The richness in that color
There was a joke I often heard on television and amongst my elementary school peers: “Siguro nakulangan ka ng gatas nung bata ka kaya negro ka (Maybe you lacked milk when you were young so you grew up dark).”
It was one of those rare moments when my mother was in the car with us on the way to work, my father driving us to school first. Seizing the opportunity of having an audience, I cracked that same joke. The three of us busted into a fit of laughter as my father shortly followed suit. But since then I’ve seen the soaps in our bathroom become kojic soaps and other whitening products.
My mother lectured me later on in the evening after pulling me aside to her usual spot at the staircase, where she sits and watches the quiet street through the window. My mother rarely goes out too. I have heard her complain about becoming significantly tanner since moving to our home in 2012 because she handwashed all our clothes under the scorching sun.
She bought arm sleeves to avoid tanning, until inevitably putting down the cash to buy the crappy washing machine that stayed for nearly 10 years before upgrading to one that made that silly little jingle when you switch it on. Before that joke, kojic had never really touched our bathroom. It was mostly those generic antibacterial soaps that kept slipping off into the toilet.
I never really meant anything by that joke, but I think it really stuck with Papa. It’s something Mama does that makes our insecurities an endearing thing we call each other. I’ve been bullied a lot for my weight and it was our thing to be “mama and baby piggies” for each other—just us two since I inherited her plumper figure. And I would hear her lovingly call Papa “negs,” even during fights and incredibly heated arguments where you can hear how sharp the name gets and how increasingly soft it becomes.
However, my own little selfishness and teenage brain often muddles that conscientious feeling. I tan easily and I never truly inherited Mama’s paleness. It looks more like the “2in1” coffee Mama and Papa used to drink early in the morning together. I hated it—my skin and that coffee. I actually somehow blamed Papa for it, for my tan skin, how easily I get acne when the rest of the women in our family don’t, my stubby fingers and toes, my wider nose, huge face—many of which I now realize are the last few physical remnants I have left of him.
The kojic soaps and all the other whitening stuff disappeared from our cabinets and our bathroom the first time we went grocery shopping since he left. There was no more of that weird medical, mildly strong kojic scent, or the slightly addictive but annoying artificial papaya scent that lingered in the bathroom.
I don’t think it was ever about the product he used. He probably bought whitening soaps as Mama supported him through his insecurities. It’s like one of his solutions he went above and beyond for that never really solved anything, only fueled whatever caused it.
He had this rich, dark brown skin that simmered under the sun from his years of hard work trying to pay off college tuition in his early to mid-20s, and even during childhood, just so he could fulfill his dream of an education—of becoming an engineer, the latter being one of the many, many nails that never struck the cross.
I know this because he told me one night when I was helping him fold underwear when I was 7 or 8 years old. He wanted to be an engineer, that’s why he’s good at math. And now he’s good at computers because the only slot left to get a degree at the college he went to was for information technology, after having to drop out many times because he didn’t have the money.
He had siblings to help take care of. He would always praise me for all that I’ve achieved. He’s one of the few people who has ever told me that I’ve got a long way to go. That I’m smart. I’ve got so many opportunities waiting for me. He would recall his own. He probably noticed it as well, when his voice cracked while reminiscing about his days under the sun, on a boat, catching fish, tending ducks. Going home sweaty, sunburnt, tired. Providing. Dreaming.
That same richness in his skin showed proof of his labor. It was what he tried to erase, and it was what had stayed even when the life in his eyes faded since Mama’s death. Until it was then, I saw how lifeless color can be on the flesh of a person.
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Celestine Joy V. Sancon, 18, is a creative looking to hone their skills in artistry and expression.
