What is colorism and why it still hurts within our own communities

There’s a kind of bias that rarely makes the headlines but quietly shapes everything from dating preferences to job interviews. It whispers in casting rooms, beauty salons, and even family group chats. And for many people of color, it’s not racism from the outside that stings the most—it’s colorism from within.

So what is colorism? In short: it’s the preferential treatment of lighter skin tones, even among people from the same ethnic background. Unlike racism, which draws lines between races, colorism works within them—subtly reinforcing a hierarchy that rewards proximity to Whiteness.

To understand how colorism works today, you have to go back. In the Americas, it began on plantations. Lighter-skinned enslaved people—often the mixed-race children of White slave owners—were more likely to be assigned work in the house, while darker-skinned people were forced into the fields. That division planted a deep social message: lighter is better.

Even after emancipation, that hierarchy stuck. Lighter-skinned Black Americans had greater access to education, were overrepresented in early civil rights leadership, and often became the public face of “respectable” Blackness. Over time, skin tone became a kind of social capital—a signal of beauty, intelligence, and trustworthiness, however unfair or untrue. That legacy still echoes in ways that feel invisible until they’re pointed out.

Let’s be clear: colorism isn’t just a social theory. It shows up in real-world decisions, often dressed up as “aesthetic preference.” Think about magazine covers. Hair product ads. Hollywood casting calls. Lighter-skinned people of color are far more likely to be front and center—while darker-skinned actors, models, or musicians are often sidelined, edited, or deemed “too niche.”

In 2021, In the Heights, a musical celebrating New York’s Latinx community, faced criticism for casting mostly light-skinned leads—even though Washington Heights, the neighborhood it portrays, is known for its racial and ethnic diversity. Lin-Manuel Miranda, the film’s creator, apologized. But the damage was done. It wasn’t just about that film. It was about a pattern: light skin being treated as the default for beauty, relatability, and commercial appeal.

Colorism isn’t subtle when you know where to look. Just take a stroll through a decade’s worth of fashion magazines. Photos of celebrities like Beyoncé, Lupita Nyong’o, and Priyanka Chopra have been noticeably lightened in post-production—often to the point where their natural skin tones are barely recognizable.

Even non-celebrities feel the pressure. On TikTok and Instagram, skin-smoothing filters often include subtle whitening effects. Whitening creams remain a booming industry in South and Southeast Asia, with ads routinely promising that “fairness” equals success. The unspoken message? Light skin isn’t just beautiful. It’s safer. Smarter. More acceptable.

Some public figures have become case studies in how colorism manifests. Sammy Sosa, once a beloved baseball icon, shocked fans when he appeared several shades lighter in public appearances post-retirement. Michael Jackson’s changing appearance has long sparked speculation and judgment. Even Lil’ Kim’s altered look has been interpreted by some as a reflection of internalized colorism shaped by industry pressures.

More recently, Zendaya—a light-skinned Black actress—has spoken about the privilege her skin tone affords her in Hollywood. “I am Hollywood’s acceptable version of a Black girl,” she said in 2018. And she’s right. Representation matters, but it also matters who is being represented. Amandla Stenberg, another light-skinned actress, even stepped away from auditioning for the role of Shuri in Black Panther, saying the role should go to a darker-skinned woman. Her reasoning? Accurate representation—not just of race, but of shade.

What makes colorism especially painful is that it doesn’t always come from outside. Sometimes, it comes from family.

In many communities, color-based comments are embedded in casual conversation. “Don’t stay in the sun too long—you’ll get too dark.” “She’s pretty for a dark-skinned girl.” “Your baby’s lucky—he took your fair skin." They might sound like offhand remarks. But they carry weight. Especially when repeated.

Spike Lee’s School Daze captured this with a famous scene featuring a battle of beauty standards between light- and dark-skinned Black women. The fight takes place in a beauty salon—an intentional choice. For many women, hair and skin tone are bound up in questions of value, identity, and belonging.

According to Harvard sociologist Ellis P. Monk, these biases aren’t just social—they’re structural. In a 2014 study, Monk found that darker-skinned individuals face higher rates of discrimination in hiring, healthcare, education, and law enforcement—even when controlling for income and education. The conclusion? Colorism creates a caste system within racial groups. And this isn’t limited to Black communities.

In South Asian and Southeast Asian families, fairness is still seen as aspirational. In Latinx cultures, “morena” (brown-skinned) can be a backhanded compliment or a subtle putdown. Among Asian Americans, colorism often overlaps with class, with lighter skin associated with indoor labor, wealth, and refinement.

Colorism even seeps into intimacy. Studies show that darker-skinned women, particularly Black women, are less likely to get married than their lighter-skinned peers—and when they do, their partners are statistically less educated or less affluent. Monk attributes this to societal biases that equate light skin with beauty and desirability—a standard applied more harshly to women than men.

Dating apps have only intensified this dynamic. Filter preferences. Swipe data. Racialized beauty rankings. It’s all measurable now—and the results show consistent preference for lighter-skinned users across racial groups.

When we talk about colorism, we can’t stop at beauty. We have to talk about power. Because colorism isn’t just about who gets compliments. It’s about who gets hired. Who gets believed in court. Who gets medical treatment. Who gets to lead.

Darker-skinned individuals are more likely to receive longer prison sentences, less likely to be called back for job interviews, and more likely to be disciplined in schools. These aren’t opinions. They’re data points. And they suggest that colorism quietly props up structural inequality under the radar of most anti-racist frameworks. It’s not enough to include “diversity” in policy or branding. We have to ask: what shade of diversity are we really seeing?

While many industries are still catching up, pop culture plays a unique role in shaping what’s seen as “normal.” The problem isn’t that light-skinned actors exist. The problem is when they’re the only ones who get to be leads, love interests, or heroes—while darker-skinned talent is cast as sidekicks, villains, or not at all. The solution isn’t exclusion. It’s inclusion with range.

We’ve seen small wins. More dark-skinned actors getting lead roles. More directors acknowledging casting bias. More viewers pushing back on erasure. But real change will take more than apologies. It requires rewriting the rules, not just tweaking the script.

Colorism thrives in silence. It survives on “preferences” and “tradition” and “not a big deal.” But it is a big deal. Because it shapes self-worth. It alters outcomes. It defines who feels seen—and who’s always on the margins.

There’s no quick fix. But we can start with visibility. With listening. With noticing who gets praise and why. With changing what gets called beautiful, professional, or “right.” And most importantly, with calling it what it is: not just bias, but a hierarchy that doesn’t belong in the spaces we’re trying to make inclusive.

Colorism isn’t just about skin tone. It’s about the systems and stories that keep telling us some people are more worthy—of love, of leadership, of life itself. Dismantling that isn’t about guilt. It’s about clarity. And once you start seeing it, you can’t unsee it. That’s where change begins.

But here’s the quiet truth: unlearning colorism can feel personal. It means rethinking compliments you were raised on. It means noticing your own bias in who you trust, admire, or date. It means holding space for the anger of those who’ve been overlooked—not because of what they lacked, but because of how they looked.

It’s not just an academic issue. It shows up at weddings, in classrooms, during casting calls, and inside mirrors. That’s why naming it matters. Not to create division—but to close the distance between how we see others and how we value ourselves. Call it out. Let it be uncomfortable. That’s how healing begins.