The Sweetest Fruits
Once upon a time, there was a girl with skin so dark you could barely see her.
She was part of the night, like a shadow.
She had a younger sister with skin so brown you could always see her.
She was part of the sun, like a golden ray.
But her younger sister was the only one who could see her.
Her younger sister was the only one who would watch her.
But the first girl was not a very good shadow to her sister.
Because instead of watching first and following second,
She acted first and was followed always.
But no one could every really see her.
Last week, I had to explain to my mom that I do not date because I am invisible.
My mom was gushing that the young, Black men in our family (like my brother and my cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin) don’t treat their wives/fiancées/girlfriends like my dad treats her. She thought maybe this new generation was hope for the future.
But I had to tell her that is because all the young, Black men in our family (like my brother and my cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin and my other cousin) only date white girls or girls that pass the paper bag test.
And then I had to tell her that the paper bag test represents the ‘cutoff’ shade. If you’re darker than a paper bag, then you might as well not exist to them.
My mom and I would fail.
My sister would not.
I dated a boy once.
I thought I was dating a boy once.
A boy and I would hang out. And he was nice and cute. I was nice and cute, supposedly.
Then, he asked me the question. Lots of boys ask me this question.
“So, tell me about your friend, [INSERT LIGHT-SKINNED FRIEND’S NAME HERE]…”
A dark-skinned best friend is more effective than Tinder, Bumble and Hinge combined.
Because we are always some light-skinned girl’s friend or sister or classmate or roommate.
They don’t see me out there.
The first girl, the shadow, said to her sister:
“You have to tell them about me. They need to know I’m here.”
Her younger sister said:
“I already did. I always tell them about you. I don’t know why they’re still looking at me.”
The first girl, the shadow, said to her sister:
“I need to go and I need for you not to follow me.”
Her younger sister said:
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
But her younger sister was wrong.
Because as soon as the first girl, the shadow, turned around, she felt it.
Her sister’s gaze was gone. The sun still had an audience to entertain.
Before Light-Skinned Aunt Viv, there was Dark-Skinned Aunt Viv.
Before Rosa Parks, there was Claudette Colvin.
Before my younger sister, there was me.
When I was:
· five years old, I was allowed to skip kindergarten because I was stapling pieces of computer paper together and writing my own stories.
· eleven years old, I started my first 50,000-word novel.
· thirteen years old, I started posting fanfiction on the internet.
· fifteen years old, I finished my first 50,000-word novel.
· seventeen years old, I posted a story online that amassed over 30 thousand hits and published a poem in the school newspaper.
· eighteen years old, I won a writing scholarship.
· twenty-one years old, I graduated with a writing certificate and started a writing blog.
· twenty-three years old, my mom told me she forgot I was a writer.
“It’s because you do so many other things, too,” she apologized to me.
She never forgets to tell our family friends that my little sister is majoring in Creative Writing.
They don’t see me in here.
The first girl walked all day into the night.
She walked past the tall, gnarled trees.
She walked with an ache in her feet.
She walked past people with sharp teeth that looked like they wanted to consume her.
She walked until she walked right into a wall of flesh.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“We know,” said a thousand voices.
The wall was made of girls like her – girls so dark, no one sees them.
“Are you tired of walking?” They asked her. They sounded like her mother.
She felt the tears she held in her bones and in her skin rise.
“Yes.”
She felt the wall of shadows envelop her.
But, the touch of other people was so foreign to her.
She walked for so long.
Too long.
She was too numb to scream in pain
As her skin burned up into dust.
If we are who people remember us to be, then I am already dead.
I am more than someone’s mother, wife, fiancée, girlfriend, sister-in-law, sister, best friend, roommate, cheerleader, therapist or daughter.
In many ways, I’m grateful for our light-skinned sisters.
If she wasn’t there, my eternal shadow,
I’m not sure I would know
I existed
At all.
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