by Zola Ray @ZolaMRay

Race is more than just skin color, but an effective dialogue about race is not complete without a discussion of the nuances of how skin color operates in society. As a light-skinned biracial woman who identifies as Black, but can often pass for white, I don’t experience the same level of racism that Black people who are darker than me experience. I used to deny my light-skinned privilege because I feared it would be equivalent to denying my heritage. But, ultimately, learning about my privilege allowed me to embrace my Blackness and to use it to speak out in the fight for racial justice.

Throughout the media, we see a number of light-skinned Black public figures using their privilege to make change. Earlier this year, some people expressed concerns that the face of young Black feminism is light-skinned and biracial, referring to celebrities like Amandla Stenberg and Zendaya Coleman. After Jesse Williams gave his moving speech at the BET Awards, others commented on the fact that he has light-skinned privilege. I thoroughly admire these influential celebrities for using their platforms to combat an unjust system without worrying about the comfort of the privileged.
While I would never denounce the passion with which these people fight for justice, it is true that the media often elevates the voices of Black people with lighter skin over others. There is no skin tone, way of dress, or behavior that can fully shield Black people from racism. But colorism does exist, and light-skinned people, like myself, benefit.

I didn’t always realize that I remain unoppressed by the system of colorism. Because I struggled to find my place in the Black community for much of my young life, I used to think my light skin was a curse. In elementary school, my Black classmates would often refer to me as a “white girl.” Sometimes this comment was in reference to my skin, and other times it was in reference to the ways I talked and acted. I felt that I was being stripped of a part of my identity.

Before entering middle school, my family moved to a predominantly white town. The area was racially segregated, and many people I went to school with couldn’t tell I was Black despite my textured hair. Consequently, they made racist comments in front of me, and I became afraid to  reveal my race.

As the years progressed, I became more comfortable with telling people I’m Black. I thought if people knew, they would stop. I was wrong. It was very difficult to discern who didn’t know and who just didn’t think of me as that kind of black. At the time, I resented my light skin. I wished that I could be visibly Black so that my presence would be enough to stop the overtly racist remarks. I felt guilty that I hadn’t said anything. I felt like racism affected me more than anyone else. I was horribly wrong.

In my college years, I started thinking more critically about the impact of colorism within the Black community and throughout society as a whole. I realized that the teasing I received for being light wasn’t the same as the oppression darker Black women face. Unlike many darker Black women, I have the privilege of finding makeup that matches my skin tone, and seeing people with my skin tone considered beautiful in the media. I’ve never been told that I’m “pretty for my skin tone.” Unlike more “visibly black” people, I have never had a traumatic experience with the police. In fact, the only time I was confronted by a police officer, he ended up joking with me and leaving. I’m disgusted and horrified to think that if I were darker, the situation could have ended much worse.

I have been profiled. Many people can tell I’m biracial, and others think I’m Latina. I get a little nervous when walking by the cops, but I wonder if my fear is even justified as I contemplate what race they think that I am. It is at moments like these that I can’t believe I ever indulged in the woe-is-me mentality simply because of my skin color.

I still, however, feel the pain of racism. When I hear a white person use the n-word, I feel humiliated and have to remind myself that the shame is not mine. When I see on the news that the cops have killed another Black person, I fear for my own family members and friends. When I notice that someone I consider a friend seems uncomfortable around Black people, I feel like less of a human being.

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by Donnetrice Allison

Thursday April 21st around 1:30 p.m. is a moment in time I will never forget. A co-worker came into the copy room where I was scanning a document – I’m not even sure what compelled her to come in there specifically to tell me, but she said, “I just heard that Prince passed away.” I looked at her dumb-founded for a few seconds. My first thought, “If my dog died, how would she know? Did my husband call the main office?” Apparently, she noticed my confusion and clarified, “Prince, the singer.” I was shaken to the core. I returned to my office to try to complete the work I had intended to do that day, but I couldn’t concentrate.
Luckily, I am a college professor and my classes were finished for the day, so I had to flexibility to leave. I had to leave. I had left my cell phone on my desk when I went to the copy room and I noticed several texts and voicemails, some from folks that I hadn’t spoken to in months. But everyone who knew me knew – this day, this hour, this moment in time, would be incredibly difficult for me. Even my sister, who was all the way in Haiti on a missionary trip, texted me, “Are you okay?” I suppose this sounds strange to you – the reader. Why were my family and friends so concerned for me? Did I know him personally? No. Did he know me – touch me to my core at the most impressionable time in my life? Absolutely. I first met him when I was about 12 or 13, pressing my ear to a boombox speaker, rewinding, listening, and rewinding again – Erotic City. Was he really saying that on a record? Then, by the time I was 14, I fell utterly and completely in love with him, as I watched him sing to Apollonia, “Do you want, or do you want me, cause I want you?” Remember that look on her face, the tears in her eyes? I had that same look, the same tears, he was singing to me. The only difference – I was a little brown girl with big lips, a wide nose and kinky hair, when it wasn’t straightened by a hot comb.

