University of Iowa Press, Iowa City 52242
Copyright 2019 by Kendra Allen
www.uipress.uiowa.edu
Printed in the United States of America
Text design by April Leidig
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. All reasonable steps have been taken to contact copyright holders of material used in this book. The publisher would be pleased to make suitable arrangements with any whom it has not been possible to reach.
Printed on acid-free paper
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Allen, Kendra, 1994 author.
Title: When you learn the alphabet / by Kendra Allen.
Description: Iowa City : University of Iowa Press, [2018] | Winner of the Iowa Prize for Literary Nonfiction. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018032923 (print) | LCCN 2018052977 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-60938-630-6 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-60938-629-0 (paperback : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Allen, Kendra, 1994
Classification: LCC PS3601.L4322 (ebook) | LCC PS3601.L4322 A6 2018 (print) | DDC 814/.6 [B]dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018032923
DARK GIRLS
My daddys side of the family has blood made of craw daddies
bayou waters
red bones
big waves of silk
When I was born I came out looking just like them. I could pass as mastas daughter, just like them. The first picture I ever took fresh out of my mamas womb, looks just like them: a Louisiana Creole French-tongued thoroughbred. My eyes are closed so tightly you can see the wrinkles on my eyelids. I looked tired already. My hands are palm up, pressed closely to my ears at a few minutes old. I was born into surrender. My skin, almost the color of spoiled milk, thick and light all at the same time. Bubbling and burning, all at the same time
My mama wanted to name me Africa; as a symbol, just as much as a name. She knew I would fit the description. My mama, pronounced MawMawmy daddys mothertold me she knew my colorless world wouldnt last long when she looked at the back of my ears and it was only sundown, my downfall. She said she knew I would turn into nighttime before the sun set and rose again. I could tell she didnt want me to fit the description
Before my daddy planted seeds inside my almost too dark mama, he was told not to. Now he tells me theres no way any child I might house will have skin less potent than mine. He tells me even if the father is just as bright as him, my shadow will still cast itself upon my offspring. But I scrub off my curves. Stand up straight. Crack my own hips. I dont want anyones grandchildren
People who love me but not my skin tell me at least Im a pretty dark-skinned girl, an insult as salutation. My pretty dark-skinned girl smile doesnt translate to my pretty dark-skinned girl lips that could potentially appreciate the attention of someone who thinks theyre giving me a gift by calling me a good colored girl / a negro girl / a dark girl / a violent girl / a black bitch / a field girl. Im all of these things. I should say thank you. At least they dont lie
i am a reminder for them to say
at least I have
good child bearing hips
and a good spirit
maybe ill attract a man like them
lighten up my offspring
teach them how to say not enough in French
dance to zydeco and suck juice right from the head of a crawfish
watch them turn red instead of purple like they mama
My Aunt Ceal called/calls me, chocolate. Shed say, chocolate, when you gone come and see me? Said, look at chocolate, whenever I was in her presence, made me aware of my chocolate, nicknamed my blackness, made me like the apparentness of my ash-prone tone, the burnt toast color of my brownness early on. Made me see the difference. Id like to think she did it to train my spirit to stay inside my body when my complexion would inevitably began to be pointed out in place of a greeting. Train my mind to still be ok. Even if they never smile. Even if they look uncomfortable. Id know she always smiled when she said it and it always felt like an attribute instead of a definition
When I was younger my skin was as smooth as its ever gonna get. It gave me no problems. I did nothing for it but clean it with warm water. Never had a second thought about it. Didnt have any dark marks, discoloration, or confidence issues behind it. It was not a lump or a bruise covering it besides the mark on my thigh after being run over by my friends bike. But I did notice there was something lurking in it I hadnt/havent fully come to terms with. How much it hurts other people to see me while simultaneously trying to find a type of peace in knowing I wouldnt want to change my darkness even if I could. It came when I visited a dermatologist for my bad skin. Its been on a decline since I was a teenagerthe aftermath of picking and itching at it for years. Peeling holes and creating scars that last too long. I got medicine to fix me. Months later the medicine turned my face the color of my father, my mawmaw, my nana. I was bleached back into a newborn from the neck up. It started out in blotches, on my chin, spaces in my cheeks. I thought I was experiencing a case of the michael jackson disease. I got scared. After a couple of weeks of using the medicines, the light eventually eased its way onto my whole face. Wiped me out completely. I looked like a ghost, like Casper, and the world began to look proud of me. I was always looking deep into mirrors trying not to search for a brightness, but a light. I didnt know Id find it like this, I didnt know Id immediately want to give it back
Ive experienced two spectrums. One as the light-skinned girl deemed pretty just for being light-skinned. This lasted about three months before the medicine began to reverse me back into my original texture. I saw the way everyone reacted. Black men reacted. My men react. When I opened my front door during this time I could physically see them lose breath over my perceived beauty. It felt good. I covered the darker parts of my body that hadnt changed, my arms, my neck, my legs, in hoodies, in pants, in the required layering of the Chicago winds. Let only my face show for a few months. It felt good until I missed looking like something, until I missed looking like me, until I missed being behind the scenes. I know an opposite existence. One as the dark-skinned girl deemed pretty for being a dark-skinned girl. This will outlast anything. I see the way everyone reacts. Men react. Black men react, my men react, as if Im not supposed to fit my description
The color of my skin is never trained to mean something different, something alternate, any more diverse, to anyone outside my race. They might see me as rich, but they still see black. Theyve never seen one of us, they just see all of us. They do not see caramel, yella bones, creole, good hair, bad hair, they most times see just a nigga. They dont see chocolate, bleaching creams, sunscreens, brown skin, light skin, they just see African. We see stained glass, three-fifths compromise in me. We see Four Women and Nina Simones lips. We see a burning, an aftermath of sins. I know people who look at me like poor baby
