By As a woman of color, I am often complimented on the pigmentation of my melanin. Surely, it is something that is out of my control, trivial to say the least, but has always been the crux of many of the conversations in most of my life.
How wonderful it must be to wear bright colors — which I don’t; or how great I must “tan,” — which I also don’t, I just burn to hyper-pigmentation. (Sorry, mom.)
I have always been aware of the ways in which strange eyes exclaim, “You’re not light, but just caramel.” Thanks. How could I possibly have an answer to that? Well if you should know, the “caramel” is caused by my perennial anemia which produces the yellow undertones, i.e., caramel macchiato me.
The ways in which color is open for discourse, as long as it is demarcated by beauty, is baffling. People cherish the ideologies of skin color if it is to their gratification. Only if it is tweaked to their liking can dark be synonymous to beautiful, because of how temporary and supple it can be.
To them, color changes depending on the season. The smattering to concentrated sun rays births a new person that is emphasized with shedding skin.
The act of peeling becomes ceremonious of endured pain fueled by the end goal of becoming bronzed, glowed, tanned, sun-kissed. The language of color becomes so appealing to the ears, it almost can be a form of trickery.
But, no one truly wants to be Black. Wanting to have darker skin comes with many warnings outside the walls of a tanning beds. The societal cravings for melanin, without the ramifications that come with it, is selfish.
The societal cravings for melanin, without the ramifications that come with it, is selfish.
I write of this because of a post I came across on Instagram. The person behind this account may have had well intentions of breaking down the divisiveness of ethnicities under the Islamic guise, but fell short in the manner of which it was presented.
Once again, Black Muslim women are fetishized when it is to the advantage of being loved by a white man, a lighter man, a man of a coveted ethnicity.
A man who looks beyond the trivialities of race and beauty (because, when has that ever mattered?) in search of a woman not merely for her looks, but the “true beauty in her heart, in her Iman.” I mean, how deviant of him!
Once again, Black Muslim women are fetishized when it is to the advantage of being loved by a white man, a lighter man, a man of a coveted ethnicity.
Islam is a melting pot of ethnicities. There’s a reason for this, many of which I will not divulge. But it hurts to know that the very base of a religion, one that celebrates diversity to the uttermost degree, has followers that mistreat and condescend those who look different from them.
It may stem from the wrongful conviction that only a specific ethnicity is the Golden Child of Islam, where inclusion should be practiced, but is constantly marred by the inherently racist tendencies.
My dear, you, alone, are not Islam. And although we are taught a certain way of believing in the historical makeup of Islam, it is not a coincidence that more than fifteen percent of Muslims are of African descent.
The subtle need for erasing Blackness in hopes of racial tolerance is not the answer to ending racism. Monetizing Black women in interracial relationships is not tolerance and certainly doesn’t break down walls.
You are only amplifying the rhetoric of the Black inferiority complex, where we are in constant need of validation from prejudicial eyes, in constant need of recognition, in constant need of being lovable.
I am the byproduct of a generation that has started to become more and more self-indulgent on looks. Granted, beauty has always been used as an asset, however this has now been amplified via platforms.
Platforms have created a safe haven for those who felt the need to sublimate their views on vain notions of their beauty, a place where they can anthologize their facial morphology, a place where they have an outlet to just be.
Through filters and edits, we become enthralled with the ensued nature of what is deemed beautiful, or the greater extent of beauty. I am continually amazed at the erratic definitions of beauty in regards to platforms such as Instagram.
The toned, the buff, the curvy, and even the covered, have had their fair share of public recognition. Beauty has become a relative term to mean ever changing.
Ever changing only if, and when, certain stipulations are being made. Blackness has always been conditioned. People are programmed to deal with melanin in mortifying ways. The blatant revolt toward darker skin has always been terrifying to me, especially as I scroll through the comments of Black bloggers, where the hate is mired down, it becomes cemented.
My dear, you, alone, are not Islam. And although we are taught a certain way of believing in the historical makeup of Islam, it is not a coincidence that more than fifteen percent of Muslims are of African descent.
My naiveté kicks in, here I am believing that the very platform that celebrates people of all backgrounds, regardless of their genetic lottery, could just simply be recognized and appreciated.
I forgot that cruelty, in public commentary, has no home. When we are hungry for representation of our (individual) beauty, we easily become content with believing there’s a single prototype.
I am not the prototype. The universal definition of beauty has been mandated in a way that I could never fit the mold, not with my melanin and certainly not with my headscarf.
The Muslim community has come to hold certain races on a pedestal to celebrate diversity to the determinant of Black Muslims. It is as if Black Muslim women are being told that our looks are only shortcomings until it is being adorned by a white man. Even then, he becomes subjected to being labeled as a savior, one who plans “to love her with the intention of taking her to Jannah.”
However, she is capable of doing this on her own, by her growing devoutness to the Creator who has never made her color a hindrance to the extent of her piety.
There are times when we don’t fight all by lonesome, but that doesn’t quite end well. The Viner, Sadia, perfectly summarizes the pain behind the veil of humor. You see, the vicious cycle of prejudice is that it will eventually taint everything, even in our most consecrated places.
The shoddiest stares my aunt and I magnetize in the mosque isn’t because of our dashing looks, although I do have my good days, they are the subtle meanings of what is meant to not manifest a religion that is to your racial preferences. And just like that, I felt unwelcome and alienated.
You see, the vicious cycle of prejudice is that it will eventually taint everything, even in our most consecrated places.
As a nation, we must internalize the way we speak of race in Islam. We should be vocal about the hues of hurt our brothers and sisters endure. I shouldn’t emphasize on the need of validating pain if it fits the racial criterion, I shouldn’t have to explain the intentions of Muslim media outlets ignoring the deaths of three Muslim Black men, I shouldn’t have to.
But I do. Because validating Black lives, Black struggles and Black beauty has been an ongoing battle, a battle that has made us the innate fighters we are always socially drafted in to be.