In the weeks since Prince’s death, I’ve been falling in love with him all over again, listening to his music daily, listening closely to the words, allowing my three children to listen – to the non-sexual songs, of course – and watching my only daughter, who is right around the age I was when I met him, fall in “like.” She is intrigued with him. I don’t think it’s as intense for her as it was for me. But, I think more than anything, she is using this opportunity to get to know me – to understand why her mom is so impacted by this man she never met. I have also had the opportunity to reflect on Prince’s impact on little brown girls like me and like her. I am a media scholar and I specifically focus on media portrayals of African Americans. I have been doing so for more than two decades, but when I met Prince, I was clueless. I had no idea of the subliminal message his choice of women had on me.

Recently, I went back and reread a short story that I wrote about him when I was 14. The title was, “For the Love of…” And it started like this, “This is the story of a young college girl named Trina Taylor. She is in her 2nd year of college and she is 19 years old. She is mixed with Indian, white and black blood. She is the most popular girl on campus. She is also very attractive. She has grayish color eyes, light skin, long silky hair, and a petite model’s shape.” Needless to say, I don’t look anything like the young woman I described, but that was what the women that Prince was attracted to looked like – Shelia E., Vanity, Apollonia. So for the sake of my story, which was a love story between this girl and Prince, that is what she looked like. That is what “I” looked like, because of course the girl was me. Over the years, I watched his music videos, films, paparazzi photos, memorized by his beauty and the beauty of the women on his arm. And I never unpacked the reality that none of them looked like me. I never unpacked the reality that he had no brown girls on his arm, with thick lips, thick hips and natural kinky/curly hair. Did he love me like I loved him? I told myself that he did, because his music spoke to me and filled my soul, but when I look closely at who he surrounded himself with, I couldn’t be sure.

During the “Controversy” years, Prince played with perceptions. He sang, “Am I Black or white, am I straight or gay?” He seemed to enjoy keeping us guessing and questioning. He got rid of the afro he wore on the “For You” album cover, curled his hair, wore heels, ruffles and lace, and oozed sexuality. Yet, in recent years, he’d gone full circle. He returned to his afro, spoke out about Black Lives and sang a song about “Baltimore.” He became more vocal about his Blackness than he’d ever been, yet still, the look of the women on his arm changed very little. So what’s a Black girl like me, like my daughter to think? In today’s media climate, where images of Black women and girls are primarily negative – fighting, cursing and carrying on – I’m left to wonder: Who loves us? Did Prince? Again, I don’t know. And I dare not ponder that in his death. It’s still too painful a question to ask, because I still see him through the eyes of the 14 year-old girl whose soul he touched.


Donnetrice C. Allison, Ph.D currently serves as an associate professor of both Communication Studies and Africana Studies at Stockton University in Galloway, NJ. Dr. Allison has published several articles and numerous conference presentations on hip hop culture and media portrayals of African Americans - at national and international conferences. Dr. Allison is currently editor of the book "Black Women's Portrayals on Reality Television: The New Sapphire," published by Lexington Books.

Although the issue of colorism is often discussed within the Black community, it is seldom addressed in a way that can or will reconcile the problem. Colorism—the remnant of slavery, colonialism, and white supremacy—is a tool that divides people of color and creates infighting where there should be solidarity and unity. In many Black families, it is the reason for contention and misunderstandings. And within the Black Diaspora, it is a reason to self-segregate.

The big question that remains is: Who is responsible for reconciling the issues created by centuries of colorism that has perpetuated a set of social, financial, and economic hierarchies? In society at large, that responsibility falls upon the shoulders of Whites. However, when speaking amongst Black people—within our own families and our own communities, including those specifically between Black women—lighter-skinned Black people must shoulder that responsibility.

As a 25-year-old Black woman, I was not really confronted with colorism until I was 16 years old, when I spent a summer working as a lifeguard at the community pool.

"Oh, my god, but you have gotten so dark," my extended family exclaimed after I arrived at their home for a visit, my skin much darker than they were accustomed to.

Their preoccupation with my skin color caught me off guard. No one had ever openly made a statement about the hue of my brown. I stood confused, as my mother explained that I had been working at the pool all summer. After the discussion ended, I shrugged my shoulders and dismissed their ignorance as just that: ignorance. In my opinion, skin color wasn't important. We all were made equal. So, of course, I needed not to contemplate the matter.

