Dark and Light

Dark and Light

Ever since I was a kid I wanted to have an olive complexion. When I was seven, my dad  used make-up prosthetics from one of the movies he was working on to build up my cheekbones and change the shape of my nose. He used pancake #7 to give me a smooth and swarthy complexion with one strategically placed beauty spot just like Marilyn Monroe. I was a gypsy for Halloween with a tight scarf covering my red hair.  I thought, “NO one will recognize me!” When I walked into second grade, every one said, “Hi Melinda.” How did they know it was I? Oh, yeah... I was the skinniest kid in the school.

When I was ten, I prayed every night to have flat-against-my-head ears, straight teeth, to be a little bit fatter, and to have tan skin. Blue-white skin with freckles was NOT the "IN" thing in 1958.

By 1960, transistor radios came on the market and they were IN. I had a turquoise one with a battery that smelled funny and knobs that turned to the stations - almost, and a spindly telescoping antenna. One Saturday, Sharon Cordova, Vicky Garcia and I talked our parents into letting us take three busses to get from Echo Park (basically, downtown L.A.) to Santa Monica Beach. We were twelve. They agreed!

We packed bologna sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, NeHi Orange soda and celery.  I LOVE celery. Of course, we took the turquoise plastic transistor radio and some money for chips and bus fare home. Two hours and three busses later we were near enough Santa Monica Beach that we could taste the salt air and feel the salt fog on our skin. The sun played hide and peek all day, by always hiding, never peeking. We had a wonderful day talking about boys, eating our lunch and listening to the radio, but I never did put on the Sea ‘n’ Ski suntan lotion my mom made me swear I’d use. I wanted to turn dark like my friends.

It wasn’t until we were part way home that I began to feel the burn. Vicky and Sharon felt glowing. I felt like a smelter full of molten steel. I was radiating heat but felt shivery and cold. Evidently, I looked a bit pink, because a guy on the bus said, “Ouch, honey... you look like a lobster. You THAT red!” I learned that you can get sun-burned even on a cloudy day - maybe even MORE sunburned on a cloudy day. Curse of white skin.

In Junior HIgh School I used to cheer my freckles on, “Get together, get together, give me a tan!” By seventh grade, boobs were on my prayer list. Obviously, prayer wasn’t working. Cheering was now added to the list of things that didn’t work - right after prayer.

At the end of eleventh grade, though, I tried out for cheer leader at Belmont High School for the following year. Belmont is an inner-city school just west of downtown L.A. I think the only reason I was selected as cheer-leader was because of my dancing background. I could do the splits and kick really high.

All the other gals on the squad were really beautiful and quite dark of skin. Even Eileen Roehlke, who was a blonde, had that perfect golden toasty marshmallow - before it turns black and blisters - colored skin.

I was white - but completely WHITE. I had a complex about my complexion. Before our first real game of the season, I begged my mom to drive me to Pioneer Market at the corner of Echo Park and Sunset so I could buy a bottle of Coppertone Quick Tanning Lotion. I heard all about it on my turquoise transistor radio - that QT lotion could give you a tan overnight.

Before the first foot ball game, my mom had to sew the yell-leader’s outfit for me from white duck material on the outside with green and black polka-dot pleats and lining. She was sewing well into the night that fateful Thursday before the big game on Friday afternoon. I was stressing about my white legs.  

The bottle of Quick Tanning Lotion said, “apply evenly and let dry.” I was in the bathroom smoothing it on my freshly shaved alabaster legs - well, actually, they looked more like uncooked chicken legs - you know, with blue-white bumpy skin? There were a few bloody knicks along the shin bones with pieces of toilet paper stuck-on to staunch the bleed.

Oddly, the QT lotion smelled like pop-corn. After it had totally dried, I carefully put on my pajamas checked my mom’s status and went to bed. I worried about the outfit. I worried about my “tan” being even.

I must’ve sweat during the night because in the morning, I ripped off my pajamas to admire my handiwork and was horrified to find my legs now looked like a cross between a zebra and a 50/50 Bar - those orange sherbert and vanilla ice cream bars. I was striped orange and white. I smelled of pop-corn with rancid butter. It wouldn’t wash off. It was a disaster. 

To make it worse, Mom’s sewing skills... well.... they say that some skills skip a generation. All the other girl’s outfits were perfect. Tina de Peralta’s mom was a seamstress by trade. Cheryl’s mom was top-notch in the sewing department. Cheryl could’ve made her own, but she was busy with student government, etc. All the other gals' dresses were neatly lined with the school’s colors of green and black. MY MOM let the raw white seams show which was a problem with those high kicks. Threads were hanging. My stomach sank. Tearful and fearful after confronting my mother that morning about her terrible sewing, I declared I wasn’t going to school. They’d just have to play the bleepin’ game without me. I couldn’t be seen in this condition.

“Nonsense,” my mother said. “You’ll go to school and it will all be OK. From up in the stands, no one is going to be watching your legs or the lining of your damn outfit with binoculars, Melinda. It’s not all about you.” 

I pouted all the way to school. I swaggered and swore all the way to Algebra class after shoving my outfit in my locker.  I hoped the lockers would catch on fire and I wouldn’t have to wear the damned outfit. I pulled my knee socks up and my skirt down to its lowest point on my hips to cover my orange zebra legs. I still smelled of pop corn.

Classes over, we cheer leaders were getting dressed in the girl’s gym before heading out to the field. My sweater, which at least covered my skinny white arms, was short waisted. After being measured carefully at the end of the school year in 1965 for our sweaters to be custom made, that summer the Watts Riots broke out.  Albion Knitting Mills burned to the ground.  Because I was in Ohio when it happened, Cheryl became the model for my new sweater at another mill. She is quite a bit shorter of waist than I am. 

I had an ill-fitting outfit, orange and white striped legs, and smelled of pop-corn. I was miserable.

Then, the game began. I didn’t know the difference between a First Down and a Penalty. I only knew when the ball hit the end zone and every one cheered, we were supposed to cheer too. I kicked and jumped and yelled my throat sore.

Miraculously, Belmont won our first home game against John Marshall High School. Mom was right. The dark day yielded to the light of victory. No one gave a hoot about my mottled legs or the ragged seams or short-waisted sweater. The dark truth is that it wasn’t all about me. I felt lighter for learning that... and just a teeny bit disappointed.