Ideas of beauty and the politics of skin color

Ideas of beauty and the politics of skin color

The audience mumbles. I hear some women snicker. My sister
stands on stage dressed as Snow White for our school Founder’s Day
pageant. The theme this year is "Disney Magic." The murmuring from
the audience continues. My sister opens her small mouth and begins
to sing "Some Day My Prince Will Come." Her lovely soprano voice is
full and gentle like rose petals.

I am sitting on the side of the auditorium dressed as a
marionette from "Pinocchio." I pay little attention to my sister
because I am listening attentively to the housewives sitting in
front of me.

"Why on earth did they pick such a dark child for this part?"
One woman asks aloud. The woman beside her "Mm hmm’s" in
agreement.

I look to the stage. They’re right about my sister. She is dark
as coffee beans, and this repels them.

* * *

"No, no, no. You’re doing it all wrong!"

My neighbor Ellen yanks the rouge brush out of my hand. Junior
high will begin in a couple of months for the two of us and we are
practicing applying makeup with her mother’s cosmetics. My sister,
a year younger than us, is watching.

"Do it like this," Ellen instructs me. She sucks in her cheeks.
Ten seconds later, two ridiculously long pink streaks stretch from
her mouth to her ears.

My sister giggles.

"You look like a dork," I say. "You look like those girls in the
Robert Palmer videos on MTV."

Ellen slams the brush on the bathroom counter. "Look," she says
in a huff, "do you want to have dates when we’re in junior high or
what? ‘Cause if you do, you’re going to have to do something.
You’re skinny like an Ethiopian and you have no boobs," she
giggled.

"You shouldn’t say mean things about Ethiopians," I tell her.
"You’re such a racist sometimes!"

Ellen ignores me. "Anyway, my mom says guys like blondes." She
turns to the mirror. "You’re not blonde. And people say I look like
Olivia Newton-John." Ellen glances at me as she coats her mouth
with greasy red lipstick. "Maybe you could try looking like that
girl who used to be on ‘Charlie’s Angels.’"

"Maybe," I say.

"Well, who can I look like?" my sister asks softly.

"I dunno. Maybe some black girl," Ellen laughs.

"Ellen! I told you to stop being such a racist!"

"Well come on, I can’t think of anyone, can you?" she snaps at
me. Then she looks back at my sister. "I don’t know," she repeats.
"You don’t look like anyone."

* * *

"Mija, your hair looks just beautiful!" my grandmother calls out
to me. Her mother smiles and nods approvingly.

I am grinning. I am a sophomore in high school, a cheerleader
and a royal bitch. "Thanks, grandma. I had it highlighted again two
weeks ago."

It is Thanksgiving. As we walk toward the dining room, my
great-grandmother praises the golden color of my hair. "Your
grandmama had hair even lighter than that, mija, so gold and
beautiful!"

We sit down and begin to eat. My great-grandmother describes in
great detail all of the Spaniards on her side of the family and
their beautiful light coloring.

My sister devours her food and says nothing. Mom glances
worriedly at her and then eyes me angrily. Soon she dramatically
exits the room.

Later in the evening, after everyone has left, my sister and I
are arguing.

"Your hair looks ridiculous. You look ridiculous," she tells
me.

"Shut up," is all I can think of to say.

"Oh, get off your cheerleading high horse. You’re not fooling
anyone," she tells me.

"You’re just jealous," I answer her. "All my friends like the
way I look."

"Yeah, but all your friends are a bunch of Cabriolet-driving
snobs." She gets up to leave. "And that’s not the point. I think we
both know why you’re dying your hair, and it’s not ’cause it makes
you look any better, which is why some people do it. ‘Cause you
don’t look better. You look fake ’cause you are fake."

As she leaves the room, Mom enters. "I want to talk to you right
now," she says to me. She slams the door and folds her arms. "I
hate it when your grandmother talks like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what!" she roars. "You know that kind of talk hurts
your sister and it hurts me and it should hurt you, too. Your
sister has always suffered more because she is dark. You have no
idea how that feels. I do. And I’ll be damned if she goes through
what I went through, Roxane!"

I stare at her. I think of Ellen and the women at the Founder’s
Day pageant and I tell her, "It’s too late, Mom. It’s already
happened. It is happening."

She is fuming. She knows what I’m referring to and says, "I
can’t stop them." She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "But
it’s not going to happen in this home and it’s not going to happen
because of you and your brassy colored hair! I don’t know what
you’re being taught out there, but I didn’t raise you to be like
this! Do I make myself clear?"

I start to cry. "I just wanted to be pretty, Mom!" I whimper as
I break free from her grip. I run into the bathroom and lock the
door.

Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors … my grotesque reflection stares at
me. My sister is right. I’ve fooled no one but me. "You’re a phony
pocha bitch," I think. I stare at the ground. There is a
"Seventeen" magazine next to the bathtub. I kick it against the
wall.

* * *

My junior year of high school is miserable. I’m no longer on the
squad, and like my sister predicted, my friends were phony and none
of them stuck around. But what did I expect? I was a bitch to
others and now it is time to pay up. What goes around comes
around.

I stopped dying my hair. Later in my life I will meet other
women who opt for gold highlights. But as I will find out when I
get to know them, they will dye their hair for variety, for
experimentation. They will not do it to cover up unfounded
insecurities about what constitutes beauty or to disguise
shallowness ­ as I did. Those were my reasons. The women I
will later meet will be stronger than I was.

But that will occur later. For now, I have stopped dying my
hair. For now, I am friendless, but honest with myself. And for
now, my roots are slowly growing back. It is a good thing. They are
dark chocolate brown and like my sister, they are beautiful.

Marquez, the assistant Viewpoint editor, is a fourth-year
student double-majoring in history and English/American Studies.
Her column appears on alternate Thursdays.