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I thought to myself that I would fit right in without a second look. See, at a HBCU the colors vary from white to the most chocolate brown and it doesn't matter what color you are.

In college, people are much more mature and educated. There wasn't blatant colorism but it still existed subtly.

It was being in History , learning about the Bantus and speaking in class and everyone turning around with a face I knew all too well.

It says "Are you even fully black? Why are you talking? The white man separated us: darks and lights. We're so caught up on these preconceived notions of each other, we fail to realize the big picture.

Not to mention, black men sometimes don't make it any better. As black women, we are pitted against each other based off of how we look: lightskin, darkskin, slim, thick, tall, short, weave, natural and the infamous good girl vs girl who shows a little more skin comparison.

Hate has been so imbedded in us, blacks hate other blacks for being black. We forget that as black women our struggles are much more alike than we admit.

No one women's struggle is less important than another one's. When it comes down to it we all share bloodlines with greats like Fanny Lou Hamer, Ella Baker, Dorothy Heights and Harriet Tubman, and each day we stand in the merit of their work.

We progress and prosper while at the same time facing adversity, from being told we aren't quite enough of this or too much of that. Despite these things and the various shades that we may come in we are all still black and are the similar in essence.

I grew to love the skin I'm in. All the acne scars and all the hair. I still look at my mother in amazement. I still watch her glow and I know that I glow too.

That's the great thing about black women, we all glow in different shades like crystallized stars across the darkest sky. Know that your black will never be like her black.

Your black is your black for a reason. You were coated in the most beautiful color so that you can be you. Look at the variety of shades of black women you see everyday with admiration and not spite.

Her beauty does not take away from your own. US Edition U. Coronavirus News U. HuffPost Personal Video Horoscopes. Newsletters Coupons. Terms Privacy Policy.

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I can love who I am fully and still attempt to educate people who compliment me based on my less than black features as if those are the only reasons for my beauty.

I can empathize with my friends who deal with being overlooked for someone lighter and not hate myself because of it.

I can speak my truth as a black woman and recognize my story is inherently different from my eldest sister of a darker complexion.

I can understand that the roads that she, my aunts and family members faced from conception has been more difficult than mine.

I can empathize with them without pretending as if their problems are no different from mine in order for me to feel more comfortable.

And I can smile. I can smile, because regardless of her shape, complexion or hair texture, each time I see her, I see a part of myself.

Ashley, this is very well written. It expresses many of the feelings I, myself, have felt being a light-skinned black woman.

He eventually married a German woman when he was in the service. I am now wearing my hair natural. Although I have all virgin hair after undergoing chemotherapy, I started letting my hair go back natural before the chemo.

My husband loves my hair natural, and he dislikes weaves and wigs. He is a very special man! Like Like. You are commenting using your WordPress.

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I never blamed them though. It wasn't their fault rather what they were taught, maybe by their parents and then from their grandparents and then their grandparent's parents.

They were programmed to believe that my black was beautiful and their's wasn't. It's crazy how they hated me due to my skin tone and due to preconceived notions about me 'thinking I was all that' when I would have traded skin tones with them in a heart beat.

I thought to myself that I would fit right in without a second look. See, at a HBCU the colors vary from white to the most chocolate brown and it doesn't matter what color you are.

In college, people are much more mature and educated. There wasn't blatant colorism but it still existed subtly. It was being in History , learning about the Bantus and speaking in class and everyone turning around with a face I knew all too well.

It says "Are you even fully black? Why are you talking? The white man separated us: darks and lights.

We're so caught up on these preconceived notions of each other, we fail to realize the big picture. Not to mention, black men sometimes don't make it any better.

As black women, we are pitted against each other based off of how we look: lightskin, darkskin, slim, thick, tall, short, weave, natural and the infamous good girl vs girl who shows a little more skin comparison.

Hate has been so imbedded in us, blacks hate other blacks for being black. We forget that as black women our struggles are much more alike than we admit.

