which is why my skin is so dirty,

Brown.

Why can’t I just wash my genes clean,

wear my face, arms, back, legs

in the shade like forsha girls.

I learned to hate the sun at a young age,

and my skin long before then.

No amount of scrubbing and bleach

could fade this dirt, this hurt,

when I             

would scrub my hands until hot water

scalded and fingers turned red

like sunburn—

if i could sunburn,

and not turn brown instead.

I discerned confusion.

But you live in America, you should be white!

Sorry to disappoint.

That my straight A’s don’t stand for “Anglophile”

and I don’t fit your fair-complexioned profile.

California sunkissed skin

translates to it’ll be harder for you to find a man.

What was he like? I asked.

Kalo. Dark.

Not dark like he was broody, or found morbid humor amusing.

Not even tall, dark, and handsome

because that word doesn’t belong with the others—dark.

They say dark chocolate’s an acquired taste.

How long will it be before my bitter flesh

turns sweet?
 

Then one day,

You look lighter than before!

and so I’m loved a little more.

The dark shadow crossing my dark eyes,

pales next to a paled cheek.

I can’t remember the color of my skin.

It grows dim, brown paper bag,

paper thin,

for you to wash me with color

or wash me clean.

Bleaches and creams,

I tried them all,

not eight years old,

but old enough to hate

this shamla chamra, ki nongra.

In my land of brown bodies,

I must be fair of skin to be lovely.

© Farhana J.

Submitted by Farhana