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I've decided it's time to speak my mind about white supremacy. No, I don't mean the doctrine of the people with the pointy hoods. I'm talking about skin color. Actual hue. I refer to the fact that most people of the white race are not actually white they are more like beige, greenish, or maybe ecru.
And then there is me.
I am the color that Clorox will make your cotton tee shirts if you use about four times the amount the bottle tells you to. You know those models in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition? My skin looks a lot like their teeth.
Historically, this hasn't been a good thing. Prejudice against the pigment-challenged is everywhere. I cannot put on a pair of shorts or a bathing suit without someone suggesting that I really ought to "get some color." Apparently, any color is preferable, too. Red, for example. In fact, a couple decades ago I would purposely get sunburned for just this reason. Unfortunately I found that sunburn would only silence The Tan People for a couple of weeks. I also determined that peeling is not only itchy, it tends to make a mess on my upholstery.
This is not to say that the Tan People are not sympathetic. "If you'd just go out in the sun, you would get tan. See my skin? That's how I did it." And I do not exaggerate the profundity of their advice.
"The SUN?" I like to respond. "Really? I never thought of that." Not that I would ever be sarcastic towards The Tan People. They do seem to care so deeply about my tragic pigment deficiency. So much so that they often share their most treasured tanning secrets with me, without my even having to ask. You can imagine how much I appreciate this.
For example, over the years, many Tan People have advised something called "suntan lotion." The right brand will make me tan, too, they insist. Why don't I try their "number two"? they ask. Or, my favorite advice: the tanning booth. Never mind that they have black hair, brown eyes, and equatorial ancestry while I am a blue-eyed blonde. It's all in the right tanning products. Trust them, they know. They are, after all, very, very tan.
This is not to say that I have never had a tan. On the contrary. Social pressures used to have me baking my flesh just about every summer. I even went to a tanning booth one year. But in the end, reality hit me like a big fat UVB ray: On me, tan just means I'm the color everyone else was before they got tan.
In order to get credit for my tan from The Tan People, I would have to go around flashing "tan lines." No, really I DO have some color, I would insist as I hiked up the leg of my shorts or flashed a shoulder strap line.
In fact, I could never fathom what would possess a person to sunbathe nude, or unhook their straps to avoid a tan line. How could they know whether they were tan or not if there were no lines? Lines were the whole point, were they not?
But that was then and this is now. Then I was what is commonly referred to as a teenager. Whereas now, I have discovered the rebellious joy of flashing my pasty white skin every chance I get. When I'm in the sun with The Tan People, I take particular pleasure in defiantly slathering on gobs of SPF 87 every 30 minutes while they tsk tsk and shake their heads. "It's no wonder she's so white," they declare to one another, as I spread lotion down to my toes and into the spaces between my fingers.
It's no wonder they are growing moles the shape of South America on several body parts, and reptiles are starting to mistake them for long lost relatives, I think as I crawl further into the shady spot.
One thing is for sure, when they come to their senses and realize that white really is beautiful I will have a lot of good advice, and SPF 87, to share.
© Copyright Barbara Powell, 1995-2002.