Skin is the largest organ in the body. It serves as a barrier to protect from the extremities of the outside world. Some people have different colored skin depending on where they are in the world. Nonetheless, their skin still serves the same purpose. In retrospect,  skin is simply just an organ. Just like the liver, kidneys, or the stomach. It is just apart of the body. Despite this fact, some people take the skin too seriously, though it is just a simple part of the body.

I was, and am a kid with skin. I’ve had it for all I could remember. I was born with it of course, and everything was fine. That was until three weeks of my life..when my skin changed. Nothing drastic happened. I wasn’t plagued with an incurable skin disease or any deformation. My skin simply settled into its natural state of darkness, and it was at this point my fate was determined. I was an innocent baby then, and did not know what the consequences of having my skin could entail. It was just skin after all, I needed it to live. It didn’t have to be so controversial.

From a young age, I had always had confidence in myself. Never once had I doubted my mental capabilities, identity, or my physical appearance. My mother raised me to have the utmost respect for myself and others, and when you’re a child, this is not hard to do. Children are born with a certain innocence, an innocence that can only be ripped away by the harsh realities of our cruel world. I myself had that innocence, at least at a time, and I long for it even today.

My first experience with a group of little children my age was a pleasant one. We all got along and sang songs, played with each other, and shared everything we had. But most of all we all had skin. Not a single person lacked it, it was just something we had in common. We did not even think twice about it. Not even to point out,  “you have skin” or anything like it. We were just subconsciously content with the fact that we all had it. Our innocence fully intact and our skin unbothered. Just like how all children should have it.

Although, time is a menace, and as time went by our innocence soon lost its luster. The next time I got together with children my age, we were still the same song singing, everything sharing, skin having kids, but tinted red. Not enough for it to bother anyone, but enough for it to make a difference. Along with sharing toys and whatnot, we would share our analysis of each other. Not to be mean or to make anyone feel bad, but to point out what we saw. Some would say, “you have a big nose” or “your shoes are ugly.” Empty descriptions that did not have the intent of affecting anyone. I for one could much see our innocence, although I knew it was cracking. We were at the age where a child says whatever they want. Sometimes it was distasteful and sometimes it was not. That’s just the way children are. Blunt, innocent, but covered with skin.

Sometimes I’d look at my skin long and hard. I would look at this thing that covered my insides, as if it was a perfect gift. So tightly wrapped my insides were with my skin. Skin that did its job fairly well. It bled when it was cut and healed right after. It produced bumps when I was cold to keep me warm, and it changed color when it was hurt. But one thing I noticed about my skin, was that everybody else’s did the same thing. Our skin was exactly the same, yet completely different.

The next time I was with kids my age, our innocence had been fully indented with the marks of our own harsh realities. Ideas had been ingrained in our heads, and we were now using them against each other. Our words became knives against each others skin, and the knife cut deep. We began to switch from immature insults, to derogatory fits, and the one thing we targeted was the one thing we all knew we had...skin.

We had come a long way from not noticing the thing we were covered in, to never taking our eyes off it. When that happened, the broken innocence of our being shined through. It did not matter that we all had it or that it did the same thing for everyone, all that mattered was that the skin was different, and our reality told us that this was all we needed to cut each other down. Instead of being treated as a simple organ, our skin was now treated as a status symbol, the darkest being worse while the lightest being the best. From birth, I did not care much about my skin. I’m sure infant me could have cared less about the thing that protected me. Alas, the skin did not protect me from statements that would pierce my being. My darkness was a target, and their words were weapons.

“How could you be so dark?” “Why is dark skin so ugly?” “Wouldn’t it be better if you were lighter?” It is hard to comprehend what society does to the young mind. To make them so obsessed with the way the thing that protects their internal organs looks like. It is even more baffling how people can assume who you are based on your organ’s pigment. As if my skin displayed my description. As if every hair follicle was a word of my portrayal.

It was at that time I could no longer see the innocence of the children...or of myself. We were all tainted in our own experiences, and projected it onto each other. For myself, I lived with the insults my skin promised me, not only from people who did not look like me, but from people who did. Those with dark skin lived through the same insults as I, but some turned their experience to self loathing, and made sure that anyone who looked like them knew they were inadequate.

It was difficult to keep the confidence my parents instilled in me since I was little. The words of corrupt children beat down on me like harsh winds. Although, I knew this would be the rest of my life.

For as long as I live, I will have to be subjected to the harsh words of those who do not like my skin. The only thing I can do is try to fight it, and keep my head high. However, it still bewilders me how strongly some people feel about skin. It would be almost comical if someone cared about the color of someone’s eyes the way we care about skin, but the world is not rational.

I do not believe I or the children are intentionally malicious. We do not come with those prejudices at birth, our minds are simply corrupted by virtue of existing. Because of the children and their polluted minds, I can no longer think of my skin as simply just an organ, but as a cover of a book. As if it is short preview into my world. My skin will forever be a price to some people, but it is, just an organ.