No one women's struggle is less important than another one's. When it comes down to it we all share bloodlines with greats like Fanny Lou Hamer, Ella Baker, Dorothy Heights and Harriet Tubman, and each day we stand in the merit of their work.

We progress and prosper while at the same time facing adversity, from being told we aren't quite enough of this or too much of that.

Despite these things and the various shades that we may come in we are all still black and are the similar in essence.

I grew to love the skin I'm in. All the acne scars and all the hair. I still look at my mother in amazement. I still watch her glow and I know that I glow too.

That's the great thing about black women, we all glow in different shades like crystallized stars across the darkest sky. Know that your black will never be like her black.

Your black is your black for a reason. You were coated in the most beautiful color so that you can be you. Look at the variety of shades of black women you see everyday with admiration and not spite.

Her beauty does not take away from your own. US Edition U. Coronavirus News U. HuffPost Personal Video Horoscopes. Newsletters Coupons.

Terms Privacy Policy. Part of HuffPost Black Voices. When she let you in, she was a mother and a sister and a friend all at once. She only nodded and said, "We have to get you laid.

It was on one of those walks that Cecilia told me that she used to make herself throw up when she was sixteen. One of our favorite things to do was to walk along the Hudson River.

In one of the parks along the river, we discovered maybe the cleanest public bathroom in all of Manhattan. We went to places that never interested me before, like the time we went to a sex shop, and between giggles, bought vibrators.

The city had never seemed more holy to me. She was honest in the way a white girl was honest, saying the exact things in her head regardless of how personal the details of her stories were.

Once she told me about the time her mother walked into her bedroom and caught her masturbating. They never talked about it.

These were the kinds of stories that had us laughing too loudly when we were supposed to be studying. Unlike the two-bedroom apartment my mother and I shared on the second floor of a house, the Wellington family residence, Cecilia told me, was an entire house with a backyard, a front yard, and an attic.

Of course, they had a dog. It all seemed so quintessentially upper middle class. Once, when Cecilia and I walked past a park in the city with more than a few black nannies, she shook her head and called it — the fact that black women were caring for white babies — "modern racism.

I imagine that the Wellingtons were proud to tell people that their only daughter was studying in New York. Her parents seemed to be people who had lost some sense of who they were.

When I told Cecilia that my favorite food was oxtail and that my mother was making it for my dinner, and that she should come over, she said, "Oxtail?

That sounds familiar to me. When her mother gave her cornmeal porridge, she complained and asked for boxed cereal with cold milk.

Two days later, Cecilia called me on the phone. Do you think they were fucking when he and I were together? She would do that.

My mother liked Cecilia because she likes all smart, good-looking black people. They were both women. One of them was pretty and curvaceous, and had been married to a man at one point, and the other one looked like a butch lesbian.

Jamaican come America and marry woman. Di devil know who fi fool. I was sent to the Korean store to buy coconut milk for the rice and peas and a packet of curry for the chicken.

Caribbean people believe that all the Asian people who own those small grocery stores that sell the spices, packaged food, and ground provisions from back home are Korean, and maybe this is true.

When I exited the store, I saw that amongst the small crowd of people leaving the train station was Cecilia.

A boy who looked about our age, in baggy jeans and sneakers, was talking animatedly to her, and she was smiling as though she believed him to be handsome.

I was surprised when I saw that Cecilia was giving the guy with the baggy jeans her number. When she hung up, she said, "He wants to be a rapper, so this is obviously not meant to be.

I swear my panties got wet just talking to him. At the very least, I could have imagined her with the type of black guy who went to Yale — certainly not a wannabe rapper from Brooklyn.

Zoe, a girl Cecilia knew, was having the party, and I could tell from the size of the apartment that her parents were wealthy. Cecilia, Troy, and I were the only black people there.

When I walked into the living room and saw Adam and Lindsey, I immediately questioned whether Cecilia had brought Troy to make Adam jealous.

She could be more fragile than I preferred in a friend—always wanting me to validate her feelings, which were many and sensitive.

