Each morning I wake up and check my phone. I have an order. WhatsApp first if there are unread notifications, emails next, and then a round-up of my social media: Threads, Instagram, TikTok and finally Facebook. I leave Facebook for the last because I love looking back on memories. The oldest items are sometimes from twelve years ago, when my youngest was a newborn. Each day is a reminder of how little the kids were once. At some point, I diligently recorded the funny things they said. Reading them a decade later, I ground my actions for the day in that.

Today, amid the child-related posts, a video of me speaking at our local school board surfaced. I was making a case for diversity, equity and inclusion at our school district. I argued clearly, passionately and articulately, in my opinion. The underlying premise was that our children needed to see themselves reflected in the world around them. That, saying “I don’t see colour” says to me: “I don’t see you, in your multifaceted glory. I see you in a monochromatic, narrow worldview I have decided to box you in.” Unlike other days, I reshared my post, feeling that it resonated just as well today as it did five years ago. At the heart of that speech, I was grappling with racism and colourism.

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Growing up, what I identified with were my body (fat) and my colour (dark). My appa was my favourite parent. Anytime I would feel ‘less than’, I would hold my arm next to his and revel in how much fairer my skin colour was. We would joke about it; he would crinkle his nose, smile, and the world would be alright again. In the shadow of the fair-skinned, I was very aware of pretty privilege. I envied my beautiful peers. I was yet to understand what ‘beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder’  meant. As a 50-year-old now, I look back on the younger me with pity and shards of empathy. She was the ‘pick me’. Eager to blend in and be accepted. Starved for appreciation, she was a naive child.

She enjoyed the ritual of her amma applying paal yedu (milk cream) mixed with kadalai maavu (gram flour) and manjal (turmeric) on her face, feeling the moisture escape, and the skin tighten. She helped herself to her athai’s (aunt’s) Fair & Lovely cream on occasion. As a young working woman, she loved the hours of pampering at the beauty parlour. The facials, the waxing and the momentary glow of money well spent. As adult life took over, the obsession with beauty receded, giving way to grown-up worries.

Race entered my life, in a different way, in my 30s. I was suddenly the mom to white-passing Navajo twins. The role reversal was fascinating. Was I relieved my children were conventionally beautiful? I can only speculate. Race was never far away from my thoughts. It reared its head each time we were out, shopping, walking, and existing.

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In 2014, I gave birth to a beautiful girl. Karuppu (dark). That was the first observation her paati (grandmother) made. No malice. Concern, yes. I was offended. I went mute.

Then, a decade later, I watched my youngest come in from the sun, and the words crossed my mind. Tanned. Dark.

I did not voice it out. I was mortified that I, the recipient of backhanded compliments, was now somehow complicit in the very system I was fighting. I asked my child if she ever thought about her skin colour. She said no. I asked her how she felt about herself. She answered confidently. ‘Beautiful’.

Despite myself, I seemed to be blessed with children who are supremely self-assured and absolutely gorgeous. It is also a wake-up call for me and countless women like me to inspect and introspect. How much of the systems we fight do we embody in ourselves? Can we recognise it? What are we doing about it? As for me, I write. Five years ago, I argued before a school board to change the systems around me. The stories I carry took longer to change. ‘Why Is My Skin Brown?’ is for the 12-year-old Lakshmi, to remind her that blending in might have made her comfortable, but standing out was better.

Lakshmi Iyer is the author of ‘Why Is My Skin Brown?’

Editor (Planning & Projects) Shalini Langer curates the fortnightly ‘She Said’ column