When I broached the subject with older my sister, who is beautifully mocha-colored compared to my slightly lighter caramel hue, she told me: "When I was a kid, I remember all of the kids would talk about who was the prettiest and of course I'd usually be passed over in that conversation for a lighter-skinned girl."

I was born a lighter-skinned Black girl and, by extension, granted the privileges that come with it. As we often see with white people, it is easy for those in a privileged position to dismiss issues they are seldom confronted with. After all, it’s unlikely that there are too many dark-skinned Black women who would claim they haven’t been touched in some way by the realities of colorism. Oftentimes, they were forced to confront it daily—especially all throughout childhood—as society constantly told them they were not pretty or attractive based on their skin color. Women like myself, however, were not.

Her admission pained, even though I've had so many opportunities to be confronted with the reality of colorism and how it impacts the lives of women of color. After all, five of the 10 highest-paid Black actresses in Hollywood are biracial or lighter-skinned, despite biracial individuals only accounting for a marginal percentage of the Black community. The richest Black men in America are seldom paired with darker-skinned Black women and often times exclusively date non-Black women. And how many of us have watched the now infamous doll test where children were asked to choose which dolls were beautiful or ugly and stupid or smart and the negative adjectives always coincided with the darker-colored doll?

We know that colorism permeates every aspect of our society and that permeation has huge implications. For example, lighter-skinned Black women often have more access to wealth and social capital than their darker-skinned counterparts. So how, precisely, do we go forth in creating equitable friendships and relationships across these color lines?

Primarily, it is important to understand color and race to be nothing more than proxies for social class and status. We knew and understood this very well in the time of slavery where lighter-skinned Black people were socially elevated to housework, while other slaves remained in the field. This elevation meant possible access to education via their white masters—and perhaps better housing circumstances and even access to healthcare. The best known example can be found in the memoir of Frederick Douglas, who learned the alphabet after working in the home of his slave master. Phillis Wheatley became the first African-American published poet after her slave masters not only provided her access to an education, but also publishing rights with the help of their family friend Selina Hasting, Countess of Huntingdon. A closer proximity to whiteness meant social elevation and a chance to "assimilate" and find success.

There are other many well-known Black figures in history that were able to benefit from skin color privilege. Like W.E.B Dubois who attended integrated, mostly White schools all throughout his childhood in the late 1800s when most Blacks were still “separate but equal.” Even our own President Barack Obama, who is half-white, has most likely experienced benefits during his life. Indeed, access to Whiteness and white people are almost required for most notable Black figures to be "successful.”

This reality is especially detrimental to darker-skinned Black women who are not only discriminated against within their own community, but are also further discriminated against in our white-dominated society as well. And yet, whenever I talk to lighter-skinned Black women, somehow they still manage to make themselves the victims in this equation.

Some months ago, Kim Lute wrote a piece at The Huffington Post titled, “The Problem with Black Women.” In the piece, Lute—who is a lighter-skinned Black women—acknowledges the reality the divisive lines "created generations ago, remain frustratingly in place," yet offered very little to actually combat that reality. Instead, she decided to wholly avoid befriending darker-skinned Black women in favor of White women, because she found Black women to be "competitive, strident, pushy, and critical.” She also offered a very brief history of her upbringing as the token minority family in a predominantly white Denver suburb and questioned: "Is my lack of Black girlfriends due to my childhood? Or am I naively assuming my interests are exclusive to white women?"

Yes, absolutely. By its definition, cultural assimilation "is the process by which a person or a group's language and/or culture come to resemble those of another group." When a Black child is raised amongst whites, that child culturally assimilates into white culture. Lute’s story is not the first or last of its kind that I have played audience to over the past few years. A very close friend of mine, who is also lighter-skinned and was raised in a mostly white environment, still struggles to this very day to reconcile her relationship to darker-skinned Black women.

"I feel like they don't see me as Black," she expressed to me, "but it's not like I don't experience racism on a daily basis from white people.”

Bringing whites into conversations around colorism is a plain and simple derailment. Just because one experiences racism from whites does not negate the many ways the individual has not only internalized, but also benefitted from white cultural assimilation and light-skin privilege. Any attempt to obfuscate that fact merely maintains the same social hierarchies that oppress Black people as a whole.

