It may not be our fault, but we can do something about it.
I still vividly remember the day I first thought about the colour, or rather, the shade of my skin. It was year 6, SATs were over, and my friends and I were living it up as best as 11-year-olds know how – then, I heard the tail-end of a conversation:
“…And then it’s Grace and then Danielle.”
“What are you ranking us for?”
“Oh nothing, we’re just putting all the black girls in order from lightest to darkest.”
“But I’m lighter than Grace.”
“No Danielle, you’re definitely darker.”
“Oh.”
And there began what would have been some girls’ self-hatred for their skin. For me, it was more of a curiosity. I had never realised how “dark” I was before, nor did I really care. Why did it matter that I was darker than other people in my racial group? Fast forward four years and I understood: I wasn’t light enough to be pretty like Beyoncé and I wasn’t dark enough to be “exotic” like Lupita N’yongo. And yet, I was still “too dark”, as evidenced by the numerous times I was called “blick” (a racial slur against those with very dark skin) by black boys my age who preferred racially ambiguous, mixed or black-adjacent black girls.
It was around this time that I became interested in figuring out how to be pretty “for a dark-skinned girl,” a curiosity that brought me to a YouTube channel run by an anonymous lady known as Chrissie. I finally had a name to put towards the phenomenon I was experiencing: colourism.
“You can be light-skinned and average-looking [according to typical Western beauty standards] and be considered gorgeous but as a dark-skinned woman, you have to be exceptionally attractive or have your skin fetishised to be considered even half as attractive.” – Chrissie [paraphrased].
In less provocative words, colourism as defined by Oxford Languages is “prejudice or discrimination against individuals with a dark skin tone, typically among people of the same ethnic or racial group.”
As I scrolled through the comments, I began to feel less alone – black women, from across different generations, had all experienced the same thing. But I noticed a disturbing common thread: black people. And when I thought about my own experiences with colourism, I saw this pattern too.
Funnily enough, no white, Asian, Hispanic or any other non-black person has ever valued or undervalued me based on the colour of my skin. I realise that this isn’t everyone’s experience but I began to question the extent to which the black community perpetuates colourism without taking any responsibility for it. This isn’t an article written to bash black boys and men or to dismiss the driving forces behind colourism: post-colonialism, white beauty standards, white supremacy etc. Rather, the aim is to bring awareness to the daily choices made within our community that hurt, scar and make life more difficult for dark-skinned girls despite our best efforts to dismantle this centuries-old rhetoric. As natural hair YouTuber Evani (with a ‘v’) put it, “aspects of the African diaspora are used to being fragmented and marginalised to the point where now we are doing it to ourselves.”
#1: We don’t buy into black-ness
And I’m not just talking about the hair products you buy from black-owned businesses because they’re the only ones who make products for your hair.
Since the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement into mainstream media, many have been encouraged to buy black-owned. Whilst I’m not opposed to this (seriously, go and support black-owned businesses), there are many other black platforms we don’t support in favour of what we wish we could be a part of or look like.
Many outside pressures prevent those who don’t actively promote black-ness from doing so. We all know about media platforms which generally do not promote dark-skinned people and make an example of the few that do get featured (not looking at you, Grammy’s). But many black creators and celebrities are largely ignored or marginalised by brands in favour of their white counterparts. This is even more so for platforms like YouTube where the consumers have a larger say in what is promoted and shown to them. This results in fewer subscribers and views for black creators.
