even learn to heal. You find allies, you find love, from self and others. You learn to live, to let go, and you may even learn how to thrive in your own right. & then you hear a song, “Yellow bone that’s what he wants,” and you try not to be triggered in 2021.

Even with all the love and positive reinforcement I got from family and friends, colorism managed to sink its teeth into me too. There were times that I stepped out feeling my best, and came back feeling my worst. It was discouraging to have my self-worth invalidated, especially when I suspected colorism was at play. I tried not the let the adoration that light, white, and white adjacent women received bother me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice the difference. Even if colorism wasn’t in my direct experience, I didn’t have to look far to find it. The tv, the lyrics, and nearly every man I encountered reinforced it. Was I so Black, that I was invisible? I let that defeated mindset seep into my subconscious, it became the belief by which I lived my life. I would always be the second choice, I would always have to work harder. It seemed the world had capped my potential, so I did so too. In all my relationships I settled for less while doing the most because I felt unworthy of the same love I was giving. It took me a long time to realize the only limitations I have are the ones that I place on myself.

It’s hard not to feel bad about colorism, especially if you’re on the punishing end of the spectrum. People face real-life consequences for being darker-skinned like harsher jail sentencing, job discrimination, and assumed aggression. For dark-skinned women, it’s a rough road, with dark skin being masculinized, demonized, and contrasted with images of beauty, virtue, and femininity. Colorism’s effects are far-reaching and devastating, and I could go on and on about it for days, and it would all be true, but it just can’t be true for me anymore. I can’t turn my melanin down or take it off, and I don’t want to. This skin I’m in can feel like both a scarlet letter, and a badge of honor, sometimes both, at the same damn time. But one thing it always remains is…mine, and I can’t let the world define it for me any longer.

xoxo Malon