Light-skin bashing is still in effect in the good ole US of A.

Yesterday I was in a "creative" meeting with three other men—two over 50; one around 30. We ranged in color from dark brown to pecan-brown. All three of these men were actor-types. Very talented actor-types. The television was on in the background—a repeat of a NY Undercover featuring Cynda Williams. Cynda was an actress who got her big break playing Denzel Washington's love interest in Mo Betta Blues. Cynda Williams is light-skinned. Trust me when I say the testerone was popping when Cynda sashayed her "yellow" across the boob tube. Then the conversation took an interesting turn—who was Cynda banging. Was it Billy Bob Thornton? Was it Bill Paxton? Frankly, I didn't care, but the consensus was Bill Paxton. Cynda met him when she was cast in the indie flick One False Move. Then somehow the conversation segued into the oddities of a nationally-known solo performer who is also light-skinned. There was much talk about how gifted he is and that he isn't working as much as he should. Then someone said they thought he was challenged by being light-skinned. That lighter-skinned actors had a harder time than darker-skinned actors these days. As the momentum of the convo escalated so did the name calling. Because suddenly the term "high-yella" was thrown across the room and hit me right in the lip. Then somebody tossed "high yella motherfuckers" at my Fica plant and it's still recovering. But when "pretty yella niggas on TV talking about the Oscars, primping their newly-permed hair" put a dent in my wall I thought THAT IS ENOUGH! My eye was twitching.

My mother was light-skinned. So was my grandmother. So was my grandfather. So were all of my mother's siblings. My brother. My cousins. Some of my mother's friends. My niece, my nephew. My brother's wife. And although I understand institutional and social intra-racism. You know the litany: Black against black. Light against dark. House slave verses field slave. And all other sorts of "skin" cancers. But just because I understand doesn' mean I tolerate.

Three things that DIDN'T happen in my house: We never used the word "Nigger" or "Nigga", term of endearment or not. We didn't wear fashionably holey jeans [my grandmother thought it was a deliberate attempt to look poor]. And we did not discuss complexion unless it was describing someone. I.e., "Light like me" or "Dark like her brother". It was always OTHER people who would point out color. I remember during a childhood spat a kid said to me: "At least my mother ain't some skinny white lady and my daddy ain't an African." [My mother was very light with reddish hair and hazel eyes, and my father was darker-skinned and would often don Dashikis]. Or the time this darker-skinned friend saw me at the mall with my mother and my grandmother and two first cousins and she viciously said, "Why are you always with light-skinned people?" Or the time my mother and I were driving on Route 4 toward Tri-County Mall and my mom stopped too quickly at a red light. The woman behind us, a darker-skinned woman, pulled alongside us, rolled down her window and screamed "Yellow Bitch".

For a long time I used to sit like a duck when it came to the color war. It seemed everywhere I stepped someone was pointing out color to me. Although it made me furious and confused, I didn't say a word. A part of me felt like people were asking me to choose between those I loved and the color line that seperated them from the darker world. But one day something hit me. I could no longer sit like a duck and say nothing. That I can't always hide behind being "politically or socially" informed. There comes at time when you just got to stand up for something. And I stand up AGAINST light-skinned bashing. Yeh, I'm sure some intellectual could find a lot of holes in my stance, but this is about passion, not understanding.

So yesterday, after the meeting with the three actors quieted down, I pulled out a picture of my mom's family. Yeh, I got that bold. And I showed each and every one of them. I didn't preface the picture with anything except, This is my grandparent's 20th anniversay pic. The three men were quiet. Maybe they didn't sense the connection, maybe they didn't care, maybe they went home and chanted seven Hail Marys. I don't know. But I feel very resolved to say: Light Skin Bashing Ain't For Me! Not In My House!

And for those out there who still default into bashing skin hues... think about this: it doesn't self-empower; it only creates more division amongs those who need serious UNITY.


Until next time,

Keith