If I and all other Black women who have benefited from colorism in any way understand this to be true and sincerely do care about Black women as a whole, we must accept the responsibility of not only being receptive to the feelings expressed by all women of color, but also begin to dig into ourselves and weed out our own internalized biases while mentally re-aligning ourselves with "Blackness." Unless the goal is to be absorbed by whiteness (and I don’t believe it is), we must empower Black women of all skin shades and colors to realize themselves in a world that constantly tries to shut us out.

The brunt of that responsibility will fall upon the shoulders of lighter-skinned Black women on a peer-to-peer level. For women like Kim Lute, that means giving her darker-skinned sisters the space to air out grievances, concerns, and ways that her behavior may be marginalizing to them. In my relationship with my sister, that means feeling her pain and confusion instead of running away from it or pretending her experiences are of no consequence. For my friend, that means understanding she comes from a place of privilege that has allowed her access to an "assimilation" that is far out of reach for many people of color.

This is only where the work begins. For there to be true social change, we must see to it that an equitable reality is created for people of color, wherein whiteness is not the only vehicle of social elevation or success. We must begin to believe that all of our Blacks are beautiful, and thus, create the spaces—in our lives, homes, and communities—that reflect that.

Tiffanie Drayton is a freelance writer focused on social justice issues. Follow her on Twitter @draytontiffanie.

Beyoncé is inarguably one of the most powerful Black women in entertainment. She’s accomplished an unprecedented degree of visibility in the mainstream, not by chance. Along every step of her career, management has guided her shrewdly to make moves that would not threaten her goals. For years, the biggest criticism of Bey’s personal image was she played it too safe, but “safe” set her up for global superstardom.

Now Beyonce, 34, manages herself and approaches her career choices with a similar kind of care but a new boldness. 2013’s Self-Titled saw her visually and aurally cut loose as an artist. She gave audiences more than we’ve ever seen, and now the world awaits her next move.
It appears that Beyoncé, who has long been derided for her lackluster acting, wants to prove her detractors wrong. She will star in a remake of A Star is Born alongside Bradley Cooper, and over the weekend a rumor emerged that she’s set her sights on a biography of Saartjie Baartman. According to the report, Beyonce would like to write and star in the film.

Baartman was lured from her South African home in 1810 and enslaved. During this time until her death in 1815, she was put on display for European onlookers to gawk at her shapely body. She could not escape exploitation even in death. Her skeleton was on display in France until 1976. Baartman’s story has come to represent the intersection of hundreds of years of degradation that Black women endured and global colonialism. It’s a fascinating one. A well-done film version in English (a French film was released in 2010) would be a delight, but Beyonce should, under no circumstances, play Saartjie Baartman.

Beyoncé in the role would only perpetuate the type of colorist representations Black women have long fought against. If the story intrigues her, Beyoncé should aid in getting the movie made. In fact, she may be able to do her most important work as a producer, the kind of position Brad Pitt took in getting 12 Years a Slave to the big screen. Her push would be invaluable. That might be the only way a woman who resembles Baartman in complexion and body-type would be cast.

Moreover, all African Americans should be sensitive to the ways we may participate in the erasure of talent that emerges from the continent of Africa. We certainly do not have the power to perpetuate white supremacy systemically, but with the little visibility we have, we can attempt to elevate authentic voices. Ultimately, those of us who have access and resources must embrace that we are not always the right person to tell every story no matter how deeply it resonates.
Beyoncé draws undue cynicism about any choice she makes. Folks cannot wait to pull out their petty daggers and take aim. Claims that she is interested in the story only for its potential to garner her awards are unfair. She recognizes the power of her voice. Even the rumors of a connection to the project have raised the profile of Baartman’s tragedy. This, too, is important work.

A Saartjie Baartman biopic would not be just “another slave” movie. Americans get far too few depictions of slavery as an international system of trade and women are usually relegated to supportive roles. A Baartman film would be a coup. The history must be told.

UPDATE: Beyonce's reps confirm she is not working on a Saartjie Baartman project

Photo: Eastfjord Productions / Shutterstock.com/Apic/Getty

Kimberly Foster is the founder and editor-in-chief of For Harriet. Email or Follow @KimberlyNFoster

If anyone wanted to know the worst way to handle a PR disaster, West End nightclub Dstrkt seems determined to be everyone’s new favourite example. If the allegations that a promoter lined up black women in view of CCTV (so a club boss could decide who could come inside) aren’t bad enough, the idea some were dismissed for being both “too dark” and “too fat” tips the story over the edge. Instead of anything resembling an apology, or even a simple denial, the club insisted on radio silence for days before sharing old Facebook posts from one of the women who accused them, in an attempt to discredit her. While the posts – jokes that revolve around colourism in the black community – are misguided at best, tedious at worst, they don’t take away from the fact that dozens of black women on social media have said that they too have been turned away from Dstrkt in the past. London clubs (not to mention landlords and workplaces) have had racist door policies for as many years as they’ve existed – the accusations are not only unsurprising, they’re practically expected. Racism is structural. Why wouldn’t those structures filter down to something as basic as going out clubbing?

