BROWN SKIN

I never thought I was different for having brown skin. I remember a buck-toothed little girl with wild hair–”dirty” brown hair as her mama would say–beaten and tamed into beautiful cornrowed braids kissing her love-touched scalp. 

This little girl with deep, dark brown eyes wore snakes of Medusa in copper, gold, and mahogany all over her big head, snakes that bounced with her every step. The living snakes of her hair, that little brown girl. She didn’t see anything wrong with her lively hair or her vibrant skin.

Yet she did feel a little odd when only one Disney princess had that same brown skin.

When this little girl was me and I lived in her head, I’d seen about five white people throughout the course of my life. Every girl, every boy around me had my same coils and braids, cropped short curls, the same million shades of brown coloring the canvases of their faces, of their bodies. Those people, my people, wore the same full lips or thin lips and wide nose or small nose and long, dark lashes, and deep, inky hair. Everyone and everything was so alive with richness and opulence. It certainly doesn’t help that in my six years of elementary school, I saw a single white girl and a single white boy. Not that anybody cared.

We were little kids. We didn’t care about learning or reading or elephants or donkeys! We liked cats, we liked dogs, we wanted fidget spinners and rubber band bracelets. Nobody knew about politics–in the elections, we’d just put what we heard our parents saying–because really, we just wanted those fancy overpriced book-fair rainbow pens and erasers that looked like chocolates! 

Then, I grew up. We all did. At least as much as you can “grow up” in a year. We went from 10 to 11, 11 to 12, and when I showed up bright-brown-eyed in my brand new school it was like entering an alternate universe.

Only twelve minutes away from my house yet I had never seen so many white people! Not in person, at least. Sure, they thrived in my mother’s soap operas in their lives shrouded in luxury; they painted the vast majority of the advertisements that I’d catch on my TV. It was a shock, so many white children! White babies! A sea of eyes cerulean blue, olive green, kaleidoscope hazel and not dark brown, just brown. A coral reef of people whose hair my mom and my aunts bought at the store! So much blonde, so much brown, a bit of ginger, and to think… It was absolutely insane.

All the same, I still wasn’t different for being brown.

There wasn’t a single reason for me to feel odd. Half my classmates were just like me, whether we wore the same culture or the same hair, the same interests or the same clothing. Sure, it was a culture shock, and it always will be, but come on! At 10, we  cared about fidget spinners. At 12, we cared about shoes. Is it something about growing up that makes you care about society’s in-and-out groups? Can’t be. It just doesn’t make sense.

Racism has got to be something you choose. You need to look at me, and look at you, and think that for some reason that only makes sense to fools that the album/book/comic covers of our identities create a vast chasm between us. Human beings share 99.2% DNA. And I can tell you this for sure–the people coming up with prejudice are not the kids of today. 

So if you’re going to say something about my people, my skin, I just need you to know that this? This outdated fad has nothing to do with me or them.

I, for one, want to play video games and write. I don’t care with who–and I certainly don’t care what they look like.

J. C. Harris is an aspiring author. J.C. really enjoys writing short excerpts of prose and experimenting with writing style throughout different genres. They are a creative who absolutely adores nature, hanging out at the beach, spending time in the library, and exploring new worlds. J.C. loves comedy and making people laugh, and also really enjoys making people think. They hope their writing can add something to your life!