It seemed as though we were always having the same conversations. I imagined that as an only child, she had been coddled — her parents asking how her day was and actually listening, quick to knead every one of her anxieties away.

But there was also a little of that Jamaican wildness in Cecilia. She was the woman from a movie we once watched together, that woman with mascara running down her face, the quiet one, now standing in the rain in her lingerie because she had to beg the man to stay with her.

Cecilia could be dramatic like that. Once, on a bus, I heard someone say that Jamaicans are the comedians of the Caribbean.

And that night as we walked into the party, I doubted that Cecilia would wear a dress that tight and such bright red lipstick without some kind of motive.

Cecilia led Troy over to where Adam and Lindsey were sitting on the couch, and I was surprised when she bent to hug the both of them.

Later, when I was waiting to use the bathroom, and it was Cecilia who exited, she whispered to me, "You should have seen how Lindsey looked at Troy.

Recently, Cecilia had said, "All you and Ryan do is kiss and go down on each other. Otherwise, he only texted once in a while.

What I meant was, When are you going to take me on a real date? When he left, closing the door behind him, I regretted all the times I let him eat me out and especially the times I reciprocated.

When I got back to the living room, I was fighting the urge to cry. Troy, Lindsey, Ryan, and almost everyone else were nowhere to be seen.

Later, I would learn that they were on the roof smoking the weed that Troy had brought with him. Meanwhile, Adam and Cecilia were having an intense conversation on the couch.

They were talking softly, their bodies leaning toward each other, the gravity of their words on their faces. Later, everyone was eating the Chinese food that Zoe had ordered and paid for after having rejected the offers to pitch in.

One of the girls, a redhead named Kath, started talking about the latest episode of "Girls. Ryan had left the party with another girl, and had the audacity to hug me before he left.

Cecilia whispered that the girl he left with was only his friend. This is how come when "Girls" came up I said too loudly, "I fucking hate that show.

We watch it together," Cecilia said, giggling. It was true. Cecilia would have fit right in. Two people laughed. White people walking their dogs.

White people jogging. White people move in, rent goes up, and coffee shops and yoga studios are opened. White people oppress us without even trying.

After the party had disintegrated, Cecilia and I walked to the train station. We were too buzzed to murmur anything besides how badly we yearned for a warm bed.

I watched as she reached into her bag for a tube of lotion. I had no idea why, so late at night, she was rubbing lotion into her hands.

She kept tubes in all of her purses. I teased her about it — that incessant need to moisturize throughout the day — but I wondered if growing up dark-skinned in a place like the Bay Area had done a number on her.

She had only ever been to Jamaica as a baby, and then for her high school senior trip, when she and her classmates had stayed at a resort.

Every time her parents visited, she was in school or otherwise unable to go, and no one had thought it important enough for her to see the version of Jamaica not printed on postcards in resort gift shops.

How could I describe to her the white flesh of a Jamaican apple — an apple totally unlike any American one? How could she understand my disappointment when I moved to Brooklyn as a child and discovered that the apple I loved was unavailable to me in this new place?

How to have a conversation about the fact that some things, some parts of ourselves, are tied to other, faraway places? These kinds of silences between Cecilia and me felt as though something had been stolen from us.

Who was to blame? Her parents? White supremacy? And why did it matter to me that she understood and appreciated our shared heritage? Tonight I asked him if he was fucking Lindsey when we were together.

All those things you were saying about gentrification and 'Girls,' you embarrassed me. Because more than any of us, they want what white people have.

In the past we would say "Fuck you" between giggles. My nigga? In part because I meant it and in part because I wanted to hurt Cecilia for complicated reasons including the fact that she seemed to carry a lighter burden on her back.

She could forget herself. She would graduate without loans because her parents could afford to pay for her tuition.

She could want to sleep with a white man and that desire came as a clean feeling. I only know that I was. It is available for pre-order here.

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Or I might major in fine arts.

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