Skin―Dana Alh
I carried my sneakers along with my school bag with me to the door and stepped in front of the mirror to have one final look at myself, my usually curly hair was neatly split into two side braids with red bows tying them at the end, my shirt was neatly tucked under the hem of my skirt, my sleeves were buttoned and my collar was folded perfectly - I looked as ready for my first day of school as the other kids I saw on TV. I quickly put my recently-polished shoes on and headed to the bus stop.
“Yo, Khadija, do you really think you’re going to school?” I looked to the back and saw my neighbor Isaiah. Being my best-friend, I always told him how much I wanted to go to school, but he kept telling me that school wasn’t made for people like us. At some point, I almost believed Isaiah, until my father was killed by a policeman and my mother remarried a white man who told me not to listen to anyone who tells me I can’t. I heard my mother speaking to my aunt once when they thought I was asleep, my mother said she only married uncle Louis because she wanted me and my siblings to live a better life than hers, she wanted us to have the privilege of the Whites and have have access to a good education and a decent health care system. She wanted us to be well-known so that we wouldn’t get shot for being mistaken for burglars when we walked outdoors after sunset - and I only understood what she meant when a white man asked me to get off my seat on the bus and stand at the back. I got up out of respect to let him take my place because he was older, but he sat on the empty seat that was next to me instead and kept my seat empty. As I entered the school, no one bothered to answer my question regarding which classroom I was assigned, and because uncle Louis had taught me to read during the summer, I was able to read my name off a list hanging on a classroom door. As I walked in, parents stared at me with disgust, my six-year old self could not make it out at the time, but they told their kids to only make friends with people whose names they could easily pronounce, and to stay away from those who looked like the help. They also emphasized that point on the class teacher.
My first class assignment was to paint a picture of my family, I painted a picture of myself along with my mother and my three younger siblings in a cemetery so that I could include my father. I asked Ms. Suzanne for a lighter shade crayon.
“I need it to paint my father.” She laughed at my statement, “Khadija, you already have the black crayon.”
“But he’s not black, he’s white and he has green eyes. I need a beige crayon and a light green one.”
“If you had any trace of white flesh or green eyes in your ancestry, I would’ve seen it on you. If you were raised to tell lies, we do things differently around here.”
Another kid asked her for a black crayon so he could paint himself a pair of shoes, so she took the crayon I was supposed to use to paint my father and handed it to him.
The first thing I learned on my first day of school was that my skin makes me different. I chose to pursue my career as a teacher so that the first thing I would teach to kids is that their skin makes them different; unique. My skin, although at one day made me believe I was no more than something to be stepped on - like that kid’s shoe, and made me believe that I might have been born with the wrong race, now makes me believe that I am who I turned out to be because of it, a leader.
My skin, like that of my father’s that got him killed, now give me the strongest weapons to fight with; pride and confidence.
“Yo, Khadija, do you really think you’re going to school?” I looked to the back and saw my neighbor Isaiah. Being my best-friend, I always told him how much I wanted to go to school, but he kept telling me that school wasn’t made for people like us. At some point, I almost believed Isaiah, until my father was killed by a policeman and my mother remarried a white man who told me not to listen to anyone who tells me I can’t. I heard my mother speaking to my aunt once when they thought I was asleep, my mother said she only married uncle Louis because she wanted me and my siblings to live a better life than hers, she wanted us to have the privilege of the Whites and have have access to a good education and a decent health care system. She wanted us to be well-known so that we wouldn’t get shot for being mistaken for burglars when we walked outdoors after sunset - and I only understood what she meant when a white man asked me to get off my seat on the bus and stand at the back. I got up out of respect to let him take my place because he was older, but he sat on the empty seat that was next to me instead and kept my seat empty. As I entered the school, no one bothered to answer my question regarding which classroom I was assigned, and because uncle Louis had taught me to read during the summer, I was able to read my name off a list hanging on a classroom door. As I walked in, parents stared at me with disgust, my six-year old self could not make it out at the time, but they told their kids to only make friends with people whose names they could easily pronounce, and to stay away from those who looked like the help. They also emphasized that point on the class teacher.
My first class assignment was to paint a picture of my family, I painted a picture of myself along with my mother and my three younger siblings in a cemetery so that I could include my father. I asked Ms. Suzanne for a lighter shade crayon.
“I need it to paint my father.” She laughed at my statement, “Khadija, you already have the black crayon.”
“But he’s not black, he’s white and he has green eyes. I need a beige crayon and a light green one.”
“If you had any trace of white flesh or green eyes in your ancestry, I would’ve seen it on you. If you were raised to tell lies, we do things differently around here.”
Another kid asked her for a black crayon so he could paint himself a pair of shoes, so she took the crayon I was supposed to use to paint my father and handed it to him.
The first thing I learned on my first day of school was that my skin makes me different. I chose to pursue my career as a teacher so that the first thing I would teach to kids is that their skin makes them different; unique. My skin, although at one day made me believe I was no more than something to be stepped on - like that kid’s shoe, and made me believe that I might have been born with the wrong race, now makes me believe that I am who I turned out to be because of it, a leader.
My skin, like that of my father’s that got him killed, now give me the strongest weapons to fight with; pride and confidence.
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