By Loren Escandon
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The first time someone was curious about my skin color, I was 4,
It was in kindergarden when I got approached with the question and my answer
was “I am grey.”
Living in a household with a white father and a black mother
helped me jump to the conclusion that grey was, without a doubt, my race.
I wish things were that easy from there on.
A long conversation with my parents came after that, where It was
explained to me that I was in fact a Mulata.
Growing up I felt more black than white and every time, without exception, that
I manifested my feelings, people would rush to correct me, “No mija, you are
too light to call yourself black” or “No mija, you are too dark to call
yourself white.” So they, again without exception, would try to make me feel
better by saying, “No mija, you are a “Cafe con leche.”
The circumstances never got better, specially living in my native
Colombia, where people have been brainwashed in believing we are a white
society. However, I kept identifying passionately with my black roots.
I blamed Colombia for not wanting to have a honest conversation
about race, racism and equality of opportunities. When I moved to the United
States I had the hope things would be different.
Here, in the US, it was not worse, definitely not better, but
different. I became part of a big bag of multiple cultures, religions, believes
and races called Latinos. I was lectured the
first time I identified myself as mulata, because it was “politically
incorrect” to say the word. People throw bad jokes at me when I identified as
Colombian and I refused to be labeled as Latina.
Many years passed by before I moved to Denver, Colorado, but
after being here, not too long passed before people made comments about my
accent, my skin color or simply ignore my presence.
