Understanding light-skin privilege in relation to anti-Black racism: colourism, racism-induced stress and poor health outcomes amongst Black British women

ABSTRACT

Light-skin privilege is a term that is often used to describe the relative advantages that racially minoritized people who are socially recognised as “light-skinned” receive when navigating predominantly white spaces compared to their peers with darker-skin. This article considers the relationship between racism-induced stress and poor health outcomes amongst Black British women who self-identify as having light-, medium-, or dark-skin to examine the extent to which light-skin privilege mitigates the negative effects that racial discrimination has on health. Drawing on interviews conducted with 20 Black British women, I complicate the understanding that light-skin privilege invariably leads to better health outcomes for Black British women with light-skin by revealing how its operation at a systemic level can coincide with individual experiences of anti-Black racism that can, in turn, lead to poor health.

KEYWORDS:

• Black women
• health
• racism-induced stress
• intersectionality
• colourism
• privilege

Introduction

In December 2022, Meghan Markle and Prince Harry released a documentary series detailing their experiences of unfair treatment and harassment from the British press whilst employed as senior members of the British royal family (Harry & Megan 2022). This mistreatment and harassment, they argue, was largely due to Markle’s positionality as a Mixed woman in a historically white and elitist institution (Andrews 2021a). Throughout the documentary both Markle and Prince Harry infer that this mistreatment reflects a broader issue of systemic racism that has permeated the institution since its inception. Whilst describing her experiences growing up in Los Angeles, Markle argues that she did not experience racial discrimination in the same way as her peers with darker skin because she was socially perceived as “light-skinned” and, therefore, Mixed rather than Black. Markle reiterates this argument in a podcast interview she conducted with pop-singer Mariah Carey shortly before the documentary’s release where she describes how, unlike some Mixed women who are socially identified as Black because of their relatively “dark” skin, she and Carey are socially identified as Mixed in the US because they have light-skin:

I think for us, it’s very different because we’re light-skinned. You’re not treated as a Black woman. You’re not treated as a white woman. You sort of fit in between. I mean, if there’s any time in my life that it’s been more focused on my race, it’s only once I started dating my husband. Then I started to understand what it was like to be treated like a Black woman. Because up until then, I had been treated like a Mixed woman.

(Markle 2022)

By arguing that she was treated as a Mixed woman rather than as a Black woman throughout most of her life Markle presents these two categories as mutually exclusive and, in doing so, inadvertently contradicts the historical ways they have been recognised as mutually implicative throughout much of US history. Throughout the transatlantic slave era, Mixed children (often the progeny of white enslavers and Black enslaved people) were persistently categorised as Black to both ensure their subjugation and increase the number of enslaved “workers” on slave plantations (Davis 2010). Following US emancipation, the social and legal implementation of the “one drop rule” (a classification system that demarcates a person as Black if they have any known Black ancestry) meant that even “white-passing” people were recognised as Black if their Black ancestry was made known despite having what many perceived to be a visibly “white” appearance. However, despite this recognition, Black people with lighter skin were more likely to achieve relative socio-economic success than Black people with darker skin because of their greater access to educational opportunities (Reece 2018). Whilst the “one drop rule” is no longer upheld in the US legal system, scholars such as Nikki Khanna argue that it is socially evident in contemporary US society because many Mixed people continue to self-identify in ways that primarily (and often exclusively) align with their racially minoritized parent (Khanna 2010). Indeed, the criticism that Markle received from numerous Black commentators following the release of her statement for seemingly “rejecting her Blackness” demonstrates how, in the US, Blackness continues to be recognised as an inclusive concept that also incorporates Mixed experiences.¹

Because the “one drop rule” was not formally implemented in UK law one could argue that it is not a key part of its racial history. However, Markle's claim that she was only “treated like a Black woman” after she entered the British royal family is telling of how Blackness is socially and politically recognised in ways that align with the “one drop rule’s” core principals. Despite feeling seen as Mixed and not Black in the US, Markle felt seen as Black in the UK because she was unable to appropriate the values and norms that are intrinsic to the British monarchy; values and norms that standardise and, some would argue, valorise whiteness (Andrews 2021a, 2021b). As the nation’s first “Black princess” (Andrews 2021b) Markle was routinely subjected to racist abuse and vitriol that made her position as a Black woman within a historically white institution clear. This, in turn, meant that Markle experienced a loss of the relative privileges she had been accustomed to in the US as a (Mixed/ Black) woman with light-skin.