by Bee Quammie

“Do you think you can, you know, stay out of the sun this summer? Then we might be able to do something with you.”

by Veronica Maria Brown-Comegys

About thirty years ago, I was walking down posh Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana, where I lived with my white Brazilian “family.” The crown that Mother Africa had given me was evident. In other words, all traces of my perm had vanished. Suddenly an Afro-Brazilian man stopped me. He pointed at my head, and said in English, “Black Power,” then he cackled for so long that I thought he would become breathless.

by Jaimee A. Swift

by Dajae Gilliard

Yes, someone’s talking about colorism again. Why? Because it’s still an issue.

For Harriet is nearly five years old, and I've learned there are a few topics that are sure to spark contentious debate. Colorism is one of them. Discussions on colorism provoke strong feelings in Black women, in particular, and it seems that rarely do the conversation's participants walk away with a deeper understanding of the institutional consequences of colorism or the ways we can move forward in combatting them.

by Stefani Cox

“I could never go out with someone really dark, you know, like Africa black,” said one African American guy to me on a tragic (and very final) OkCupid date a few years back.

Last night, I tuned into the much anticipated Light Girls documentary on OWN, which intended to be a follow-up to 2011’s Dark Girls, which examined how colorism has affected Black women of all shades.

Continue reading...

by Anna Gibson


When I was younger, I recall a Christmas when I opened my gift and realized I’d been given a black barbie as opposed to the white one I usually got. At the time I was about age 4 or 5, and I didn’t even know they came with darker skin. When I questioned my mother about the sudden change, she simply said, “Because It’s important that you see yourself in the world around you.”

by Kesiena Boom


I am a mixed race woman. One of my parents is Black and the other is white. I identify as both mixed race and as Black. I do so because of the legacy of the one drop rule and because I cannot access whiteness as it is associated with being ‘pure’ and I am clearly ‘tainted’ with my racially ambiguous looks. My afro, my golden skin, my thick figure and my full lips combine to give me an appearance that is notably not white. I feel connected to Blackness in a way I cannot feel towards whiteness. Despite being mainly raised by my white parent, it is not in whiteness that I find my home.

by Erica Thurman

As an advocate for survivors of sexual and domestic violence, cases of such violence in the news usually catch my attention. There seem to be a considerable number of cases involving Black male celebrity perpetrators: The Game, Dream, Columbus Short, Michael Jace, and—most recently—Ray Rice are just a few of the Black male celebrities who have recently made headlines for various acts of violence, including assaulting a pregnant woman (Dream) and murder (Jace).

Today a casting call for the upcoming N.W.A. movie "Straight Outta Compton" circulated the internet, and it is clear that casting for this film will do nothing to budge Hollywood's systemic racism and classism--which of course is merely a reflection of that which perpetuates our society as a whole.

Whenever things like these make the rounds, someone always attempts to explain away what we're seeing isn't a clear demonstration of white supremacy.

Production for a live action version of 'Jem and the Holograms' is underway. The big screen version of the cartoon, which aired from 1985 to 1988, will be directed by Jon Chu, and the cast has been revealed.  Jem is the secret pop-star alter ego of Jerrica Benton, the owner of Starlight Music who uses a supercomputer called synergy to help stage massive musical events with her hugely popular band, the Holograms. Shana Elmsford is the band's bassist and the only Black character on the show. In the original show, Shana was depicted with a brown complexion and what appears to be a natural afro. In the film, Shana will be portrayed by Aurora Perrineau, a lighter-skinned actress who is seen in the new film's promo shots with straight hair.

by Rev. Dominique C. Atchison

Like many people of African descent, the issue of skin color is a theme in my family narrative. My mother’s mother was the dark-skinned one of 2 sisters. If you go a gathering my mother’s side of the family you may hear references being made to someone simply named “Black.” “Black” was the nickname given to my mother’s father who was apparently the one with the darkest skin in his family. And apparently my father was derisively referred to as “Smokey” because he was the only dark-skinned person in a family full of light-skinned people. The theme of being the only dark-skinned one in one’s family is a theme that repeats itself in my ancestry.

by Sarah L. Webb

If you haven’t already heard the buzz around Oprah’s Lifeclass on colorism with special guest Iyanla Vanzant, please know that it happened! Most importantly, it was a positive step toward healing, with two essential takeaways we all can learn from.

by Sarah Webb