Child Abuse Story From Conswella

by Conswella
(New Jersey, USA)

Black on Black racism: How much are you worth? 
My abusive childhood story never ends. The symptoms of yesterday severely interrupt my happiness and joy today. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but the truth of my pain lies dearly with the siblings of my own Afro-American people who value their children on the texture of their hair and the color of their skin. Scarring me was so easy for my family. Loving me seemed to be the hardest task any of them ever had to accomplish. Even today they are still clueless on the responsibility of loving me.

For example, of the abuses I endured, one of the insignificant incidents was because of my complexion. I was not allowed to wear pink, white or yellow. I had to wear maroon, dark blue, dark green, anything that was not light; you know the normal traditional colors of pink, yellow, mint green, white. Easter was a nightmare...it was so hard for my mom to find a maroon or dark colored dress. I remember people asking me why I had on such a dark colored dress. I would respond that my mom wanted it to match my complexion. She was so proud of herself that I knew what to say. All the other girls were in the brightest colors.

I have three so-called half mixed sisters. My mother used to title them "my three girls". I was the 5th child, but the last girl of 6 kids. Talk about pain. I remember how I felt when my mother would say "these are my three girls". Color was this great big thing in my family. If you were light you were beautiful; if you had non-black hair you were fine. If you were dark-skinned then you were seen as black and ugly. A sentence was not complete in my home unless the words black and ugly were used in it together. Trust me, this is nothing I have told you to the true abuse that I have endured.

The Afro-American Women with the Hispanic name. I have asked God what is his purpose and mission for me: to love my race so much but unsuccessfully graced with a name of another culture that I don't relate too? God answered me. It is the true evidence of how color-struck and racist my mother is and the perfect example of how worried my mother was when I arrived. I remember my mother telling me over and over again my name was Hispanic and how when I grow up make sure I get a Hispanic man or a white man so that I could have pretty kids. Funny, my mother herself is also dark-skinned. Believe me, it did not start with my black racist mother, sisters, uncles, aunts and brothers, nor will it finish there.

What is the meaning of weak-minded? Seeing and living life through another culture's perspective. To me, that is as weak as a person can get. Sad in saying, the value of myself depended on my complexion of my hair and the color of my skin. One thing I found out was that no matter what color you are, if your mother let her boyfriend stick a red hot spoon on your hand, the mark of the spoon will remain there for the rest of your life.

Until we speak again,
Regardless of what I have endured I will continue to love those that love me.

Sincerely,
Conswella Rose

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