Light-skin privilege, often understood within the context of colourism, represents a systemic form of discrimination that privileges people of colour with light-skin over their counterparts with darker skin (Hargrove 2019; Landor and McNeil Smith 2019; Phoenix and Craddock 2022). Light-skin privilege is a global phenomenon that affects countries with various colonial histories, and is often indicative of multiple key health outcomes that are influenced by social perceptions and interactions (Dhillon-Jamerson 2018; Monk 2015). Research shows that racially minoritised people in predominantly white countries who are socially perceived as having light-skin are less likely to experience various forms of inter-racial discrimination than their peers with darker skin (Ortega-Williams, Crutchfield, and Hall 2021) and are, therefore, less likely to experience various health conditions associated with racism-induced stress. These conditions include, amongst others, hypertension, stroke, cardiovascular disease and diabetes (Geronimus 2023; Hicken, Lee, and Hing 2018). Because of their closer proximity to whiteness, Black people with light-skin in predominantly white countries may be able to navigate systems and environments in ways that increase their chances of progressing in higher education and gaining access to high-income employment compared to Black people with dark-skin (Dhillon-Jamerson 2018). This, in turn, means that, as well as experiencing lower rates of racism-induced stress, Black people with light-skin are more likely to benefit from access to resources that directly promote health, including healthy foods, exercise opportunities and safe housing (Hunter 2005).

However, research also shows that Black people with light-skin are more likely to experience intra-racial forms of exclusion that preclude forms of community building (Campion 2019), which is a key resilience strategy that can function as a protective intervention against some of the negative health effects of racism by providing spaces of solidarity and protection. This, when combined with the systemic privileges that Black people with light-skin often receive compared to Black people with dark-skin, means that light-skin privilege can be understood as both beneficial and detrimental to health outcomes for Black people who are perceived as having light-skin. Few studies have considered the role of light-skin privilege in the everyday experiences of Black women in the UK and, to my knowledge, none have considered the role of light-skin privilege in shaping health outcomes amongst Black British women. This omission, I argue, has limited UK-focused scholarship that seeks to examine light-skin privilege as an intersectional tool because it precludes an understanding of the impact of light-skin privilege on population- and individual-level health. By comparing the experiences of 20 self-identified Black British women with diverse skin tones, I show how light-skin privilege can operate in conjunction with anti-Black racism in ways that shape both mental and physical health outcomes for Black women. By arguing for a clear understanding of how light-skin privilege exists in relation to experiences of anti-Black racism, I emphasise the need to adopt an intersectional approach to the study of racism-induced stress and related ill health to better recognise colourism as a key, yet complicated, determinant of health.

Methods

This article is based on 20 in-depth semi-structured interviews with participants who self-identify as Black British women with light-skin, a medium-complexion, or dark-skin. Black women who self-identified as Mixed Black were also eligible to take part. Interviews were conducted online between March and June 2022, during which time all participants reported having lived in the UK since early childhood. The average age of participants was 34 years, with ages ranging from 19 to 65 years. Two of the participants disclosed that they were part-time students and the majority reported that they worked in a variety of public and private sector occupations, including: teachers, strategy consultants and health care providers. Three participants were unemployed at the time of the interview. Ethical approval was sought and granted from the author’s home institution, and participants were recruited using purposeful sampling. To recruit participants, I posted calls for participation on Twitter and asked my research networks to distribute the invitation to people they thought might be interested in sharing their experiences. People who were interested in taking part were invited to email me directly, and those that did were provided with detailed information about the study and a further invitation to respond to my email if they were happy to be interviewed. I then replied to those who were happy to be interviewed to arrange a date and time for the interview that suited them. Written consent was gained from all participants prior to the interview, and verbal consent was gained at the beginning of each interview.

Because participants were based in different locations across the UK all interviews were conducted online via an online video platform. Participants were encouraged to put their computer cameras on during the interview but were not required to do so. My camera remained on throughout each interview and participants were encouraged to refer to my skin tone as a point of reference when talking about skin tone differences. I asked participants questions from an interview guide exploring how skin tone and related experiences of racism and colourism influence mental and physical health (e.g. “do you feel like you’ve experienced racism differently from other Black people because of your skin tone?” and “do you feel like your experiences of racism have impacted your health?”). All participants received a retail e-voucher as a gesture of appreciation for their time, as well as links to support groups and mental health charities that specifically address the challenges that Black people face when navigating racist environments in the UK.

