Member-only story
Not Light, not Bright, not Damn-near White
I would never be good enough
My college boyfriend and I were not only “crazy in love,” we were “craziest in love.” When we talked to one another, we had so many “boos” and “poos,” and variations on “darling,” we could have been speaking a foreign language. We attended weddings and pictured ourselves as bride and groom. We had names for children who hadn’t yet been conceived.
When separated for the summer, in those old days of expensive long-distance calls, our two phones were like a hotline. Sometimes we didn’t even have to dial. We’d pick up the phone and the other one would, magically, be on the line already. Ah, “mind melds;” another proof positive that we were meant for one another. Our love was in the heavens — beyond this mere, earthly plane.
He was darker than chocolate — almost blue-black. I was two shades darker than a paper bag and was proud of my Afro, which earned me the nickname, “Angela Davis.” I didn’t have color issues. His deep black skin was just fine with me. I was in love with his soul.
Then one day.
Then one day, just in conversation, he gave me a report on a friend’s trip to New Orleans, perhaps Ground Zero of racial caste. “Honey,” he said. “Everybody down there was light-skinned with good hair.”
