I remember the first time I realized people had different skin tones.
I was four years old and we were visiting my Irish grandfather in Houston, Texas. My parents had gone shopping and left me at home playing with neighbor kids. My grandfather had bought me a little red-tricycle and I was happily peddling up and down the quite suburban sidewalk in front of the house. The neighbor kids were a little bigger than me 7 or 8 years old and they kept an eye on me and joked with me. At some point my grandfather came out and screamed to me “Get inside now!”. I was scared and peddled up to the lawn, dumped my tricycle and ran inside. “Do not play with those Nigger children” he scolded. I could tell he was angry but I did not understand what I had done wrong.
Later my parents arrived and I asked them. “Grandpa said I couldn’t play with the other kids. He said I can’t play with Nigger kids. What are Nigger kids?” I don’t remember if my parents had facial reactions, or if they then seated themselves, or what they did. I just remember being in a chair and both of them across from me looking at me.
My father said “Nigger is a bad word and we do not use this word. Some people use this bad word, this mean word when describing black people. You do not use this word.” I was even more puzzled now “What do you mean black people?” My father began to explain to me that some people had darker skin color and were called black. I didn’t get it. “What do you mean different color?” I was not buying this.
They began to explain to me that Mamàhad darker skin and Daddy had lighter skin. I’d never noticed. I’d never realized that my dad was güero and my mother cafesita-morenita. I hadn’t realized that the children I had been playing with where different than me. I was four years old when I realized I didn’t look like my mother.
I was ten years old when I began to comprehend that not everyone had a Mexican mother—but that is a different story.
Yeah, I was in kindergarten when I had my first skin color-piphany. See, my mom is fair-skinned, and a bunch of kids at school would ask if I was adopted because I was so much darker than her, so she couldn’t be my “real” mom. That’s a pretty frightening thing to hear at the age of 5, that you were probably adopted. Kids suck.
I was young just like you and CJ when I became aware of my skin color. I had a neighbor, Karisa, who was white and Filipina. She had light skin, light eyes, and dirty-blonde hair. I never thought anything about why her mom, Mary, was darker. Anyway, I asked Karisa one day why her hair was so light and she said it was because she didn’t spend that much time in the sun. What did I do? I moved so I would be standing under the shade of the mora tree in our front yard.
I was 18 years old when I found out I was poor. I guess I should have known when I didn’t start sleeping on a bad until I was 13.
I was in kinder or first grade when I had my first brush with racism. We lived in student family housing in NJ, and my friends were of all colors, countries etc.
I was playing with my two best friends, when Rudy’s dad (Rudy was black) came out and pulled Rudy away, exclaming “I *said* I didn’t want you playing with no fucking jews” (referring to Brian, my other best friend). Being all of 5 or 6 years old, I of course asked my dad at first opportunity: “Dad, why shouldn’t I play with fucking jews”, not knowing what either word meant. I got the shit beat outa me (not really), then when I finally got to explain where I’d heard the phrase, much adult to adult yelling ensued.
We, being wise children, ignored our parents, continued playing together, oblivious. I actually returned to color/religious-blind bliss until we moved to Texas, when I learned I was a ‘spic’ :)
yeah, ain’t Texas great for that?? I can’t tell you how many times I got called a “wetback”…I’d never even BEEN to Mexico!