Written by: Brooklyn Kent

A memory that haunts me at night, is from my middle school days in English. I was in eighth grade. At this time of my life my hair was done by my mom and my attire was a school board mandated uniform. On this particular day, we were watching a movie in English. My teacher did the spiel about how this movie tied into our lesson. An interesting fact about this class is that my English teachers gave us assigned seats. So, sometimes I was lucky enough to be seated by my friends or assigned by someone she thought I would not talk to. After she gave us the spiel, she went to the back of the room to turn out the lights. A boy in my class turned to another boy and said, “where did Brooklyn go?” This was a joke that was used often in school. You never knew who the joke would turn on but, if you had the darkest complexion, it was almost like playing spin the bottle. Except in this version you were not rewarded with a kiss instead, your classmates were rewarded with laughter at your expense.

Normally, I would let my emotions be expressed on the drive back home or in between classes in private, but today I decided to do what I viewed was weak at that time. I cried. I placed my head on my desk and sobbed, what I had assumed was, silently. Not many students heard his comment, so luckily, he was not rewarded with laughter this time. I cried, not because of the hurtful words but, because I was numb to the idea of being dark. That my skin complexion will always be the topic of discussion. I was hurt because the person who said it was my friend. Someone whom I often relayed playful banter with. Today, I guess he did not know the depth of his joke. The boy who made the joke had a lighter complexion. At the time his complexion was praised by all my peers. Then he had waves, which is another box to checked off. And finally, he always kept a nice pair of shoes, his uniform always looked clean and well kept. For an eighth-grade girl, he checked every box that made him the dream bachelor. After this interaction, he looked at me and realized what he had done. He hurt his friend’s feelings. He made someone cry who normally showed two emotions: joy and sarcasm. He turned to me and said, “are you crying?” in a calm and hush voice. I tried to pull myself together the best way I knew how and turned to him and said “yes, but I’ll be fine.” The look on his face reassured me that he would never again make a joke about my complexion.

I type this story now with tears forming in my eyes, because I wish I could hold and hug that younger version of myself. She was fake confident and had to pull herself together at the age of 13, in front of her peers. She was numb to the idea of her complexion being used as a weapon, whenever it was time for another person to humble her. She always feared the lights turning off in settings with kids, for she knew this joke would come, but she never knew if she would be the victim. Younger me should not have had to be numb to colorism and the effect that it had and still has on my esteem. For any young girl who is reading this: Stand in your complexion with more confidence than I ever could. Although, in that moment I felt weak, I was braver than I could have imagined. Your skin does not have to be your coming of age story. Your skin one day will simply just be your skin.

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