I was one of the darkest boys in elementary school so I earned the name “Chocolate”. Children can be very mean. But I’m fine with that, thinking about the meaner names others in my class year endured.
It didn’t help that I was born post-mature and that I, as I am told, developed dark skin pigmentation as a result of my being “overcooked” in my mother’s womb. I never questioned the science behind such proclamations. My older sister, already in medical school then, sounded quite authoritative.
It didn’t help that my parents loved going away on weekends to the beaches or the hot spring pools. Sometimes, we’d be off to my grandfather’s home in the countryside where the open rice fields were readily accessible from his backyard. I had plenty of sun. As a backup, there was always the front-lawn that served as my playpen.
It didn’t help that my complexion drew more attention, because my closest friends in elementary school happened to be the palest of the palest, including two white boys who shared my super-hero play fantasies. (I was Cyclops—because I thought the shades were cool.)
Now living in New York, I am fortunate enough to have—at least, knowingly—eluded being a victim of racial prejudice. Well, not really! There’s one instance where a cab driver called me a f***ing foreigner. Naïve, I thought it was because, unfamiliar with the streets in Queens, I didn’t provide him ample directions, and we got lost.
My skin is brown; my Cyclops eyes are slit. You can call me Chocolate almonds. I’m fine with that. Thank you, MLK!
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