I recently watched a series that triggered a reflection on my own journey through adolescence as a young Indian girl. I refer specifically to my race impacting my childhood as I believe that your heritage and culture greatly influences your upbringing and the experiences that go along with it. More so, growing up in a diverse nation which, while it should be a positive thing, comes with its own challenges and complexities. Given the #BlackLivesMatter movement in the USA and current narrative, I struggled with deciding whether to publish this piece [right now or at all] as I wasn't sure about how it would be received and I wasn't convinced that my experiences written about in this post compared in importance - but I decided to go ahead with it, as not only is it a big part of my story, but I believe that issues of prejudice, racism and colourism need to be called out closer to home and I hope that I can use my voice on this platform, however limited, to highlight these issues and make a difference.
I was born in Durban and when I was 6 years old, my parents packed us all up and relocated to the City of Gold. What an adventure that felt like! Everything was so big and SO different and so cold. Gees, Joburg winters seemed so much more fierce back then.
As excited as we were by the prospects this new life held, Johannesburg in 1996 was a very different reality to what we are accustomed to now. When my sisters and I started school in a small town on the East Rand, we were, for a while, the only non-white children in our respective school grades. Which actually, was not much of a culture shock for us – we grew up in a house that did not see or use colour as a differentiator. So we did not grow up placing any kind of weight or value on the people around us by this. To an extent, this was quite naive of me, because for the longest time, and it sounds so silly to say now, I was not consciously aware that I was any different to anyone else in my classes, nor them to me. I wasn’t aware of the racial divides that existed or the cultural differences between my class mates and myself – just that I was brown and they weren’t (I wasn’t blind) but this was just a superficial difference.
I still believe this. But this was still naive. Although I didn’t feel any different – I was treated differently and therefore made to acknowledge that I was in fact, different. By and to the people around me. I only realised this when I reflected on this later, triggered by watching “Dayvie” in the Netflix show “Never have I ever”, that somewhere subconsciously, because of this, I started feeling the need stamp down this culture and “blend in” with these class mates, which meant that my own culture was now made recessive.
I had subconsciously acknowledged this difference which I interpreted negatively and which made me feel the need to reject it. Not because they were different, but because I was.
Saying that, my parents are not and were never extremely cultural. We are Christian by faith but we didn’t really celebrate any cultural holidays or events either as the majority of South Indians do. I wasn’t exposed to traditional Indian “ways” if you will. But of course, there were still things inherently and traditionally Indian, as part of our heritage that was part of my household and upbringing – our clothes, rituals and food. I didn’t hate any of this, at all, and by no means, but I didn’t appreciate it either I didn’t understand the symbolism in the rituals (I hated trying to explain these to “western” friends instead of taking this as an opportunity to educate them, involve them, help them grow), the elegance and exquisiteness of our garments, and our food? Well I loved my mother’s food but dare she put curry in my lunch box! I didn’t want to be defined by any of this. Not in a world that didn't accept or appreciate these differences. Where having brown skin didn't give you any advantages (in fact you have to work that much harder to prove yourself in spite of this). In a world that steadily functions on prejudice based on skin colour. Where children often resorted to mockery or some sort of insult related to the way I pronounce words or the food I eat; which children often felt the need to do because they didn’t really understand me or my differences either. At the time, I didn’t realise how actively I tried to deny so much of what made me, me. And in turn, also missed out on learning about myself through my, know acknowledged, beautiful heritage. All in an effort to fit in a little bit more.
