"I don't even know who I am, but you still want my skin."

By Sofia Baum

Here was the standard, not even a stereotype, but a standard for white moms from my hometown: straight, bleach blond hair, buckle jeans, boots or flip flops depending on the season, waist length fashionable jackets, thick makeup, and fake tans. This was the “mom uniform”, especially if you have some money. The fake tan stems from this weird obsession with olive toned skin. I used to have white girls and white women touch my skin, admire it, jealous, and say weird remarks like they wanted to snatch it away from me. Creepy, right? Like Get Out.

This was a consistent experience in the community in which I grew up. It seemed like they wanted to wear my skin like they wear their fashionable jackets: convenient when they want it, but ultimately they can take it off. If only they knew what comes with this skin. I don’t even know who I am: I can’t speak my mother tongues, I don’t know my full histories, I don’t know where my lineage traces back to. All I know is genocide, xenophobia, and being barred from opportunities. All I know is being harassed, demeaned to stereotypes, and being told that I don’t belong anywhere… and they still want my skin? How ironic. How interesting that being olive toned is seen as desirable, yet can feel so unwanted. Maybe if they were in my skin they might not think it was so fashionable. Maybe if they asked me what it is like being mixed they might not make such extreme statements. I have had so much stripped away from me, my skin is not going to be one of them.