Grandma used to scrub my skin ferociously. She did so to keep me from getting darker. For the first three years of my life, I had a caramel complexion and very soft hair. My grandma delighted in that. Much to her chagrin, my skin tone became darker as I aged. In order to combat this problem, Grandma bought a little white brush with tough black bristles to keep the "dirt off my skin."
As a darker skinned woman with short, coarse hair, my Haitian grandma wasn't regarded as a symbol of beauty in her native land. That's why even as a 75 year old homebody, she would literally spend hours at the stove running a hot comb through her hair to keep it soft and straight. She even had her own little tool to manage her skin--a finely chiseled rock.
Even though I was just five years old, I vividly recall the day of my rebellion. I had no desire to feel the sting of her brush that day. Knowing that she was about to light my skin on fire with her brush, I locked the bathroom door from the inside, walked out, and shut the door. I won the battle. Nobody in the house could get into the bathroom. I didn't win the war, however. When my Godmother got home from work later, she whipped my behind...
I reflected on that experience years later after an exchange with a player. Hershey was dark skinned and Haitian. After practice I approached him because he seemed off, mentally and physically. Not only was Hershey quieter than usual, he even looked pale--which is very difficult for a very dark skinned person to pull off.
Me: Hey man. You don't look good. You sick?
Hershey: Not at all. I'm good.
Me: You sure? You even look pale. Your skin doesn't look right.
Hershey: Nah. Ain't nothing wrong with my skin.
Me: It doesn't look that way to me.
Hershey: I've been using some soap my mom bought me to make my skin lighter.
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