A Variegated Color Line

— “Black as a pot ! Black as a pot ! ”

“ I ain’t nigh so black as your own gran’mammy.”

“ Black as a crow ! Black as the ace o’ spades! ”

“ All what you says to me I puts on your gran’mammy,” — this in the solemn tone of a witch casting a spell.

The foregoing dialogue took place between two little colored girls who were loitering on the banquette just outside my parlor window ; and it set in motion a long train of thought. I was impressed anew by one of the strongly marked characteristics of the negro race, — the way in which the color line is drawn among them, — and it struck me as being somewhat surprising that people who write about them usually ignore this trait. The fact is, the white man draws one black color line, but the negro’s color line is variegated. Every shade “ counts ” with the latter, and the color question is a fruitful topic for discussion ; more frequent, it must be added, among women than among men. Tongues wag excitedly over the comparative “ brightness ” of Molly’s and Juley Ann’s complexion ; hard words, and even blows, are often the outcome of such arguments. Naturally, the “brighter” — that is to say, the whiter — the complexion, the more superior and aristocratic does its owner consider herself ; while “ coal-black Rose ” is literally and metaphorically in outer darkness. To have hair “ as straight as a poker ” and a skin light enough to freckle is to be an object of envy to those less blessed.

“My daughter Calline is the freckledest thing ever you see,” said one colored mother proudly to another. “ Why, even to her eyelids is freckled. An1 as fer her hair, you could n’t curl it to save you.”

“ Ah, Lord ! ” sighed the other, as she gazed mournfully upon her own dark-hued progeny, “ wisht I could say ’s much fer mine. Think I must ’a’ ben cunjered when I married a man black like George, an’ now I has this houseful o’ nappy-headed Chillun. Emma’s hair’s that kinky it jus’ won’t grow long ; an’ it’s goin’ to be a mighty big set-back to her when she comes old ’nough to marry.”

There is a colored benevolent society in a certain Southern city — doubtless there are associations like it elsewhere—which will not admit to membership any one whose skin is darker than a certain delicate shade of tan. It is considered something of a misalliance when a yellow girl marries a black man. One tawny mother absolutely refused to let her daughter wed the man of her choice. “ I don’t want to have nothin’ to do with dark-colored folks more ’n pasain’ the time o’ day with ’em,” remarked this stern parent. “ I don’t like ’em near me.” But love laughs at such parental decisions, and the daughter settled the matter by eloping. In one respect she was fortunate ; for her husband’s relatives looked up to her as to a superior being. As one of her friends expressed it : “ Ab’s folks makes a perfec’ treasure o’ Jinny. They think she’s just let down ” (that is, descended, as an angel might, from heaven to earth), “ because she’s lighter ’n what they are.”

“ Nigger,” of course, as a word typifying the deepest blackness, is an old-established taunt. But the black people know how to defend themselves. Yellow Clementine remarks of some passer-by : “ Ain’t she black, though ! She don’t look like nothin’ in the world but the stump of a tree that’s been burnt down. It I was black like that, I ’d ask some one to give me a dost o’ poison.” Whereat black Nancy retorts : “ Don’t you be so stuck up about bein’ bright-complected. The white in you is what the white folks wouldn’t have. I’m a nation ; you’re nothin’! ” Certainly, the handsome black woman, with her fine, robust figure and splendid teeth, did more resemble a “ nation ” than the yellow girl, who was frail in physique, with a sickly looking complexion and discolored teeth.

One dark-brown girl, of unusual intelligence and industry, was frequently heard asseverating with much emphasis, “ Thank goodness, there’s no nigger about me ! ” “ Well, what are you if you ain’t a nigger, you conceited little black something ? ” inquired her fellow-servant one day, in tones of exasperation. “ I ’m no nigger. I ’m a Hayti,” responded Rosina haughtily. Being asked subsequently why she called herself a “ Hayti,” she laughed shamefacedly as she answered : “ Oh, Lor9, ma’am ! I just wanted to say something to shut Marie’s mouth. She’s always crowin’ over me because she’s yellow.”

This poor girl’s idea of bliss was to be white ; she could not imagine how a white person Could ever be downcast or despairing ; in her opinion, the color was enough to console one for anything. Her conception of heaven was that there she would be rid of her dark skin. It was quite pathetic to hear her shrilling, over her work,

as if it gave her passionate pleasure to identify herself, in song, with the “ dominant race.”

The single color line of the whites and the variegated color line of the negroes are equally hard to cross ; and without doubt the latter is accountable for the strange want of solidarity among the dark race which may often be noted. The yellow Afro-American learned from the white American the bitter lesson he now passes on so pitilessly to his black brethren ; and sometimes one wonders what the upshot of it all will be.