On Skin Color Markers
It begins in a kitchen, my kitchen, three years ago, over a rushed, trying-to-get-to-school-on-time breakfast. We recently moved from England where I have lived most of my life, the daughter of immigrant Indian parents, to live in Atlanta inside the safety of the city limits, a haven of diversity that ends abruptly just a mile further into the suburbs. My daughter, Arya, is 6 years old.
It starts so innocently. An intricately-colored mandala pulled from her blue Peppa Pig school bag. We are running tight on time and need to rush to make school drop-off, but I am in my best Bluey-mom¹ mode, so I fawn over the picture briefly and ask her if she picked out all the colors by herself.
“Yes!” she says, excitedly, “I tried to use every color. I even used skin color!” Her eyebrows furrow as she stares up at me inquisitively with her chocolate brown eyes that match her loose brown black curls. She pauses, then adds, “Do you even know what skin color is?”
I answer distractedly, while clearing away breakfast bowls, that skin can be all sorts of colors, that my skin is dark brown, hers is a lighter brown, her Daddy’s is….
“No,” she interrupts, firmly. She points to a little sliver of pink on her picture, nestled next to a sliver of dark brown. “This is skin color.”
She has my full attention now. I tread softly. “That’s not my skin color,” I venture. “That’s not your skin color.”
“No, but it is skin color,” she says, “That’s what it’s called.” Again with certainty. She gestures to a photo of her extended family on the stainless-steel fridge door, and points towards her father, and all the other white people. “See! It’s all their colors.”
On the same photo, I point at my parents. At me. At her. “But it’s not their skin color. It’s not my skin color,” and then, as gently as I can, “It’s not your skin color.”
My heart breaks into a thousand pieces, glinting brown and muted black in the bright, white sunlight. I take a deep breath. I reassure her that skin can be all sorts of colors, and that if she is being told differently by her classmates then I will write to the school, and to the other parents.
There is a moment of delicate silence. And then she sobs. Prodigious sobs, with her head on my chest, soaking my thin yellow t-shirt. I presume the tears are because she is afraid of the reaction among her classmates, of disturbing the norm, of being a troublemaker. I hope, fervently, that it is not because she is sad about who she is, or who her mother is.
***
So this is how young it starts. Age 6. Being taught that skin is pink/white and that all other skin colors are somehow… other.
And it reopens in me a lifetime of little lacerations.
Of being in a classroom full of friends, aged 10 years, and a girl using the British racial slur “Paki” to describe a brown doll and the entire classroom laughing, until someone hurriedly points out that I am in the room, and the girl, looking stricken, quickly mumbling a sorry.
Of my university housemate declaring that the delicious, home-cooked dishes my mother would send me, in loving parcels from her kitchen in London, reeked of Indian food, and to please not heat them up in the communal microwave.
A lifetime of seeing only white faces on TV screens, and the happy tears I cried while watching Black Panther, as it was so strange and exhilarating to watch a movie where the actor of color was not just a sidekick or an afterthought, destined to get eaten by aliens, or shot within the first act.
I hug my daughter and tell her that it is all going to be okay. Later, after I let myself cry a few tears, I write to the school. In my email I acknowledge that this is undoubtedly an innocent perception that has infiltrated the classroom, one I request that the teachers address. The email goes unanswered.
The next morning, after school drop-off, I approach the head of the lower school, a middle aged, plump white woman who usually wears a big smile, but today is scowling at me. “I got your email,” she says, barely concealing a snarl. “I didn’t like your accusatory tone.” Forever the people pleaser, I immediately apologize and spend the next few minutes placating her emotions until we reach resolution.
It takes me until I walk home to realize what has happened. My daughter has experienced racism, in a way that might change her world view, and her view of herself, perhaps irrevocably; I have highlighted this to the school. And then, I have apologized to the white administrator for… hurting her feelings. I am murderous.
On Barbie
“Is that such a good idea?” asks my husband gingerly. We have moved to Boston by this point, and our son has been born.
My husband continues, tentatively, “Do you think it will help to see it again, when you’re already complaining that the songs are stuck in your head?!”
