never tell a Black child their skin is too dark

summertime reminders for the melanated & less-melanated alike

// I saw a friend's kids running around at an event recently and nearly gasped. Their skin was glowing, dark and luminous, kissed by the sun. Summer had only recently started and already their complexions had enriched, black coffee, no creamer. It told stories of long hours of outdoor play, freedom to bask in the sun's rays.

// The doctor gawked in open appreciation of my daughter’s hue, not a pimple or blemish in sight. Clear and radiant, warm sepia and earthen red clay, her coloring conveyed youth and vibrancy, impossible to replicate with makeup or filters. "People would kill for this skin," the doctor said to her encouragingly, and I nodded my head in assent. So much truth in her words, more than she likely intended. People once killed because of the skin, made money off of the skin. Now they are desperate for the skin, spending so much for a just a bit of that warmth, a bit of that brilliant youth.

// I read a story about an old, Black woman who cautioned a young, Black mother to cover up her little child's skin. "That baby's gonna get too dark!" she said. Oh the grief and the history and the shame of those words! A different generation, of paper bag tests and attempts to pass as white and deeply rooted colorism. Was it too late for her to learn the beauty of her skin? Would she ever recognize her mahogany hue was a cloak of beauty from her Creator? Future generations need her to drape them with hope and pride, a mantle worth passing on.

// I never once wanted to be lighter as a child, an experience many Black girlfriends cannot claim. My mom, whose melanin leaned more cappuccino than cocoa, gloried in our skin. As the seasons shifted our shades, she marveled in each one. Her delight peaked in the summer, the apex of our pigmentation magnified by heat and brightness. She knew what she was doing, pairing her wonder with glory to God. Were we not mirror images of him made flesh?

// At the beginning of Lupita Nyong'o’s rise to fame, I envied her ebony sheen, the way colors responded against the blackness of her skin. I paused to marvel--this was once unthinkable, to desire deeper coloring. I paused to remember--there is no inherent "betterness" in one shade over the next. There is simply rejoicing in self, appreciating others, admiring how God has made each one a unique tone in the spectrum of his unending palette—in recognizing all this without seeking to change. 

// My skin deserves protection just as much as the next person, old myths, archaic attitudes, and toxic teachings be damned. But must my skin be cast in thick layers of creamy white, in stark contrast to how I am, in order to be safe? Enter the miracle of Black Girl Sunscreen--moisturizing and guarding from rays and race-based misconceptions alike. But when it’s not on hand (and when I remember), I slather my kids with whatever’s nearby. Sometimes, the thick cream leaves a ghostly cast, or the spray-on freckles them with color not their own-a reminder to myself of the lengths that I will go to, to keep these brown babies safe.

// What do you do when someone close to you, decades younger than you, a child in their formative years; what do you do when this young girl who is light, much lighter than you, lighter than her mom, lighter than anyone else in her family; what do you do when this young, beautiful, light-skinned Black girl expresses concern about playing in the pool on a gorgeous, sunny day for too much longer, for fear of getting too dark?

You grieve, oh you grieve, deep down inside, and you hope it's not too late to undo the messages: that her lightness is to be protected against darkness; that the sun is her enemy; that carefree summer days are a hindrance to how she will be perceived in the world—in her own family. You weave words of pride and of goodness, and you pray that this is the beginning of an unraveling of lies already being sewn into the fabric of her being.  

// When you see a Black child, and they're a few shades darker than you last saw them, eyes and teeth standing in stark contrast to the color of their skin, do not comment unless you have one of praise and joy. For they will surely hear the ignorance, some time, one day—from older generations never given the truth; from current generations whose parents refused to teach them. They will hear those negative messages, and they will either roll off their back, oil on water, or they will absorb and sink in, ink staining paper. Let these beautiful Black beings hear of beauty and of depth, of glowing and of radiance. 

let them be a Black child

be a free Black child

be a light-skinned, dark-skinned

complexioned Black child

however they have been intentionally crafted and designed

let the Black child be

let them live.  

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