The Skin I’m In
I am white, middle class, Anglo female, and here I stand in front of the mirror lamenting my own skin. The weather is warming and long-sleeves and jeans are swiftly being exchanged for singlet tops and shorts. Yes, that golden, celestial orb is bestowing her warmth and those of burnished skin are reveling in the strip-down. Us of “alabaster complexion”, as my mum fondly names it – we stand in front of mirrors lamenting that the change of season means baring these ghostly limbs, these legs like fluorescent tubes. I reach for the cream, squeeze brown onto my palm and begin to rub fakeness into my pores. This year more than years past, I’m attuned to it. The farce of it. The travesty of altering my very skin colour. It’s hard to say what’s changed. 32 years of life and a daughter who shares my skin tone might be a good place to start. Still, I rub it in, from the tips of my toes to the tops of my thighs, rubbing at my counterfeit skin. There …