Surrounded by sterile white walls in a plain paper gown, I quickly glanced at the worried look on my mother’s face from my periphery. I knew for sure this was not going to end well for me. As the doctors examined my skin, all my ten-year-old mind could think of was how I had gotten out of school for the day. I was clueless as to the long-term effects this doctor visit would have on me.
In middle school, I’d always been self-conscious about my skin. As I walked through the hallways I could feel people’s eyes staring daggers into me that cut so deep I thought for sure I’d bleed. Every class I’d go to, people would whisper. Only some had the courage to approach me to ask what happened. Most people assumed I’d been in a fire because of the discoloration
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I had dark spots on my face, arms, and legs. When looking at my skin after spending a month in Cornell Hospital’s burn unit, I cried. Before my illness I had never considered myself gorgeous, but after I thought for sure there was no way I could ever be beautiful. With this thought in mind my self-esteem took a dangerous spiral downwards.
One day, as I was scanning the bookshelf in my bedroom for a new book, one of my younger sister’s books caught my eye: The Skin I’m In, by Sharon G. Flake. This novel portrayed a young African American female, who like me, has troubles with the insecurities of her skin. Throughout the novel the protagonist meets an English teacher, Ms. Saunders, who has a patch of white skin on her otherwise brown face. While reading this novel, the protagonist and I both admired Ms. Saunders for being able to walk about the school with a high head on her shoulders, despite what people might say about her face.
After completing this novel, my first thought was very cynical. I thought for sure this attitude had only worked for Ms. Saunders because she is a fictional character. Eventually I decided to try it out, thinking to myself that it could do no