Skin Wars: The Complexity of Complexion

Skin Wars

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” -Martin Luther King, Jr.

Light skin versus dark skin, the eternal debate between longstanding next of kin.
It’s a pity, such an eternal shame, brothers and sisters in plight divided by a desire to fit into a colored picture frame. How incredulously lame, identity crises brought to birth by an incessant love affair with fleeting fame. Black is no longer our common name. That’s just the nature of today’s game.

Honestly, I’m ashamed by this ridiculous emphasis on pigment,
that such a natural thing should even determine the quality of our treatment.
I know of a black woman named Jasmine, who fancies herself better than Lilly,
simply because the latter has a greater concentration of melanin, under her beautiful skin. Yes really, it’s gotten that silly!

And all the rappers concur, shamelessly obnoxious, ever hypothesizing in music videos that their hot yellow bones make the dark sisters jealous. Negro please! A darker shade is not a disease! If a black man cannot see that, then he is blinded by shades he is unaware he currently wears. He is emancipated on paper but enslaved in practice. And even Lincoln could never have freed him!

And all who instigate battles of the skin, will find that they can never win;
because regardless of complexion, through the myopic lenses of prejudiced eyes we are viewed as the same underestimated concoction. Therefore, as per MLK Jr. will we let the color of our skin define us, or will we decide the content of our character should be the distinguishing factor?

Remember, united we stand, divided we fall.
So that said, God help us all.

P.S. The black race in America must free itself from the superficial shackles of inadequacy born of despicable years of slavery. There is a popular saying that goes, “Black is beautiful.” Every black child should come to know this, believe this, and embody this, regardless of complexion.

[image via]

Homecoming

 

“The man who chooses to not recognize his home is worse off than the man who has no home.” -kR

My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of a little drummer boy marching to his own African beat; We Three Kings conspicuously on repeat, seeking to redeem the essence of my illustrious culture in the presence of naysayers who parade about me like a conniving vulture. Yo Kennyrich that shit you wrote was dope, but behind my back they sling my name around like I was dope! Or yay, but nay I say unto thee. Between me, myself and I, there’s already a crowd of three. So please depart from me before my political correctness falls apart. Otherwise (and that wouldn’t be wise), I’d be tempted to split you like the Red Sea and leave you as alive as the Dead Sea. You dare label me naturally violent when I choose to go on a rant, and yet somehow you expect me to be so tolerant of the rampant oppression of a God damned tyrant? Ah the audacity of the ones who’ve caused us such calamity never ceases to amaze me! What’s a month to our legacy? That’s heresy if you ask me; please don’t fall for that sort of fallacy! Oh Black People! My people – once noble moors, pharaohs of ages ago haplessly reduced into mere dominoes. Our history has been a diminishing domino effect, a hallucination of sorts, closely resembling the butterfly effect. It’s like we were the weed that was smoked but never inhaled, which might explain why in this day today there are brothers like me in jail still waiting to exhale. Now I’m no Moses but I ask you Sir – Mr. Joe Schmo – let my people go! We are salt of the earth and deserve to be exalted on higher ground, not shamefully and despicably buried underground. And our bite is louder than our bark, so for your sake please do release us while there’s still room on Noah’s Ark. My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of an African King, who unlike Prince Hakeem, his Coming to America had nothing to do with finding his Cleopatra. But rather, who was forged in truth to crash the Board of Chess and clean up the foul mess; not to acquire fleeting fame but to remind the black pawns that they are indeed kings and queens, just caught up in the wrong damn game! I pray this message is entrenched deep within your dome; my brothers and sisters your Kingdom awaits, so please sing along with me, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home. Let the rain wash away all the pains of yesterday. I know my Kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home.”