We are discussing Barbie, specifically my plan to rewatch it with Arya, who is now 8 years old. Our family has already watched it once at the cinema and loved it; now I want to go again with her, a mother-and-daughter outing. She is, after all, striding towards prepuberty and mood swings; we are fighting increasingly, much like the mother and daughter in the movie, and I think some quality time together without the baby will do us good.
We have a wonderful afternoon seeing Barbie again. So many of the film’s themes resonate: My daughter is pulling away from me as she hurtles through life at speed; I am redefining what it is to be a mother; we are both navigating what it means to be a woman. The joy and wonder of being a woman so perfectly embodied by Barbie herself; the trials and anguish and heartache and futility of being a woman so heart-wrenchingly explored by the mother (and Mattel employee) Gloria’s impassioned monologue. We come home, high on life, singing the film’s songs late into the evening. The next morning, lying in bed, I am still replaying scenes in my head, when it strikes me. And so it is that — three weeks after first seeing Barbie and almost 24 hours after seeing it a second time — I realize something for the first time:
There are no Indian people in Barbie.
A quick Google search informs me that I am wrong. There are three actors of Indian descent in Barbie, a movie with 166 credited actors (I counted). Ritu Arya plays “Pulitzer Prize winning Barbie,” she is a talented actress and gorgeous. She is also light-skinned, highlighting the ever-present issue of colorism in Hollywood casting. The other few Indian actors in the cast are background dancers or have such small roles that blink, and you will miss them. Like I did. Twice.
So actually, to qualify my gripe: there are no dark-skinned Indian people in any significant roles in Barbie. No one that looks like me. No one that looks like my 8-year-old daughter. It’s okay, I immediately reason to myself, accustomed to a lifetime of having to put the comfort of white people above my own. It’s because there are no Indian Barbies, that’s why. Another Google search tells me I am wrong about this too. Toy maker Mattel released Indian Barbie in 1982 as part of their “Dolls of the World” collection.
Indian Barbie was not popular, and failed to achieve predicted sales figures. Children preferred white Barbies.
Indian Barbie was light skinned but wore a sari.
But, I think to myself, returning to the issue of the Barbie film, what about in the film’s LA scenes? Are there not Indian people in LA?! Director Greta Gerwig has been lauded for the representation in her film’s cast. Indeed, to her credit, there are white people and black people and Southeast Asian people in lead roles; and fat people and thin people, and people in wheelchairs. But there is not one dark brown Indian actor in a significant role. Whilst this is the norm in almost all Hollywood movies, it is especially ironic in a film that acknowledges and explores the impact of constant subtle messaging on who in society has the power.
On Colorism, Even Among Indians
She’s pretty, even though she’s dark. As a child, both in India and moving through expat circles full of Indians, I heard these words said about me more than once; words that fell onto my impressionable ears, like seeds of an invasive weed landing silently on untamed land. Myself a mother now, I cannot believe my parents tolerated it. Perhaps even murmured their agreement. If someone said the same about — or worse still — to my daughter, their body would turn up in a river months later, swollen and weed-covered.
But how can I fault my parents, when all around them was the subtle — and not so subtle — messaging that lighter skin is better? A person’s worth tied to their skin’s ability to refract light. White down to lighter and then darker shades of brown, like sunlight sinking slowly to the bottom of a murky swamp. A world where only light-skinned actors get the best roles. Where skin lightening creams — often containing bleach or hydroquinone, a hazardous substance that can irritate skin, burn eyes, and cause fatal poisoning — are sold on supermarket shelves. Where on Shaadi.com, the Indian dating site, on which my mom briefly tried and failed to find me a perfect Indian husband, complexion is a required signup field and “fair-skinned” or “wheatish” will get you more hits than “dark brown.” Where everyone’s first positive comment on someone’s looks is an assessment of how fair-skinned they are.
Perhaps it is no wonder that Indians, subjected to 189 years of British occupation, have internalized that light skinned is more beautiful. My Indian friend tells me that we cannot keep blaming the British, as they left India nearly 80 years ago, but how can things change when this clichéd portrayal continues in the media? Just as the Barbie film’s Ken, entering LA for the first time, is mesmerized by societal messaging that men are at the top of the hierarchy, how can little brown children fail to absorb that pink is the finest skin color?
