On Colorism, ‘Martin,’ And Life As A Dark-Skinned Black Woman

Years ago, I wrote a LiveJournal post about colorism in which I declared that I was more traumatized over accusations that I sounded white than some rando telling me that I was “cute for a dark-skinned girl.”

Ah, the folly of youth. Had I actually sat with my feelings — interrogated them, even — perhaps I would’ve remembered all the slights I shrugged off, all the blatant disrespect I chose to ignore to keep the peace.

I would’ve remembered the neighborhood boy who told me that my dimples were the only things “saving me” or the way my family would fawn over the beauty of my lighter-skinned Pittsburgh cousins while patting me on the back for being “so smart.” 

There’s this idea that dark-skinned women lack self-esteem, that the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority are fictions we’ve spun ourselves into. For many of us, this isn’t the case: I was raised in a loving, affirming household by a gorgeous, dark-skinned woman and her extremely light-skinned mother. My Barbies were Black. My media was Black. There was never a moment with them that I felt “less than.” Their love was my armor.

But that armor wasn’t enough to protect me from the poisoned bows. 

By the time I hit my teens, I was acutely aware of my supposed station. I’d been fed a steady diet of Black music videos, movies, and sitcoms in which I was shown the types of women who are truly prized, and none of them looked like me. 

I, like Ari Lennox, watch Martin and cringe at the jokes about Pam, her hair, and her lack of femininity. I watch A Different World and wonder why Kim Reese keeps getting the short end of the character development stick. I watch the Eddie Murphys, the Damon Wayanses, and the Martin Lawrences of the world woo, screw, and pursue women who could easily share the same shade of Mac NC17 foundation.  

Sometimes, the message is clear. Sometimes, it’s buried in the subtext. Does Martin tell Pam outright that she’s ugly because she’s dark-skinned? No, but one can definitely pick up on the context clues, from the comparisons to farm animals to the jabs about her 4c hair. The insidious thing about colorism is the subtlety with which people employ it to ostracize you, which makes it difficult to prove.

Has the color of my skin impacted the trajectory of my life? I’m sure, and in ways that will forever alter how I navigate the world. If I read a story about a club in Chicago that refuses entry to Black women who fail the paper bag test, I avoid it. If a music artist shares an unwashed opinion about dark-skinned women not having the right shade to pull off a bold red lip? I stop listening. You’ll never catch this girl at a Lil Wayne concert because of the weird ass colorism he drops in his songs without warning. 

You hear a bar like “Beautiful black woman, I bet that b*tch look better red” from a man who looks like 3 a.m. and wonder if irony is truly dead.

I even alter my vacation plans based on the experiences of darker-skinned Black women. Read that carefully. Not the experiences of Black people, but darker. Skinned. Women. Should I expect cold looks and chilly interactions with locals — like I experienced in San Juan? Will I be outright ignored when trying to order an Old Fashioned at a LA bar? 

My one and only trip to the Dominican Republic was filled with small reminders of my supposed station, from being ignored by the staff at the Puerto Plata resort where I was celebrating a long-delayed honeymoon, to the belligerent glares from other vacationers. 

But what I remember most is the Haitian cabdriver who shared his story with us on the way to dropping us off at our tour group. Mass deportations of Haitian emigrés were already underway at the time, but Augustin still risked imminent danger to cross the border with his wife and infant son. He spoke of the fear that gripped him and his family every day, of how he avoided certain routes to avoid law enforcement. Returning to his country would mean a death sentence, so he’d do whatever he could to keep his people safe, he told us.

The sense of belonging he and his kin longed for had not been found in their new country. His polyglot talents and easy disposition were not enough to mask the unforgivable sin of midnight skin, and as such, he figured it was only a matter of time before the authorities knocked on the door of their second-floor apartment to take them back to the other side of the island.

It was a hard, ridiculous truth that some felt Augustin unworthy of a peaceful, prosperous life because of the hue of his skin, but it is a common belief that dark-skinned people are inherently awful and dim creatures undeserving of humane treatment.

That my dark skin could lead to longer prison sentences and poorer economic outcomes makes little logical sense to me, even now. But the proof is in the stats: 69% of darker-skinned women in the workplace will face harsher racism than their lighter-skinned counterparts. That is, if they even get the job. A University of Georgia researcher found skin color can be a more of a factor than educational background when it comes to hiring. 

Colorism even affects the way we parent. The number of anecdotes I’ve collected from people over the years in which they detail the pain and suffering inflicted upon them by the people responsible for bringing them into the world makes me wonder if karma is real. What does it mean when a mother allegedly gives away her baby girl for being too dark, only to keep her white-passing sibling seven months later? Or when a grandmother chastises a grandchild for being in the sun too long?

Superstitions like those tend to follow us for the rest of our lives. According to a study from the Journal of Black Psychology, researchers found that a considerable number of Black female participants avoided the sun for fear they’d get darker, due largely in part to the belief that lighter skin is preferable among Black men.

But the part that should be most alarming is how the study connects colorism with health-related behaviors, illustrating how the impact translates into tangible behavioral actions as well. One of the Black women surveyed said her parents restricted her from swimming because they didn’t want her skin to “become Black.”

And yes, most of us know by now how darker-skinned women are perceived in the sexual marketplace. Again, having been fed a steady diet of light-skinned, long-haired heroines and swarthy male leads, it is inevitable that you will come across the guy who doesn’t typically date women as dark as you and expect you to be grateful for the attention. Extra points if he comes from a stable, middle-class, two-parent family and you’re a girl formerly from the wrong side of the tracks.

While that attitude also spans the color spectrum of would-be suitors, I’ve found with alarming regularity that the men most likely to deny you entry into their heart — and perhaps, Club Mona — will be those who share my complexion. 

I’m old enough to remember the constant barrage of “manly” jokes Serena Williams received from adolescence on, and the performative outrage when she married Alexis Ohanian. A woman deemed undesirable by a vocal minority of hobosexuals had committed the ultimate act of betrayal: she’d married a man outside of her race. 

And if you’re a dark-skinned woman on a reality dating show? Prepare to be ignored and gaslit by a Rainbow Coalition of men until you’re eliminated from the show — or in the case of Love Island’s JaNa Craig and Kenny Rodriguez, discover the man who once pledged his undying love for you on a Peacock livestream has been faking it like an ice-cold sociopath the whole time.

When dark-skinned women share their experiences, we’re told to shake it off, to accept that people have “preferences.” We’re told to accept the slights, the blatant disrespect, the digs at our femininity. We soften ourselves, shrink ourselves to defy bullshit stereotypes. To be honest, a lot of us have. We alter our appearance, our speech, our mannerisms — even our politics — for acceptance. We’ll stay out of the sun to avoid the edges of our silk press from reverting and the possibility of getting darker. We’ll contour the hell out of our noses so they won’t appear as wide.

Understand we want to do none of these things. In time, many of us have already stopped caring what you think and have learned to love our skin, despite your best efforts to curse it. We will continue to unlearn all of the toxic, grotesque lessons that were forced upon us and pay it forward by helping our babies lovingly embrace themselves, too.

Jamie Nesbitt Golden is an award-winning reporter for Block Club Chicago. She loves coffee, horror movies, and sleep.

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