Brenda's blog
When I found out I was Brown
I won’t pretend I remember many things from that time. But the things I do remember, aren’t exactly fond memories. Well, maybe living in the huge, luxurious house once we moved there. It was a big change for us and it felt nice. Going from a basement apartment in New York City to a beautiful, spacious home in California is what most people dream of. Not me – at least not then and definitely not in Cali. But I was only 6 and didn’t have much of a choice. It’s not like when I was fourteen and my mom wanted to move to Puerto Rico with her then-husband. At that age, I was old enough to protest and say, “hell no! I won’t go!” But that part of my life is very layered and the way I protested may have been a little more out of a movie scene.
My sisters would have friends over – new friends they made in their new schools and they thought we were loaded. We were broke. Not like, living paycheck-to-paycheck broke but like, broke-broke. I know this from stories I heard later because at 6-years old, you don’t notice the hardships much. You’re just happy being fed, playing with toys and being with family.
I don’t remember making friends at my new school. I mean, we did enter in the middle of a school year. One day, a girl sat next to me on the bus. She had very light brown hair and was a little on the heavy side. She was a pretty girl. Funny how I remember those details. I don’t remember much of our conversation to determine that she was nice to me but for some reason that’s the memory I carry. In the middle of our conversation, she asked me, “why are you brown?” Wait, what? I took off my earrings and told her, “catch me outside, how bout dat!” Ok, maybe that’s not how it went down. My ears weren’t even pierced.
I admit, it was the very first time I noticed that I looked different from everyone in that school. Or maybe it was inconsequential as I looked different from everyone in my immediate family anyway. What do I answer? I had no clue what to say. It was a loaded question and one I didn’t have the answer for. I just knew we were from Dominican Republic and no one had ever asked me something like that. I felt embarrassed and was lucky to have the window seat where I was able to drift off and think about why the heck I was brown. I think that was the pivotal moment in my future infatuation with R&B music videos. I understood the staring-out-the window-teary-eyed move all too well. Back to the question at hand. Why was I brown? Shit, she put me on. I hadn’t noticed. Bitch, why is you mustard? Why in the world were my sisters all white, two of them blonde with green eyes? LUCY! You got some explaining to do!
Truth is, I never asked. It wasn’t like it bothered me before. After all, my nickname at home was La Chula. It’s a term of endearment and means something like cutie. I loved it. I did start to wonder why I was the only brown girl in my new school. You mean to tell me there were no brown kids in that part of Los Angeles? It didn’t affect me enough as a kid to let it linger in my head. That changed once Christmas came.
Have you ever reminisced on an incident and could still feel exactly how you felt at that moment? That Christmas was it for me. We celebrated at our Pastors’ home. After all, we ended up living in California because of him. He insisted the move was a good opportunity for my parents to offer my sisters and I a better life. The MTV crib was also his doing and a temporary place for us to live while we got situated. The Pastors had a beautiful home. I still remember their front yard and the decorative rocks making a pathway to their entry door. They had a cute son nicknamed “Boy.” I don’t recall if Boy had siblings and I guess for this story, it doesn’t matter. I can’t remember his face or all of his features but I remember his golden hair and liking him and if I liked him he had to be cute.
It was time to open gifts! My sister, Jenny, was the third of us four sisters. She was the closest to me in age. I was the baby. But sometimes it felt like she was because of my little grown-woman demeanor. Usually, if Jenny got something, I got it too – maybe in a different color. She opened her gift first. It was a baby doll with big bright eyes and a pink onesie. I couldn’t wait to open mine. Mine probably had a purple onesie, I thought. I unwrapped the gift to find a baby doll with big bright eyes, same color onesie but different color skin.
My doll was dark brown.
It was my first time seeing one. Crazy right? This should’ve made me happy. I finally had a doll that looked more like me than my sisters. Instead, I felt ashamed. Suddenly, everything began moving in slow motion. I don’t know when or how, at such a young age, I learned to fight back tears. But I did. Telling you I was bawling inside is an understatement. I smiled through the hurt. My lips were trembling. Without anyone noticing, I went to a corner and cried some more, inside of course. I knew I should be grateful. But why was this causing me so much pain? The Pastors meant well with their gift – at least I feel that way now. But at that moment, I felt they were trying to embarrass me. Was I embarrassed because Boy was there and he was white as Mayo? Was I ashamed to be Brown? Was I finally aware I looked different from my family and it was taking a toll on me? Did what the girl on the bus tell me affect me? It was a lot to unpack and the moment suddenly went back to real-time. I needed to get past it and move fast and I did.
I never spoke to anyone about how those incidents made me feel. I never questioned my family.
Our brokeness led us back to New York – to more brokeness but to more familiar grounds. I was happy to be in a city that was a melting pot. A place where there were many kids that looked like me. Soon enough, I forgot about shorty with the bold question and never thought about Boy again. I was back to my normal life. In retrospect, if there was more diversity in doll-making back then, many of us would’ve felt seen – even those of us who never felt unseen.
I’m brown and I’m glad I found out.