In Maine, Watching the Leaves Change
We spend a long weekend in Acadia National Park in Maine. Once I return to Boston and am once again in the solace of other dark-skinned souls, I sigh in relief. For Maine is beautiful, yes — the autumnal colors are magnificent, the twirling reds and yellows and oranges, against a backdrop of the glinting blue sea. But Maine is white, oh so very white. White like the absence of words on an empty page. White like walls without paintings. Granted, I am a tourist in their midst and tourists are the ultimate bottom feeders. But, for all the genuine smiles and kindness I encounter, am I not — just as often — looked at differently? Or am I? As yet another white, weathered face passes me, without a smile or a sentence, but with a scowl. Is it just that this person is a grumpy old man (as my husband tries to reassure me) or am I right to feel a sense of despair? And how best to discuss this with my white husband without needing to center his feelings of sadness? By marrying a white man, I married someone who will never truly understand how it feels to be a minority. Sympathize, yes; get angry on my behalf, yes; but understand? Never. So how do I put this into words to help him understand? That feeling when people mistreat you is tough, but what about the lack of smiles, or the absence of warmth in people’s eyes when they smile, making you wonder if it’s you, or them, or the tragic news they might have just received? Knowing, on the law of averages, that if ten people scowl at you in one day, not all of them are suffering misfortune. In an effort to help my husband understand, I remind him of the story of the greasy kebab vs. grumpy greetings.
Death by a Thousand Cuts: Greasy Kebab vs. Grumpy Greetings
Many years ago, I lived in Liverpool, England — birthplace of the Beatles, and of my daughter Arya. Late one night, my husband and I are getting out of a taxi. Our bearded Muslim taxi driver has spent the journey telling us how much he loves England — his wife is white British; Liverpool is more home for him than Bangladesh ever was. As we disembark and the taxi starts to drive away, it encounters a drunk man, who the taxi driver presumably refuses to pick up. “Fuck off back home, you Paki!” shouts the enraged drunkard. As the taxi drives off, Drunk Man throws his half-eaten kebab at the car. Greasy chicken and hot sauce smear down the glass window.
This racism is easy. It is out in the open. Everyone abhors it. It is facile to recognize its ugly face, to call it out, to document it.
The following morning, still shocked by having witnessed thrown-greasy-kebab-racism, we go to the posh deli at the corner of our road. Having just moved from an affluent suburb of London, it reminds me of home, so I go often, even though every time I walk in the lady at the counter greets me with no smile or warmth. This morning, my husband and I go there together, and he happens to walk in five paces before me. Grumpy Lady’s face lights up. “Welcome in!” she chimes, with a smile I have never seen, and a warmth I would expect from someone working in an establishment charging exorbitant prices for specialty cheese.
As I enter the deli four seconds later, her face falls as we lock eyes in silence. She grumbles a lackluster, “Welcome in,” with smile-less eyes. I finally know to be true what I have suspected for so long. But had I not had that moment, I may never have known. This is the under-the-radar, greasy-underbelly racism that is so much harder. The little snubs that leave us wondering if we are crazy, if we imagined it, if the other person is just having a bad day, or worst: Am I making a fuss over nothing? These are the thousand subtle slights that steal our joy and harden our souls. The shards that spike our hearts, causing that slow, intractable bleed that eventually kills us².
***
I once listened to a lecture in which a professor described a study that showed children of color are smiled at less often than white children. Having heard this depressing fact, I smile at every child I see, and I smile my widest smiles at little children of color. To try to even the score.
***
Things have gotten better, slowly (too slowly) but surely. I know now that brown is the color of chocolate. And magnificent mahogany trees. And luxurious solid wooden dining tables. Not just mud or excrement, as spiteful children would once have had me believe. And pink is not just the color of Disney princesses and rom-com heroines, but also the human rectum.
Pink tights are no longer sold in department stores under the label “flesh colored.” Skin lightening creams are now banned in certain countries, although remain freely available on Amazon. The immensely popular TV series Doctor Who has a new Indian female lead, much to my daughter’s delight.