However, and even more worryingly, there have been instances when black-owned brands do the same: underpaying black creators for their work and even disrespecting them, like Mielle Organics did earlier this year. Natural hair YouTuber Linda Lynn uploaded a bad review of Mielle’s new line. The CEO, Monique Rodriguez responded personally to saying the products were ‘used incorrectly’ amongst other things. Not only was the situation handled unprofessionally, but Rodriguez’s husband also called Linda Lynn after taking down her phone number from her order details to ‘belittle’ her. Many have called for boycotting Mielle and other black-owned brands so they can be held to a higher standard – a standard where respecting and promoting black creators is the norm. Black creators have also experienced non-black-owned brands not supporting them despite their large audiences. Holding all brands to a standard where truly supporting black creators is the baseline is crucial to encouraging their inclusion in spaces where they have previously been othered. Many refer to the fact that the black community doesn’t have much purchasing power. However, the Jamii report on Black Pound Day in the UK showed the very opposite: we have the power to uplift brands who uplift us.
Many of us don’t realise that our failure to get as excited for the BET Awards as we do for the Brits or searching for black-run platforms and creators as well as our usuals has an impact. We are doing a disservice to our fight against colourism by failing to promote black-ness and black excellence in a variety of ways. Even within the black community, there is a tendency to support unconsciously only those who look like what we wish we looked like: lighter. Case in point: The Natural Hair Movement. With many successful 2c (large ringlets) to 4a (small, defined coils) creators on YouTube, it has been questioned why those at the end of the spectrum with 4c hair (cottony and undefined) haven’t also reached this same level of success. YouTuber Nappyheadedjojoba can tell you that this isn’t from a lack of trying. Many 4c YouTubers fail to get the views and brand partnerships needed to be recognised on that level, and the people who decide who makes it on YouTube are us. Phenotypically, many dark-skinned black women don’t have naturally defined coils and yet, very few support creators who look like them. The result is a failure to promote the spectrum that is being black.
Within wider media and especially Hollywood, there is a strange standard pushed towards us: black women with features that are racially ambiguous or not phenotypically black. The colonisation of the black marketplace and the advertisements which result are further examples of a standard where being black is not enough. We also need to have a particular type of hair or a particular type of nose; at least, that’s what these brands are telling us. We’re buying more into “exotic European-ness” than the full spectrum of black-ness simply because it’s all we’ve ever seen and known.
The 21st century has given us greater control over the media we engage with; we can now choose to buy into people who look like us, and we can pressure more mainstream platforms and companies to do the same. For example, the dominance of the fashion industry’s ‘white and slim’ beauty ideal is beginning to crumble partly due to the diverse media we now choose to buy into, especially on Instagram. This has encouraged the fashion industry to consider a wider range of models, like Winnie Harlow, which, in turn, encourages even more diversity. As Marx insisted, the revolution came from the people outside of the fashion industry. This had to be the case: fashion firms are driven by profit, so if people are paying for ethnic-minority models, firms will use them. Therefore, we should never doubt the power we have to choose as black people. Yes, finding these platforms and creatives may be more difficult but we owe it to ourselves to change what it means to be black to something more inclusive.
Next step: Play your part in changing the narrative of what it means to be black: find companies that uplift people who look like you and buy from them; find creators or celebrities who look like you to support through engagement; challenge the idea of being “pretty for a dark-skinned girl” next time you hear it.
#2: We lump the experiences of all black women together
Not all black women are the same and neither are their experiences.
Within the black community, people are put into three categories: ‘light skin’, ‘brown skin’ and ‘dark skin’. I was put into the ‘dark skin’ category very early on, which many would argue is divisive and harmful because “we’re all black at the end of the day”.
However, such distinctions are important in recognising the impact of skin colour on our personal experiences as black women. As previously discussed, many a time, ‘black’ (or what is appropriately black) is defined as having lighter-skin. This puts light-skinned women on a pedestal and, conversely, degrades dark skin. Therefore, the narrative of black problems, especially in relation to colourism, is skewed due to the lack of representation of the dark-skinned woman experience. It’s not fair to have one group speak as if they know the other’s experiences, while also dismissing them simply because they haven’t had the same ones. This isn’t to say that there aren’t exceptions and that there aren’t commonalities in the black woman experience. This cannot be used as an excuse not to discuss these issues either. Instead, we can uplift the voices of others to diversity the narrative. However, if we are to attempt to slay the beast of colourism, we must understand its effect on all black women which cannot be generalised.
