The Skin I Live In

2020 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, High School Essay Contest

June 16, 2020 4:44 p.m.

I have learned, by observing, to comply. When they ask additional questions, when they assume without a glance, the best option is to nod your head and muster a strained smile, even when it’s hard and uncomfortable. There was one such instance last summer.

My family and I were on vacation, visiting a historical site frequented by tourists when a guide stopped us at the entrance.

“Passport please,” she said, beady eyes raking over our skin. I could feel the pressure of her unwelcome gaze on me as an uncomfortable silence filled the air. No one else had been asked to pull out their passport, I noticed. My dad reluctantly handed his over, and after a glance she gave it back, and we passed through the entrance. But at that moment, I realized that this skin carries a curse.

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This skin is steeped in melanin, soaked in the sun for far too long. It was steamed in a boiling kettle, then left with a teabag in the cup for ages, marinating in notes of deep honey. The tea leaves were crafted by sari-clad women, working in emerald fields where fog saturates the fertile soil until it disappears, swallowed by air. And now, the leaves drench my skin, dark and bronzed.

But I know that a tour guide will not see this. They will not see that my skin has just been sitting in tea for too long, carrying the residue of darkened leaves.

Right then, I wished that my skin had been popped into the freezer, ice-cold and pale, then wrung out like a mop, dark juices expunged. Maybe it would make life a little easier.

But then I remembered that this skin was lived in before, by my mother who lived through a war. She was forced to hide in it and squeezed her eyes tight shut when they came. She took this skin to America, where she learned in it, breathed in it, adapted to a new life in it. She wore it with grace and draped it over her shoulders, proud.

And my father lived in this skin. He too barely escaped a war—it held him by his neck, only to drop him, giving him a chance. He left his country and took this skin with him, enduring taunts and jabs, fear-mongering and prejudice. His skin saw rough times and late hours, but he thrived in it. Then he and his skin came to America, and he wrapped it around himself, tight.

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This skin is worn and scarred, beaten and bruised. It is soaked in the history of my ancestors and was almost buried, stowed deep into the earth, by the hatred of the ignorant. But it has found a way to stay alive, changing its wearers over the years, finding itself halfway across the world.

This skin has traveled too far for me to wish it was gone. It was given to me, a gift, and so I wear it. Proudly.

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