Last week I talked about my eyes. This week I will tell you about my skin.
Where I grew up in America there were mostly White people of Irish, German, Italian and Polish descent. It was made known to me that I looked different than them. My skin was not the same as theirs. It was told it was olive, while theirs was fair.
As a teenager in Egypt, I attracted a lot of attention in the street from young boys because of what they called my “white skin.” All of the sudden, in Egypt, even though I still remained a minority, I had become white-skinned and the majority was now those who had olive skin.
In France, no one has ever told my that I am tan-skinned. I think they see my skin tone as similar to their own. That said, I live in the south of France, along the Mediterranean sea. Just on the other side of that sea is Africa. Here, we are closer to Algiers than Dublin, at least as the black crow flies. This is the true home of olive skin. We’ve even got the olive groves to go with it. However, the locals don’t like to talk about that. They think they are just as fair-skinned as any European.
In my 30s, I did some research on the man from whom I inherited this skin, my father. All I know about that side of my family is the little that my mother has told me. It turns out that even in Iran, my people make up a minority group. My father is Azeri-Iranian or Turkish-Iranian as he prefers to be called. In public he speaks Persian like any Iranian, but at home, with his family, he speaks a tongue closer to Turkish.
This minority of Iran originated from Azerbaijan and lives mostly in the northwest of the country along the Caspian Sea. Also near the Caspian Sea is Caucasia, a region home to the Caucasus Mountains. We (the Northern Iranians) share these mountains with the Armenians, Artsakhis, Azerbaijanis, Georgians, Kurds, Southwestern Russians and Eastern Turks. All of these peoples are Caucasians as far as our world topography is concerned. Yes, Caucasians !
So, now, who’s White ? And who’s Caucasian ?
Rock your world ? It certainly, did, mine!
Get ready for another idea about « White-ness, » to be shaken up, that us Westerners think we understand without fault.
Do you know what an Aryan looks like ? Blond and blue-eyed ?
Nope.
I discovered that « Aryan » denoted someone from Iran in ancient times. They called themselves Aryans and everybody else in the world were the non-Aryans. The word « Iran » is even derived from « Aryan. »
So, as it turns out, this skin of mine….no, it isn’t White. It isn’t even olive or tan. It’s historically, Aryan and has always been Caucasian.
This skin of mine, is fair, but not like a European’s. Maybe some White people can relate when I write that I avoid wearing shorts in the summer because the skin of my legs (that hasn’t seen sun all winter) just looks too ghostly. I’m not talking about those Northern Europeans who have that grayish hue to their skin. I mean it’s moreso translucent – like you can almost see my veins.
The rosiness of my cheeks and lips, however, is a very common sight and all year long. But unlike some Northern Europeans the pinkish-red only accents those mentioned features – it does not spread all over.
In the sun, my epidermis does not burn. It barely even tans. I would love it, but I do not have that southern European skin that tans up quick and golden. Like some Asians – because yes, Iran, is a part of that continent – it does tan eventually, but only after a lot of sun exposure.
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I recently went to visit a cousin who is a very cultured person. Being with him is like hanging out with a walking breathing encyclopedia. So, I was sure he would be amused by what I had learned regarding my Caucasian skin. I explained to him how I have been mistakedly called olive-skinned my whole life. How when I was a kid, uneducated on my own ethnic heritage, I took what outsiders said to be the truth. I further explained to him how I came to understand that people see my dark eyes and dark hair and their brains fill in the rest. They are used to associating such dark locks and irises with tan skin so they stop seeing me and let their imagination overpower reality. As I said all of this, I was passionate. I was convincing. I told him about the Caucasus mountains and the Aryans. So, I knew that he would be ready to answer correctly when I asked him : « So you, what color do you think my skin is ? »
He considered my question thoughtfully, looked straight at me and said, « you’re olive-skinned. »
Pardon My France 