Color in color

Colorism is something I have witnessed and benefited from, even when I didn’t fully understand it. Being a lighter woman of color, I have often been treated differently, sometimes better, because of how I look. People compliment my hair texture or tell me I’m “pretty for a Black girl,” as if being Black automatically means being less attractive. It’s a strange position to be in, being praised for features that others in my community are made to feel ashamed of. As a mentor of mine put it, “’Good hair’ and ‘pretty eyes’ were anything but what I am.”

When people comment on my skin tone or my features, they rarely see how loaded their words are. What may seem like a compliment is often just a subtle reminder that beauty, even in communities of color, is still being measured by proximity to whiteness. These small moments taught me early on that being lighter isn’t just about appearance; it comes with unspoken privileges.

Growing up, I saw how other women of color who were darker than I got treated. Being a woman of color already makes it difficult because you have to try harder than most to be taken seriously and seen as capable at school, at work, in public, and even at home. But when you’re also a darker woman of color, it often feels like you’re constantly pushing against even more bias, both from outside your community and from within it.

This reality is often brushed aside or blamed on sensitivity, but colorism has real consequences.

“I was always very insecure about my hair. I hated the fact that it wasn’t straight,” shared one college student with an Ethiopian-American background. She went on to share another memory from childhood when another little girl told her, “I wish we were the color of my palm. I wish we were lighter.”

At the time, she didn’t understand the weight of that comment. But now, as a young adult, she realizes how deeply colorism was internalized even at a young age. It’s not just about beauty standards; it impacts self-esteem, career opportunities, and how people are treated in everyday life. These effects are often most visible in our younger years, where identity is still developing. When your skin tone becomes a reason for exclusion or insult, it sticks with you, and somewhere along the way, you start internalizing it all.

Internalized racism happens when people of color begin to adopt the negative beliefs and stereotypes that have been used against them. This often results in shame and efforts to distance oneself from their own culture or appearance. For example, using skin-lightening products, constantly straightening hair, or avoiding sun exposure out of fear of becoming “too dark.” These choices are not made out of nowhere; they are learned responses to a society that consistently tells us that whiteness is more desirable.

Colorism, specifically, refers to the preferential treatment of lighter-skinned individuals over those with darker skin, often within the same racial or ethnic group. This isn’t just about skin tone; it also includes other features that are more closely associated with whiteness, such as straight hair, smaller noses, and lighter eyes.

One way this issue became even clearer to me was through an online trend that used the phrase “The price of being Black in suburbia.” It featured people, mostly women of color, who grew up in predominantly white neighborhoods, reflecting on how their environment shaped their self-perceptions. While I didn’t grow up in a completely white area, I could still relate deeply because many of us grew up hearing these same messages from both outside and inside our communities. “Your hair is too nappy,” or “Don’t go out in the sun, you’ll get too dark.” These phrases are so common that they often go unchecked, seen as normal advice rather than the damaging thoughts they are. Another community member I interviewed shared that they first noticed colorism in middle school.

“I remember feeling as though dark-skinned people were less important than light-skinned people of color,” they said.

That feeling of being less valued often starts young, and it doesn’t go away easily.

“My interests and values make me ‘other’ in the Black community,” the community member said. “I was called ‘white’ growing up because I was smart and nerdy and dressed less casually.”

Being made to feel different for being smart or dressing differently is another way colorism and stereotypes about Blackness, two symptoms of racism and internalized racism, intersect.

Even in spaces that are supposed to be safe or empowering for people of color, colorism can show up. Whether it’s who gets hired, who gets chosen as a representative, or even who is believed when they speak, lighter-skinned individuals are often given the benefit of the doubt. These privileges may not be requested or even noticed by the person receiving them, but they still exist. And recognizing them is an important part of challenging the system.

What’s most frustrating is how difficult it can be to name and talk about colorism openly. Some people feel attacked when the topic comes up, especially if they are lighter-skinned. Others deny its existence completely. But silence only allows the problem to continue. These conversations can be uncomfortable, but they are necessary. The goal is not to blame individuals for how they look; it’s to challenge the system that creates these divisions in the first place.

Another community member said, “I feel I fit into the Black experience more as a ‘true Black person,’ but am less valued within the Black community, which is complex.”

This complex feeling of being accepted but not celebrated, of fitting in yet still being questioned, is at the heart of what makes colorism so harmful.

My journey with colorism has been complicated. I’ve been on the benefiting side, but I’ve also witnessed the pain it causes. It’s made me reflect on my privileges, my biases, and the ways I’ve contributed to or challenged the status quo. Colorism isn’t just a side effect of racism; it’s one of its sharpest tools. It divides communities, damages self-worth, and supports white supremacy in ways that are hard to detect but deeply felt. If we want real racial equity, we have to talk about it, not just in theory, but in the ways it shows up in our everyday lives, our families, and our communities. We all have a responsibility to unlearn what was taught and create new stories that affirm all shades, all textures, and all features as beautiful and worthy. Only then can we build communities rooted in true equality, self-love, and solidarity.