The rage is palpable. Remember the casting call from an out-of-state agency that sought only “Caucasians or light-skinned Hispanics”? Anger has gone viral.
To review: On Location Casting posted on its website a solicitation for “real families.” The Web site listed desirable qualities among the applicants, but the light-skinned requirement simply set people off.
What were the talent scouts thinking?
As a member of the dark-skinned brigade and obviously unqualified to be cast in a series of commercials designed to bring flatland touristers to New Mexico, I’m amused more than upset. On Location Casting apparently wants the outside world to stop visualizing New Mexico as a suburb of Arizona.
So, mis amigos, I’m not angry over my failure to qualify as a dues-paying, honorary member of the “light-skinned.” My bigger concern is over the obsession with melanin. Why does the amount of pigment one has reflect that person’s character? Many of you — light-skinned or dark — might remember the pre-occupation with how light or dark we are.
I can. The idea really came to light in my years as a press photographer. In the ‘50s and ‘60s, we used press cameras, 4-inch by 5-inch heavyweights fed by sheet film. We loaded the film in a darkroom into a two-sided carrier, so unless you had huge pockets, about all you could take were two photos.
During my assignments to photograph civic or fraternal groups, I’d usually be greeted with, “How do you want us?” I’d spend several minutes trying to get their attention and the rest of the time lining them up. In those days, it seems, a photo wasn’t legitimate unless it contained seven rows, 12-deep, of happy Elks or Masons or Knights or Kiwanians or Does or Rotarians or Lions.
Making sure all could hear, one of the officers stopped before the shooting to explain that “This man here and that man over there ought to be positioned in front of a light background. They’re darker than the rest of us, and we don’t want them to blend into the background,” he said.
Well, that did it! Even if the pair were the darkest of the group, standing in front of a dark wall, I had enough faith in my darkroom acumen to yield a suitable photo. After the chuckling died down, photos taken, one of the men asked me, personally, whether I’d been offended by the dark-light comment. Of course I hadn’t. What I failed to tell him was that I’d heard that light-background comment many times before.
For most of my life I’d heard people refer to skin tone. I’ve been content with what I am, even though some remarks I heard were intended to cut, or at least draw a reaction. More than two- thirds of my life ago, as the owner of a small newspaper in suburban Chicago, I was asked constantly about heritage. And my dark skin prompted the questioning.
“Are you Mexican?” “How far from Mexico City did you live?” “Do you have some Mexican money on you?” “How do you say ‘television’ in Mexican?” Fair questions, inasmuch as I was probably the darkest person in that town of about 6,000.
Invariably, people asked how I got to be so dark. It would have been easy to take umbrage as such questions, but I preferred to have fun. I knew that many of the questions asked about this curious being from Nuevo Mejico were strictly for information, but some were nettlesome.
Well, vatos, I enjoyed fabricating tales of The Great Tamale Chase, The Whole Enchilada Caper and the Where Is My Tequila? routine.
So, to questions like “Are you Mexican?” I’d usually reply, “What gave me away? Was it my funny accent? Perhaps my beeg sombrero, or the serape I wear to church? Or could it have been the cucarachas I keep on a leash?
But there was a dark side too. I discovered that some acquaintances, even those who may have attended fine institutions like Wheaton College, Northwestern University and Illinois Institute of Technology, were woefully uninformed about ethnicity and geography. Even today, if you ask some non-New Mexicans to name all 50 states, the one they’ll omit will be New Mexico.
Some see people with different skin shades as, well, different. Does it matter?
Only today a relative told me about the birth of a great-granddaughter “who is light, light, blonde, blonde, and she has the bluest blue eyes.” In her doubling of the value of the new arrival, I believe my relative blew it, carrying on as if the blondness and blueness qualified the baby for sainthood.
I enjoy listening to those who place value judgments on skin tone and hair and eye color. As for me, dark-skinned and satisfied, I like people as they are.
And I hope the commercial-making company sees the light and meets its quota of perfectly shaded people to appear in the tourist commercials, even if the casting call excludes a lot of us.
By the way: Hispanics can also be Caucasians.
• • •
The wind might have made off with one of the digits on the local KFC marquee last week, and for a while the message read: “0 pc meal $18.99.”
Imagine the scenario when someone places an order: “I’ll have the special, please.”
“No prob. Be right up.”
“Hey, this order has pieces of chicken in it. I ordered zero pieces.”
“Well, you’ll need to talk to the manager about that.”
• • •
And the local McDonald’s drive-up had a sign regarding some menu pricing glitch. The sign included, “Please bare with us.”
No. Even with the warm temperatures, I don’t think McD’s customers are ready for that.
Or maybe those in the drive-up lane can say, “You first.”