I can't even remember the first skin color joke that was thrown at me. What I do remember is the pain. It was harsh like a thousand shards cutting me open. I wanted to cry. I think I did.
What I do remember is the pain. It was harsh like a thousand shards cutting me open.
Then years passed and never have I ever gone past a year or even a month without hearing a joke about my color. Through those years, I kept the hurt inside. I laughed at those jokes even though I wanted to hurt the people who teased me. I told them I understood the whole “joke” concept about it, even though I don't really understand why do they need to make fun of me. Through those years, the pain was an integral part of me. It reminded me of how shameful I was compared to those who were draped in fairer colors.
With all the insecurity and pain inside of me, I never once thought of myself as someone who will be as beautiful like those in white. I was just a third-class face. Nothing more than that.
I wanted to snap whenever they joked about me. I wanted to hurt them, slap them, call them something much more offensive than their jokes. But I didn't. I couldn't. It was temping yet I can never stoop down to their level. Or go up their level.
If only they knew the pain of it. If only they knew how hard it is not to snap because I didn't want things to get worse. I wish they knew so that I won't suffer alone.
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