I remember wanting to rip my skin off like I do on a sweaty day as genetics blind sighted me with freckles. My face was suddenly different and that was a bad thing. As a teenager, it was a painful amount of acne that made matters worse. Not only was the skin underneath undesirable, but the hormonal layer brought more than just psychological pain. I felt ugly, therefore, I was.
My skin is not translucent, it does not reflect the moon, but it fails to reflect the sun. At first glance, it is deemed safe to the ignorant. But the weight of my features gives me away, making me a threat. Every hair on my body is a descendant of the night sky; my tongue speaks in opposition to valley pronunciations; the color on my cheeks puts the fragility of my soul on display; my eyes are brown and wistful; my brows are strong and equipped for war.
Passing for white does not erase the complexity of our blood, however, allowing our skin color experience dictate how we maneuver the world erases clear paths to justice. Light skinned or not, we are the people who bring life and vibrancy into an otherwise tasteless culture of the worst of humanity. Because of that, we must recognize the responsibility we have as individuals to not fall prey to those who have oppressed us.
All content is a L.A. CORONA original unless otherwise posted.
iamlacorona.com 