My Skin

Youngblood : Picking black

Michelle F. Cheidjew
Inquirer News Service

I REMEMBER a television commercial that was popular when I was a kid. It was an ad about a brand of paint. Two black tribesmen, each trying to win the chief's favor, competed in a "who could paint more zebras" challenge (the zebras were made of cardboard). One tribesman went for brand X, while the other, knowing better, went for the product being advertised. Naturally, the one who went for brand X lost. What fascinated me most was when the defeated tribesman poured the white paint over his body. I have never forgotten how his ebony figure was engulfed by the white background.

The first time I saw the commercial I did not think it was selling paint. I thought that it was selling the color white.

The ad's impact went beyond my perception to that of the people around me. My family and neighbors would kid me to try using white paint "para pumuti ka agad" [so your skin would whiten fast]. Although they meant it as a joke, I saw it as a possibility.

The reason I took the ad literally was that I was already using whitening products even then. No, it wasn't out of childish vanity; I was not the type who rummaged through some adult's dresser to try on make-up. I did it because my grandmother told me to.

"Nanay" (as I called her) was a white beauty, thanks to her Chinese blood. But my "mestiza" [mixed-blood] mother married a black man and, according to nature's formula, a white woman and a black man produced a black kid, which was me.

When I was young, I thought that Nanay had made it her lifetime mission to transform her black and perpetually ridiculed "apo" [grandchild] into a white girl to be perpetually admired. At home, we had a steady supply of whitening soaps, creams, lotions and what-have-you to make Nanay's dream apo a reality. To my young mind, she seemed ready to do just about anything to make me white. It even occurred to me that Nanay was considering something as drastic as surgery (like the one that the King of Pop had), except that we didn't have the resources needed.

So when the ad appeared, I could not help but worry (ridiculous as it may seem) that she would go as far as pouring white paint over me to achieve her goal. She seemed so determined, even desperate.

All those whitening products hardly made a dent on my skin's melanin content. Obviously, no one can reverse one's genetic make-up. My genes dictated black to be the color of my skin and no whitening cream or lotion could alter that. It was also apparent that the money Nanay was spending on those products was merely going down the drain.

I guess Nanay knew that, too. But in her case, acceptance didn't follow awareness.

The products I used could not change my complexion, but they greatly affected the way I saw myself. Before Nanay made me use those creams, I was aware that my complexion set me apart from other brown kids. But though they called me names, I did not really make a big deal of it. Color, to me, was just color.

But I was wrong. Dead wrong. For when Nanay started buying those creams, it dawned on me that something about the way I looked was "wrong" and needed to be changed. What she did gave me the message that my complexion was something I must get rid of. Since Nanay took care of me since birth, I looked up to her as the authority on everything. Her actions were my truth. When she said that I should be white, I agreed and stopped being black.

Now I think I am beginning to understand what moved Nanay to do those things. I have ruled out the idea that she harbored contempt for the black race. I believe she made me use those products more out of love than intolerance. I guess it was her way of shielding me from people who believe that black is beautiful, except when it's the color of your skin. Although her efforts to protect me proved disastrous to my self-esteem, it will not blot out the fact that Nanay recognized the evils of discrimination and tried to do something about it.

One time, Nanay accompanied me to the park. We were walking towards a vacant swing when some kids began yelling, "Baluga! Baluga!" Nanay did not confront or reprimand those kids. Instead, she looked me in the eye and said, "They will always look down on you because…"

I did not hear her complete the sentence; I already knew what she meant. In her eyes I saw sympathy and a strong resolve never to let incidents like that happen again.

My days of using whitening products are over, and I no longer see the black tribesman and his cardboard zebras on TV. But white still abounds, not just on television ads. Whether in bars of soap or bottles of lotion, the preference for the color predominates.

I guess there is nothing wrong with wanting to look better. But there is something wrong when we rely solely on color or appearance to accept others. No one gets to see beauty unless one learns to appreciate what is real or natural.

Color is perception; it can spell inclusion or exclusion. Color can be status; it can mean superiority or inferiority. Color is an idea or an identity. But color is a choice, and I choose to be black.

Michelle Faulan Cheidjew, 18, is a third year Bachelor of Arts in English Studies student at the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City.