A few days ago I was walking in an upscale neighborhood on San Vicente Blvd. It was a classic LA day - sunny, about 72 degrees, and people were out in their convertibles and swanky shades. Maybe it was the brightness of the sun or the exclusiveness of the boutique shops around me, but my bare arms suddenly seemed pathetically pale and vulnerable. I understood, for once in my life, the appeal of being tan. Tanning isn't just a phenomenon; it's an institution. And the reality is that it only matters to people with white skin. Tanning is a symbol of leisure, but race lurks under its bronzed exterior. White people already have so much - why do they covet darker skin? Are all sun bathers putting on their own blackface performances? White culture is constantly grasping for some new hip (inevitably "non-white") thing.
I'd never really want to have a perfect golden tan, but sometimes I wish I could hide my white skin. The less I identify with all the baggage that comes with being white the more I expect to look in the mirror and see a completely different person.
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