When did you realize your sibling was fully brainwashed by your parents?

The Abuse and The Breaking Point

My family are the most racist people I’ve ever met. Whenever we went outside during summer, my mom would count the number of times that me and my older sister stepped out of the shade. And when we got home, each time was equal to one hard slap.

For years, our morning routine consisted of our mom rubbing skin whitener from the Dollar Tree all over our bodies. The whiter we looked, the better treatment she would give us. I remember just always wanting to be a normal kid.

But my sister, on the other hand, she was a whitewashed queen. Every night, she would set an alarm for every two hours to make her sleep as disrupted as possible.

That way, she was exhausted all the time, which naturally made her look more pale. Like, what in the Bombaclot?

Instead of our parents telling her that her health was more important than making sure she didn’t look Hispanic, they would treat her like royalty. They’d shower her with beautiful dresses, expensive jewelry, literally just anything she wanted.

Soon it became clear who the golden child was. If I wanted their love, this is what I had to do. But I was desperate to find other ways.

I tried getting straight A’s in school, cleaning the house top to bottom every weekend, and giving my parents foot massages. “Thanks, honey. But I really wish you worked this hard on getting beautiful pale skin like your sister,” they’d always say.

After my parents got me a literal bleach hair product shipped from Africa for my 16th birthday, I spent the entire day crying into the Barnes & Nobles teddy bear in my room. My sister came in and hugged me.

I figured she was going to say that she’d always be there for me. That beneath the skin color, I was still her sister and that was all that mattered. But no, she said: “Ila, I love you and I want to help you. Look at me.”

I stared at her malnourished self, the eye bags forming crates under her eyes, the chemical burns on her scalp from straightening her hair. “If I can look this beautiful, so can you.”

I swear I thought she was pranking me. But the spark in her eyes told me otherwise. She truly believed that treating herself like that was the way.

From then on, I started wearing foundation that was two shades too light for me and always found a way to cover up the rest of my body. Not because I hated my brown skin or natural curls, but simply because it would make my parents happier.

And after all, they were the people that birthed me. Fast forward six years later, I just graduated from the University of Florida.

When last Thanksgiving came around, I was feeling really good. I had taken up running and spent so much time outside that I was forced to embrace my natural hunger and beauty. And I loved it.

My boyfriend Carlos loved it too, lol. He was half Puerto Rican, half Italian, and very much familiar with the whole internalized racism thing.

But he was also white passing, so I expected everything with my parents to be okay until reality hit. I showed up at my parents house with him holding my hand.

I had even put on a slightly lighter foundation to lessen the blow of everything. When the door opened, I saw a woman who looked like my sister, except more depressed, deathly pale, and extremely skinny.

My heart broke and I guess hers did too. As soon as she saw us, she cried out: “Do Mio, what are you doing to our bloodline?”

My boyfriend instantly squeezed my hand as if to say, “It’s okay. We got this.” Meanwhile, tears were streaming down my face.

“My love, what have you done to yourself?” My mom screamed while trying to undo my slipback bun and straighten it out with her fingers. And that’s when she saw Carlos.

Her mouth opened so wide, I thought her jaw was about to snap into two. She yelled: “Ah, you almost had me believing that this monkey was actually your boyfriend, but I understand you’re young, just messing around.”

She then chuckled to herself as if it was the funniest thing in the world. My dad then grabbed my hand to bring me inside and immediately handed my sister the skin whitening cream to put on my face.

Except it wasn’t the same one from when I was a child. Number this one hurt. I screamed: “I stop. Get away from me,” I yelled, tears streaming down my face.

Within seconds, blisters had filled my face and I was peeling all over. As I screamed, Carlos called the hospital.

I figured by this point, my parents would realize they were being idiots. But no, my dad tried to wrestle with Carlos to grab the phone from him.

“Pain is beauty. Arida will be beautiful.” Meanwhile, my entire face felt like it had been dipped in hot sauce over 100 times.

Luckily, they still arrived. By the time I was seen by nurses, my eyebrows had already been burned off. My sister helped my parents destroy my face with illegal skin whitening cream, so I cut them all off for good.