Growing up in Bangladesh, I was made very aware of my color. I was darker than the norm. I wasn’t pretty in the complexion department. Goodness, why would anyone want to marry my beautiful, caramel skin? Except, I never considered my caramel skin beautiful at first.

I hated it. I avoided the sun. I used SPF 100 (which I later learned, does not help tans!). I would bleach my skin periodically to get it to the ideal shade. Melanin was my enemy.

The people around me didn’t help either. I was told to avoid playing sports in the sun because I became darker. People pointed out how I could be so dark when my parents were fair. Parlor ladies always insisted that I bleach my face when I came in for my manicure. Melanin was my enemy.

I hated not being a shade of white. Not turning into a tomato when the sun kissed my skin. Not celebrating the pigment that ran through my body. Melanin was my enemy.

And then I got to the states.

Fairness creams were replaced with tanning lotions. People would compliment my natural glow instead of my lack of paleness. They’d be jealous of how five minutes in the sun would turn me two shades darker. But I had internalized the hatred I had for my own color. I would think they were crazy.

The states offered me no avenue to lighten my skin. I was stuck with my caramel hue. Always wanting it to be white chocolate became a fight no longer worth having. So I moved to acceptance. I saw my skin as beautiful. And I only had to wear SPF 15.

However, each trip home reminded me that caramel wasn’t sweet. It was still salty.