I jumped off the last step of the school bus and rushed home as fast as my eight-year-old legs could carry me. I busted in the front door of our house breathless and on the verge of tears. My mom was where I always found her after school— in the kitchen.
I needed to hear the truth. My mom never lied to me. That’s why we didn’t grow up with Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus or Easter Bunny myths in our home. She told the truth, no matter what.
I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say about the news I was so shocked to receive on the bus ride home.
Jonathan sat directly across the aisle from me since we had assigned seats to ensure we kept the elementary school ruckus to a minimum. Our bus driver wore perfume so strong that it singed your nose hairs or made your eyes water at first whiff. Each day I would get on the bus and see the white of Jonathan’s big brown eyes peering at me over the seat.
He was in the fourth grade while I was in the third, so this was our only interaction with one another once we arrived at school.
On this particular day, I felt him staring at me more than usual.
I looked over and he said, “Hey . . . you ugly!”
I just stared at him.
“You ugly becuz you got dark, black skin!” His pudgy finger pointed in my direction. Spit gathered in the corners of his mouth and some landed in the middle of his bottom lip as he spoke each word.
My father always told me I was pretty. Did he actually tell a lie? Was I ugly? Was this skin that I looked at all day different or bad? My mom is one of the most beautiful women in the world to me. Both of us have deep, dark chocolate skin and so do my brother and father. My sister is more of a deep caramel. Growing up in the Thomas household, there were full lips, button noses and what we affectionately laugh at as “beady” eyes. The house was full of Jesus, love, laughter, prayer and vaseline. As a dark-skinned family, we wouldn’t be caught dead with ashy elbows, ashy knees or dry lips. Vaseline was also the cure for just about everything. Fall and split your knee open? My mother would pray, put some vaseline on it and send us right back out the door to continue playing.
My father’s side of the family consisted of every color in the spectrum. I had cousins who were as pale as the white girls in my school and I had some that were a light butterscotch. I also had several who were the same shade as my sister. There were also a lot who had the same skin tone as me and my brother. They were all fun and nice with their own unique traits. Even my neighbors had several shades in their households. I always knew that people came in different colors, shapes, and sizes. So why would my skin make me ugly?
I stared back at Jonathan and felt tears brim in the corners of my eyes. The same tears started to form as I recollected the story to my mom while she stood at the stove cooking.
She didn’t miss a beat.
She kept right on stirring and said, “That’s not true. You. Are. Beautiful. Your dark skin is beautiful and don’t you ever let anybody tell you different.”
That was it. She didn’t even look my way or stop preparing dinner.
My mother is a woman of few words and always speaks with truth and determination. She would often say, “You have what you say. Speak over yourself!” So I knew that when my mother told me I was beautiful, there were no ifs, ands or buts about it. I was beautiful.
After she declared this truth, I shrugged, changed my clothes and got ready to eat and do my homework.
I was already thinking of what I was going to say to Jonathan the next day.
He wasn’t on the bus the following morning. I was so bummed because I was ready to declare my beauty to him. One of my father’s favorite sayings is, “just when you have your guns drawn, there’s nothing to shoot.”
However, my bullseye opportunity came that afternoon on our bus ride home.
I walked right up to Jonathan, stuck my finger in his face and told him, “You’re a liar. I’m not ugly. I’m beautiful and my dark skin is beautiful.” I’m sure I rolled my neck a little bit and gave some extra sass along with it.
But what I remember most is his reaction. His eyes widened and if I didn’t know any better, I thought I saw tears forming. He didn’t say one word back but just stared at me.
This was not the response I expected. Where was the conviction in which he yelled at me with yesterday? I was prepared to tell him why I was beautiful. My smooth skin; my full lips, the nose that resembled a perfect blend of my parents, the small ears that I inherited from my father and the shine that came from my well-greased legs (courtesy of vaseline). I had even expertly coordinated my pink glasses to my shirt that day.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked. I wanted him to argue so I could prove him wrong and defend my beauty.
He just turned to me and mumbled, “Okay.”
One detail that I didn’t tell my mother was what Jonathan looked like. His skin was a few shades darker than my own. It was a shiny black that glistened as if he had diamonds underneath the surface. He had full lips and the bottom lip had a section in the center that was bright pink with darker spots here and there as if he had pulled the scab off a wound and it never healed. He had a broad nose that was the perfect centerpiece to his chubby cheeks and big eyes. He wore pants that were too long for him and required a jumbo cuff so he wouldn’t trip while walking. He always had on bright, clean sneakers that matched his outfit. He often spent time tugging at his pants or sweatshirt to either pull them up or down while dragging his coat on the ground behind him. His smile would reveal the big, awkward teeth of kids who had not lost all of their baby teeth yet.
I never knew why any kid who looked more like me than the others on the bus would say such hurtful things to me but after our swift exchange, he never said a negative word about my skin or my appearance ever again.
Instead of peering over the seat at me, he would give me a wide, toothy grin and say hello.
I tell this story because too often, our ideas of beauty are thwarted from those who look most like us. As I reflect back on this moment as a grown woman, I see that there were bigger obstacles manifesting amongst our youthful minds. Thankfully, mine was halted before it could take root but I’m not sure Jonathan had the same fortunate circumstance. Who knows what lies he was told or might have overheard in reference to black women, dark skin and standards of beauty. While my family celebrated our differences, perhaps someone did the opposite around him.
Thankfully, a foundation was established that day in the kitchen. One that I’ve been able to build upon and encourage others in the process.
Even more than the words my mother spoke to me, I believe who God says I am. I am His masterpiece and so are you. We are his works of art on display for the world to see and witness His best workmanship. Showcase it proudly.
