I love my dark skin!
Its’ velvety deep chocolate encases me completely
And I love it.
If I could read my skin like a story book, it would tell the story of African kings and queens, princes and princesses.
Yes, my dark skin means royalty
They were snatched from their homes and brought to a country that they would build with their bare hands in the clutches of slavery.
My dark skin tells of the 18 hour days in the cotton fields
Of the beatings at the hands of master
Rape.
Of unspeakable torture.
Yes, my dark skin tells of pain
It tells of young men and women being chased by police dogs, hosed down with fire hoses, being beaten mercilessly. It tells of the blood that flowed. The tears that fell. The hearts that broke. But it also tells of the will of those who fought on even as their spirits were being ripped out of their bodies.
Oh how I love my dark skin!
Covers my small waist, my long arms and legs
Protects my heart, my soul, my mind.
As I rushed to the bus stop and the bus driver drove over to where I was standing to pick me up, I thought of my forefathers who were forced to sit at the back of the bus, if they were allowed to sit at all.
As I survey the booths of Olive Garden to choose my seat, I thought of the young men and women who came before me who were cursed at, punched and ridiculed while sitting at a Woolworth counter in order to bring about desegregation.
I registered for classes at UK this semester, and I remember that there was a time when I would not have been able to attend school with my White brothers and sisters.
My dark skin would have kept me from these things.
But because of the sacrifices of so many. Because of their perseverance. My dark skin tells a new story. It says that there is hope. That I can do it. Whatever “it” may be. It can be done. When a black man gave the State of the Union address, I knew that Martin’s dream was now becoming a reality.
And my dark skin is my reality. And because of it, I will never forget.
