Setting aside all debates about racism and judging people based on their skin color, I was thinking about my own body covering yesterday.
The topic came up while I was receiving a pedicure from a Vietnamese woman at the Magic Nails salon. She and her fellow technicians do a nice job for a good price and there are no stories about boyfriends, ex-husbands or children gone bad. There is no gossip about other clients or a diatribe about politics. Just nails and smiles. So lovely.
Yesterday, however, I was lamenting how white my legs are. I said something like: “Hard to believe that I live in Florida, and my legs look like I just moved here after a winter in Indiana.”
I attribute the paleness of my skin to my latest book project. After eight weeks of being chained to my computer in a darkened office, I have finished the first draft.
“I think your skin is lovely; I wish mine was that color,” the woman said. I thought she was being polite. Instead, she was serious.
She continued: “In Vietnam, we bleach our skin when we’re young to make it as white as possible. When I go outside, I always wear long sleeves and coverings. I didn’t want to turn brown.”
Her skin was a beautiful, coffee-with-cream color. I was as envious of hers as she appeared to be of mine.
I thought back to my teenage years when one of my favorite summer pastimes was sitting in the sun, reading a good mystery; my body covered with a mixture of baby oil and iodine. Some of my friends used aluminum foil to get the maximum benefit of the sun on their face. A dark brown was what I was seeking.
I continued that practice until in my mid-twenties when one day I came across side-by-side photographs of a Native American and a monk, both age 75. The difference was striking. The Native American had deep groves and leathery skin. The monk had the complexion of a newborn baby. While the Native American was amazing looking, it was the monk’s wrinkle-free skin that I coveted. I stopped tanning and quit smoking. I embraced sunscreen, SPF 50.
Fast forward more years than I care to think of, my body is relatively wrinkle-free but Zombie white. You can criticize me for being shallow, but in the end don’t we have the right to set our own priorities?
Having said that, the conversation with the Vietnamese technician made me realize once again that the color of someone’s skin is something that many of us dwell on too much. Maybe if we approached it as a matter of beauty—all colors being desirous and amazing—and not a reason for judgment or prejudice, life would be better for everyone.