Coupled with the need to reject all of this as part of my heritage and therefore part of who I am due to social acceptance and misplaced identity, was the internal misgivings of my own people regarding colour (and by extension, class), which really made me want to dim this (brown) light. Colourism: to most Indians, a terribly archaic view still today, in great part, is that the fairer or lighter your skin – the more beautiful you are. I am not sure how or why but to my people, this was the standard of true beauty. There was no such thing as Dark & Lovely, no no. Only fair and lovely. Now, here I was, surrounded by [mostly, by my teenage years] only pretty white girls - so my view was further skewed to believe that the standard of real beauty was set by these girls in my class. I did't recognise my own value because the people around me that were valued - did not look like me. Not in my direct environment, not in the media - and the Indian women that were on TV were promoting skin lightening creams. How could I compare to this standard set. With my twig un-shapely legs (hairy because Indian mothers don’t let you shave your legs until you are a much older), skinny arms, skew teeth (pre-braces) and brown skin (which I kept as covered as much as I could). Seriously guys, it would be blisteringly hot and I always had my school jersey on, and stayed out of the sun as much as humanly possible when your breaks are on a playing field, all in the name of maintaining a fair (and what I was brainwashed to believe, beautiful) complexion.
It was only much much later in life, and I am ashamed that it took me this long – that I started feeling proud of all the little bits of me, my heritage and my skin.
That I started feeling comfortable in my own skin.
I then started sharing more about my unique traits and colourful culture and while sharing; learning to appreciate all that this rich heritage had added to me.
I happened to be in New York during the hottest week of the year, walking around in bare sleeves with a natural sheen, basking in the sun, without a care for my complexion (but with sunscreen because we still care about sun damage) and it felt absolutely incredible to have the sun on my bare skin: sitting in central park, eating a cupcake from Magnolias and taking in the dream I was living! All the while fighting the ingrained thoughts to cover up, at the back of my mind - lest I allow my skin to get darker! I clearly remember walking down the streets of Soho, NY when a man stopped me dead in my sight-seeing tracks and exclaimed that I had the "most beautiful cinnamon skin." Yes, he actually said that. He didn't want anything from me (which tends to be our expectation when strange men offer compliments as its very often not without a price), just to say this. This was so strange to me. Did he really mean me? My skin? It shouldn’t have been strange, it shouldn’t have made any difference at all. But I thought, this is amazing, this guy thinks brown skin is beautiful! And then I thought.. so why don't I?
It dawned on me that for as long as I had not cast a second thought on being completely and totally accepting of others no matter race, creed or gender; I haven’t always been as kind or accepting of myself. I didn’t understand it growing up, and there wasn’t a song to teach me that, “there are complexities in complexion”. That there isn't a one-size-fits all for the standard of beauty. That there is a space for us all, to shine.
“Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls Your back against the world I never trade you for anybody else, say Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls The best thing inna di (about the) world I never trade you for anybody else, say
Oh, have you looked in the mirror lately? (lately) Wish you could trade eyes with me ('cause) There's complexities in complexion But your skin, it glow like diamonds...”
Beyoncé – Brown Skin Girl
Now? Now I love the skin I am in. Although I fully believe that its whats inside that counts, I embrace, my cinnamon skin. I think about that kind stranger often... when I doubt myself or think to cover up just in case I get burnt. And I remember how a man I didn’t even know appreciated my beauty. My literal shine. And remind myself to provide myself with the same kindness that I offer others and adoration that was offered to me. This is the only skin I have been so blessed with, how could I possibly be ashamed of it. The only thing I should be concerned with is nurturing and moisturising it.
So, define me by it if you will. It is not what makes me, me but it is part of me and perfect in its imperfections. I know that beauty is [only] skin deep (funny in the context) but not dependent on the colour of mine or anyone's skin - it is the soul that shines through and that's what makes you truly beautiful.
I hope that we can stop the cycle, of prejudice, racism and colourism and teach our children to do the same, to do better. I hope that you love the skin you’re in and that you are bold and brave - in a world that tries to tell us that we shouldn’t be - and in the words of our stunning Miss Universe, Zozibini Tunzi – take up space! In spite of all the misgivings and preconceived judgment, take up space.
PSA: This post is in reference to my own experiences, perceptions and views and in no way is intended to offend or criticise, nor imply that any skin complexion is “better”. The point is that we are ALL beautiful and deserve to shine equally as bright.
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