When buying a flight, the last seat you want is the middle. The aisle seat offers the convenience of asking the pretty flight attendant for snacks, and of course, the window seat provides a beautiful view above the clouds. The middle seat is shit. In the middle, you are stuck between two of the best options, unwillingly constrained to be squished, and slept on for the rest of the plane ride.
My life is in the middle seat.
I am black, but I ’am also white. My mom is Italian and grew up on Staten Island. My dad was Nigerian and grew up in Queens. I am a mix of both. I was born in the Bronx, spent some time in Brooklyn, lived my elementary years in Manhattan, and ended up landing in Jersey, in the summer of seventh grade. Although I moved around a lot, the type of people I surrounded myself with never really changed. Since I was young, the boroughs honestly all felt the same. I wouldn’t realize until much later that my world would alter dramatically the second I stepped foot in Jersey.
For most of my life, when asked “Where are you from?” I’d answer Manhattan, New York. That was where I was born and resided for the longest part of my life before Jersey. I didn’t think there was another answer. In my first week of seventh grade, someone asked me the same question, and I replied with the same answer. Then, he asked again, adding a garrulous tone. I was confused.
“Where are your parents from?" he asked.
“Staten Island and Queens”.
“I meant your ethnicity,” he laughed. After a moment of curiosity and hesitation, I told him “My dad was Nigerian and my mom is Italian”.
“Oh, so you’re light skin.” Light skin.
“I guess you could say that. Never really been called that before.”
“That’s funny,” he said with a smirk. “You look pretty light-skinned to me."
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Noah.”
“So Noah, what is light skin?”
“Well…black and white like you.”
“I don’t look Dominican, Cuban, Ghanaian, European, or anything else to you?” He paused. His eyes fled with guilt.
“Now that you mention it, yeah you could be all of those… I guess.”
We rarely spoke after that. Just a few awkward hallway stares.
But that word sank in. Light skin. That one word created a multitude of feelings. Feelings that I would reside with for years.
My town mostly revolved around Caucasians and other ethnicities here and there. Like any other high schooler, I had different friend groups. I had one group that I met during band class, Jon, Matteo, Carmella, and Sophia. All of them came from pretty good backgrounds. Hell, Matteo would take us on his family yacht during the summer. But in times I needed a place to be anywhere but home, I’d always hang out with Kevon and Kendall. Like me, Kevon moved around a lot growing up so we’ve always shared a strong commonality in that. Kendall on the other hand, had always complained about living in an apartment, but also like me, it was just her and her mom.
“I’m scared about college, Sara." A phrase Kendall would often say. Both our moms were terrified of the thought of college. More in-depth, paying for college. “Why are you so scared girl? You know you’re the next Einstein,” I said trying to brighten the mood. “Girl quit playing, you know I can’t make a name for myself at a damn community college.”
It hurt me to see her hurt but scared me since I knew I was in the same position. Everyone would always say “Oh community college isn’t that bad, what are you talkin’ about!" But I knew I didn’t wanna stay home. I wanted to be anywhere but home. Most importantly, I wanted to do things my mother could never do;. oOwn the things she never had, travel. Travel to places she’s never gotten the opportunity to see. Experience life the way I want to see it.
It just so happened that my two groups did have a division of race. My band friends were all white and Kevon and Kendall were Ghanaian and Jamaican. I didn’t initially see this as a division, and yet slowly I felt trapped between.
I was the only light-skinned person. Kevon would always call me “lighty.””. Jon and Matteo always referred to me as their “light skin bestie.”. This word slowly became my identification and my enemy. This word alone made me feel as though I was walking on a tightrope. A big difference between these groups was mainly financial stability. Initially, I never imagined Carmella or Sophia being my friends. They wore Lululemon as if it were a school dress code;. Always came to school flawlessly,. andAnd they were always traveling, skiing, or scuba diving in a new country. But of course, money has nothing to do with friendship. Until it did.
I started spending the money I had saved on my appearance, to look more like them. I bought makeup I said I’d never wear. I even watched YouTube tutorials on how to apply makeup so I didn’t look like a rookie. I even bought the same overpriced clothes I used to make fun of.
“Since when do you even wear Lululemon?” Kevon asked me one day.
“Since I decided to.”
“That’s that shit Carm and Sophia be wearing. Pff,” he muttered.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing… You just look goofy, stop acting so whitewashed.” My heart plummeted. My face went pale. I walked away.
I started buying more sneakers. I saw a girl in the bathroom doing her edges one day, so I bought gel and did the same. I started thrifting for bulky clothes. I learned how to braid my hair. I joined a black community club at school. I even stopped going to Starbucks (that lasted a week).
I walked into school, confidently, with my hair braided one day. The second I walked into the band room Matteo yelled “You look straight out of a rap video with those braids” from across the room. As he laughed, Carmella joined in saying “Nice pants, are you in your fake-black era?" She liked to say that a lot, “fake-black.” The more she said it, the more I truly felt like I was faking it all.
I knew nothing about myself anymore.
But answer me this: How does one even act like a color? How does one wash over their ethnicity by encircling themselves with a different culture?
I struggled with those questions throughout high school, and I still do. Forever, the word light skin held the same reference as being trapped in a magician’s box, trying to escape with the water elevating higher and higher. My mom always told me I was lucky to have my skin. But for years I wanted nothing but to shed that same skin.
Yet, I slowly understood I wasn’t stuck but more gifted to be in this box.
Being light-skinned gives me advantages on both ends. My culture creates a divine mixture of personality and the ability to experience two different lifestyles. I am privileged to be white in a world that is frightening to be black. The similarities I share with black people already share a unique bond in that because black is beautiful many fail to see it. And best of all, I have an all-year-round tan!
While everyone loves to say “I don't see color,", it's the biggest lie I’ve ever heard.
It's part of our human nature to see color and analyze faces and features. Color is electric, delicate, and strong in every tone there is.
My middle seat on this plane ride has had turbulence throughout its course. But, we light skins are always in it for the journey, not just the destination. We light skins take our halves and create a whole. We light skins are more than light skins.
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