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| Photo Credit: Francesca www.xoxocesca.com |
The pain of a throbbing big toe woke me in the middle of the night. I didn't even know I'd hurt it running until it felt like a searing hot iron touched to tender skin.
I stifle tears, praying away the sharp ache. Sleepless and disturbed, the physical pain oddly unlocks a hidden vault - in my heart.
I thought of a recent conversation with a director.
"You don't seem angry," he said.
"I'm not," I answered, puzzled. The script hadn't called for the character to be mad.
"I thought all black women were angry," he stated.
Really? Just because I'm black?
Awakened by pain, my heart began to speak. I. am. angry. Raging. burning. achingly mad.
Because you don't see me when you are creating projects. It doesn't even occur to you that your cast is full of faces that look like Taylor Swift's.
"Your lips..." the makeup artist says to me, uncomfortably.
"What about them?" I ask, naively.
She struggles to explain.
"Let me show you how to make them look smaller, um, not so....dark. They don't bother me," she wants me to understand, "But the director might want you to...do something about them."
She uses concealer to completely cover my lips. Then redraws a smaller outline with a light brown pencil. Fills them in with dewey lipstick.
Smaller. Lighter. Pinker.
"Now you can do it yourself....if you get complaints."
Humiliated. I am camera ready.
Praying that my hair and makeup don't rebel under the hot lights, I deliver my lines through the new, less offensive lips.
At home, I scrub off the fake face. There they are: full, dark, bold lips. I get them from my daddy. His are nearly black; soft. He once told me that as a young man he thought he was ugly.
Guess no one ever showed him how to draw a mask over his face...
I try to smile at the reflection in the mirror.
Raging. burning. aching pain.
Because you demand my gratitude at creating this mask. Require my devotion for a minute on the screen. Expect my admiration at what a saint you are for casting a sister.
"Yes, massa, you a good man."
On set, I make jokes to ease the tension of being the token black. We don't know how to act around each other.
You're afraid of me...hiding it behind an embrace, telling everyone, "Look, isn't she beautiful?" like a trophy on display.
I can tell you're irritated that I've invaded your space; that my mere presence demands...something. You quickly insert me in a scene. Feed me a few lines, or feature me prominently.
"Your lips..." the makeup artist says to me, uncomfortably.
"What about them?" I ask, naively.
She struggles to explain.
"Let me show you how to make them look smaller, um, not so....dark. They don't bother me," she wants me to understand, "But the director might want you to...do something about them."
She uses concealer to completely cover my lips. Then redraws a smaller outline with a light brown pencil. Fills them in with dewey lipstick.
Smaller. Lighter. Pinker.
"Now you can do it yourself....if you get complaints."
Humiliated. I am camera ready.
Praying that my hair and makeup don't rebel under the hot lights, I deliver my lines through the new, less offensive lips.
At home, I scrub off the fake face. There they are: full, dark, bold lips. I get them from my daddy. His are nearly black; soft. He once told me that as a young man he thought he was ugly.
Guess no one ever showed him how to draw a mask over his face...
I try to smile at the reflection in the mirror.
Raging. burning. aching pain.
Because you demand my gratitude at creating this mask. Require my devotion for a minute on the screen. Expect my admiration at what a saint you are for casting a sister.
"Yes, massa, you a good man."
On set, I make jokes to ease the tension of being the token black. We don't know how to act around each other.
You're afraid of me...hiding it behind an embrace, telling everyone, "Look, isn't she beautiful?" like a trophy on display.
I can tell you're irritated that I've invaded your space; that my mere presence demands...something. You quickly insert me in a scene. Feed me a few lines, or feature me prominently.
So that no one can accuse you of being racist.
I can tell you're upset. Because my look, my skin - the color of roasted coffee - "pulls focus" against the spray tans. blondes. blue eyes.
I want to go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll smile again through the painted-on pink lips...so that you don't reject me as just another mad, black actor.
Like the suppressed energy of an earthquake that splits the ground open and quickly diffuses, the raging, burning, aching pain settles back into its vault.
Quiet on the set, please.
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