9th Grade Colorism: What Adults Miss When Kids Face Teasing About Skin Tone
The iodine fumes from my 9th grade science practical were stinging my eyes when the lab assistant said it, loud enough for my three table partners to hear: “Don’t lean that close to the Bunsen burner. You’re already dark enough—no need to go darker.” I was 14, just two weeks out from getting braces that left my mouth sore 24/7, and already convinced every person in the room was staring at my crooked teeth and too-wide shoulders. I laughed it off, stepped back, and adjusted my goggles, but my ears burned so hot I thought they might glow. No one else said anything. The class teacher was at the front of the lab helping another group, and if she heard, she didn’t let on.
A few months later, the second incident happened on annual class photo day. I’d spent 20 minutes that morning smoothing my frizzy hair with gel, tucking my oversized uniform shirt in, and practicing standing straight so I wouldn’t look slouchy. The photographer walked along our line, shifting shorter kids to the front and asking tall boys to move back, when he stopped right in front of me. “You, the dark girl,” he nodded toward the back of the group. “Move back. Dark skin eats flash, you’ll come out a blob and ruin the whole picture.” My form teacher, standing right next to him, just smiled and nodded. “Go on, dear,” she said. I walked to the very back, squeezed between two boys who smelled like spearmint gum and soccer field grass, and didn’t smile for the camera. I still have that photo in a storage box in my attic. I never pull it out, but I know it’s there.
I didn’t tell my mom about either incident for a week. I was embarrassed, like I’d done something wrong by being too dark, like if I’d just been lighter none of it would have happened. I finally blurted it out while we were washing dishes after dinner, my hands submerged in soapy water so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I expected her to say it was no big deal, that people just joke around, that I was being too sensitive. Instead, she dried her hands on her apron, leaned against the counter, and said, “That was wrong. What they said was wrong, not you.” No big speech about self-love, no generic “you’re beautiful no matter what” line. Just that, plain and simple. The next Saturday, she dug out her purse, took me to the small photo studio downtown with the cracked neon sign out front, and got me a solo portrait done. I sat on a wooden stool, smiled with my metal braces, and she framed it and hung it right above my desk. That 100-rupee photo meant more than any generic pep talk ever could.
Now I’m a parent of a 13-year-old daughter who has deeper skin than I do, and I think about these two incidents all the time. Most people talk about kid bullying when they talk about colorism in school, but both of these came from adults—people in authority, who kids are taught to trust. They didn’t think they were being cruel. The lab assistant thought she was making a silly joke. The photographer thought he was making a practical adjustment. That’s what makes these moments stick so much: when the people who are supposed to keep you safe say something that tells you you’re wrong, just as you are, you believe them. I spent most of my teens buying cheap fair skin creams from the local chemist, avoiding the beach during summer vacation, and turning down invitations to group outings because I didn’t want to be the “dark girl” in photos. That quiet shame didn’t come from other kids. It came from two offhand comments from adults that no one challenged.
That’s the part I wish more parents and teachers understood. You don’t have to solve systemic colorism in one interaction to make a difference. There are small, concrete things you can do every day that add up. First, if you’re in the room when someone makes a comment about skin tone, even if it sounds like a joke or a practical observation, speak up right then. You don’t have to start a fight or embarrass anyone. Just say something simple and clear, like “That comment isn’t necessary” or “She can stay right where she is.” When a neighbor said to my daughter last summer that she’d be so much prettier if she had lighter skin, I didn’t laugh it off to be polite. I just said, “That comment isn’t welcome here. We love her skin exactly as it is.” That’s all it takes.
Second, if your kid comes to you about this kind of comment, don’t lead with the generic “you’re beautiful” speech. That can feel like you’re brushing off how hurt they are. Start by confirming the other person was wrong, and that their hurt is valid. That’s what I needed when I was 14: confirmation I wasn’t being too sensitive, that the comment was out of line, not my reaction. Then do one small thing to acknowledge how they feel, like my mom did with the portrait. It doesn’t have to be big or expensive. It just has to show you get it.
Third, cut out the casual comments about skin tone you make without thinking. How many of us have said “don’t play outside too long, you’ll get dark” or commented that a kid got “way too tanned” over summer like it’s a bad thing? Those small offhand comments teach kids that darker skin is something to avoid long before anyone ever says something mean directly to them. Cutting those out is an easy, low-effort change that makes a big difference.
I still catch myself stepping to the back of group photos, even now, 25 years later. Some of that quiet self-consciousness doesn’t just go away. I don’t tell this story to say one kind intervention fixes everything, or that we can erase colorism from schools with a few kind words. But I do know that if even one adult had spoken up for me in that lab, or that photo line, I would have carried a little less weight through my teens. That’s all any kid needs: for the adults in the room to not look away. Right now, that’s what I try to do for my kid, and for the kids I volunteer with at our local middle school. It feels small most days, but it matters more than we’ll ever know.
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