But as we condemn overtly racist tropes spouted from the highest echelons of our elected officials to the lowest rungs of society, we must also be aware of the more insidious racism that pervades our communities. We must open ourselves up to honest scrutiny, to chip away at the years of subliminal messaging that — alongside physical violence — has solidified hierarchies of skin color and racism into us, like calcified plaques hardening onto our hearts. Otherwise, we remain condemned to propagate this bitter reality, where boys and girls grow up assimilating, from an impossibly early age, a hierarchy of skin color, from markers at school, to heroes on movie screens.
It might not be a comfortable conversation, but necessary ones rarely are. We all think of ourselves as good people, and who wants to hear that their actions might hurt someone? But this is not an issue of good versus bad. The most well-intentioned people still need to reflect on the ways they may have internalized this biased ranking based on skin color. I will go first.
I am 14 years old, attending a harsh high school in London. An Indian immigrant girl joins our class three years in, just one year from graduation. Bonds have long been formed, divisions cemented, and we are all too cool for school. She has brown skin and curly black hair, just like me, but this is where the similarity ends. She speaks with a thick Indian accent. Her long South Indian name is even longer than mine. I believe that had she been white she would have had an easier experience. Instead, she is bullied relentlessly, over her accent, her name, her looks. I do not stick up for her. Not once. I do not want her “off the boat” status to dent my image. I am ashamed just typing this. Balavernie, if you are reading this, I am sorry. I have changed. I know better now.
Next, I will tell you of the white family I married into. They are kind, open-minded, and have committed many hours to reading books on anti-racism. When I am on a walk alone one day in their affluent suburb in the South, a white couple scowls at me so scornfully that, feeling cheeky, I smile sweetly and say my breeziest hello. They sneer and look away. When I mention this to my in-laws, they rush to say it was probably just a misunderstanding or a mean person, centering their emotions and unconsciously invalidating my experience.
Finally, I will speak of the studies that show doctors — professionals known for their caring and compassion — treat people of color differently: with lower rates of pain relief and referrals for cardiac interventions compared to white patients³. This effect persists, even amongst doctors of color.
So there you have it. There is a hierarchy of skin color, and it still exists today. My personal sphere of knowledge is from India to England, from the American South to the liberal Northeast; from my childhood to my twenties, to middle age; from before I was born, to my daughter being on the cusp of double digits. But I am not alone.
For people of color this is everywhere, this is every day.
***
I mull this over, as I walk along the path near my home in Boston on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. The leaves are nearing the end of their color change, and sun-baked brown leaves cover the mud-caked path. I am going to meet my daughter at her school football event. I am contemplating how we might tackle racism and move forward, as individuals, as parents, and as a society. I ponder how to make the world a better place for my daughter and others like her. I consider if the answer is more teaching, more awareness, more introspection, more questioning of societal norms, more diversity in films and media, more open conversations so that people of color can discuss racism without fear of upsetting friends and family or needing to apologize to acquaintances. I wonder how much my daughter notices the inequitable world around her.
A wrinkled old white man on a bicycle catches up to me at a red light. We exchange pleasantries, chatting about the weather, as we wait for the lights to change.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks.
“I’m not,” I say, with a smile, pleased that he has picked up on my British accent, still strong despite six years of living in the U.S.
“Wow,” he says, “your English is so good.” He cycles off, smiling approvingly.
Endnotes for “This is Skin Color”
1. In the popular cartoon, Bluey’s mom and dad always have time for Bluey, whatever the pressures of the day.
2. This is not hyperbole. Medical literature abounds with statistics of how racism kills — from a 6-year lower life expectancy among Black people compared to white people in the U.S., to poorer outcomes in people of color compared to white people for heart disease and diabetes, to name just a few examples.
3. Hamed S, Bradby H, Ahlberg BM, Thapar-Björkert S. Racism in healthcare: a scoping review. BMC Public Health. 2022 May 16;22(1):988.
Image by Jeff Siepman on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
Her Instagram is @londonpavithra and her Bluesky is pavithra.bsky.social.
- This is Skin Color - July 18, 2025
The brutal truth, forensically articulated
A fellow brown medic (born in London, of Bengali heritage, identifying as BENGLISH!
So good! Thank you.