The exclusion of the dark-skinned women from this narrative is not helped by the monolithic representation of dark-skinned women in the media. This is largely thanks to tokenism which is dehumanising for the most part. The tropes of the ever-strong black woman, the angry black woman, and, recently, the ridiculously high maintenance black woman make it easy to dismiss the struggles and hurts experienced by dark-skinned women. They are seen more like caricatures than complex human beings.
Those with lighter skin also have issues, with some commenting that they’re seen as prissy because of the pedestal that society has put them on, regardless of whether that’s part of their character. My friend, who is in the ‘light-skin’ category, has told me about how she has been fetishized. Many others have said they feel the pressure of their skin being their ticket to success at the expense of darker women.
Experiences like these highlight an issue with these categories: they limit the entire black woman experience down to the colour of our skin. In current times, where intersectionality is being recognised, it is plain how problematic this is. But there is also the issue of our skin colour defining us as people and what we can do. A comparison can be drawn with body positivity, which has been criticised because it places too much of an emphasis on the way our bodies look, rather than appreciating them for what they are. In the same way, this categorisation of black women and its associations can overstate the impact the shade of our skin has on our interactions with the world. This is the notion of skin neutrality: recognising that it is not good or bad; it is just another body part. It does not need to be considered beautiful because ‘it looks like chocolate’ or because ‘it glistens in the sun’. Skin neutrality does not mean black skin is not beautiful. Rather, it states that the value of dark skin does not come from its beauty or its instrumental value of getting you further in society. Skin neutrality also does not diminish the impacts of racism and colourism. Rather, it changes our own attitudes around skin tone. By appreciating our skin for what it is rather than for where it can get us in the world, we can begin to tear down the hierarchal system of colourism. At the same time, we can also discuss the impacts the colour of our skin has on our own individual experiences.
Next step: Let’s uplift an array of voices to diversify and support the narrative, rather than taking it upon ourselves to present issues that we haven’t experienced as if we have.
#3: We act like black girls can’t be pretty and clever
Because God forbid they try to do both!
Again, we can at least partially blame tokenism and monolithic representation for this but we can also look to our upbringing. Especially with many first-generation nationals, immigrant parents attempted to protect us and ensure our success by either capitalising on our conventional beauty or by making us focus on our academics as a ticket to success. For them, ensuring our success was their priority and we couldn’t possibly care both about our appearance and doing well in school at the same time.
Considering that to be conventionally attractive is to be white and slim, it is hardly surprising that the most conventionally attractive black women often had lighter skin. Because our parents knew that darker skin wasn’t going to be appreciated as much, young girls with darker skin were often pushed towards focusing only on what they were good at, like academics and sports, to ensure their success rather than honing their identity as a whole. Conversely, many young girls with lighter skin have been taught to become successful with less emphasis on developing their skills and education. This again plays into the idea that the colour of our skin determines what we can do.
Over time, this resulted in competition between those with lighter skin and those with darker skin (as if one is better than the other!) because each group considered their path to success better than the other. However, the damaging rhetoric that caring about your appearance is vain or that caring about school makes you overly-nerdy is putting black women at a disadvantage. With studies highlighting the role that appearance plays in self-esteem, looking after your appearance is far from vain and, in fact, plays an important role in good mental well-being.
At the end of the day, black women have held down entire households by themselves for many years; we can look good and be smart too.
Next step: Encourage black girls to be multi-faceted: get them involved in different activities and answer their questions about beauty and identity. Allowing them to explore their identity as a whole and they will continue to be successful and confident in themselves.
At the end of the day, it’s not up to all of us to be social justice warriors all of the time – this would be too great a burden for anyone to bear. But if you want to play your part to make lives better for the women in our community, keep these in mind the next time you interact with one.