For researchers who use qualitative methods to explore sensitive areas of everyday life the research process can often feel abstractive (Thambinathan and Kinsella 2021), with participants sharing information that is potentially both painful and personal in exchange for the opportunity to participate in a research project they are passionate about and/ or financial reimbursement for their time. As a result, researchers may feel that, during the interview, they have taken from participants without fairly giving back, and could attempt to remedy that inequity by ensuring the participant has access to published work and/ or offering to present their research at events that are meaningful to participants. To minimise the capacity for unequal exchange I invited all participants to ask sensitive questions of me that they deemed appropriate during the interview and was forthcoming in my responses to how racism and my own experiences of light-skin privilege have affected my health. Whilst not all participants chose to ask me sensitive questions the ones who did often said that this exchange reduced overall feelings of discomfort and, at times, shame when discussing their everyday experiences of racism and racism-induced ill health. Questions that participants asked me typically included a provocation that would include me in their response (i.e. “have you ever had it when a person says something racist but doesn’t see it as racist?”). My confirmation or denial of that experience may have shaped their subsequent responses by influencing their decision to disclose further details about their experiences.

By creating a pathway for exchange I further aimed to deconstruct common modes of knowledge production that examine lived experiences from a “top down” perspective by creating a more linear approach to data collection. Whilst my involvement in the data collection did not eliminate the unequal power dynamics that are arguably inherent in all researcher/ participant interactions (Mills, Bonner, and Francis 2006), it worked towards reducing those dynamics by placing me in conversation with, rather than in relation to, participants. In line with Black feminist methodologies that recognise Black lived experience as a necessary tool to examine broader forms of structural and institutional oppression (Hamilton 2020; Thambinathan and Kinsella 2021), I interviewed myself as part of the research process. This decision was shaped by my awareness of how my own lived experiences generated an initial interest in this topic as well as a broader recognition of the importance of reflexivity in research, particularly when that research personally implicates researchers in the phenomenon being studied (Giwa 2015). Whilst including myself as a research participant initially generated feelings of discomfort and unease, the vulnerability that this process engendered prompted an awareness of the need for increased sensitivity when asking specific questions as well as an appreciation of the level of trust that is needed in order to feel comfortable disclosing certain information to an interviewer. This, in turn, shaped my research praxis moving forwards by ensuring that appropriate time was spent at the beginning of each interview addressing any initial feelings of discomfort and signalling to participants throughout the interview that I recognised the sensitivity of the subject matter. To ensure that the responses I gave were not shaped or influenced by other participants’ responses I interviewed myself before I interviewed any other participants and followed the same interview guide that I used for all subsequent interviews. This interview was audio recorded and I transcribed it myself to ensure anonymity.

Interviews lasted between 25 and 95 minutes (average 55 minutes) and were transcribed verbatim by an external transcription service (with the exception of my interview). Transcripts were anonymised and all participants were given a pseudonym before data analysis began. Data was analysed using reflexive thematic analysis in accordance with Braun and Clarke’s approach (Braun and Clarke 2006), and was conducted using NVivo 12. When carrying out the data analysis I also adopted a Black feminist approach to the study of social interactions, which centres “embodied knowledges that emerge through the experiences of black women who name and speak their varied forms of truth” (Patterson et al. 2016, 60). This approach added further nuance to the data analysis by directly placing participants’ experiences of racism in relation to their embodied awareness of the effects that those experiences have had (and, often, continue to have) on their health. Because this area of research is highly understudied in the UK, I used an inductive approach to data analysis to ensure that themes were data-driven and not created in accordance with a pre-existing coding frame. In accordance with Braun and Clarke’s “phases of thematic analysis” (Braun and Clarke 2006) I initially familiarised myself with the transcribed data, read and re-read the data, and noted initial ideas. I then generated preliminary codes across the data set and collated those codes into potential themes. Following this, I reviewed my initial themes by checking that they worked in relation to the coded extracts. I then identified overlapping themes and synthesised them by creating a thematic map of the analysis. I then proceeded by refining each theme before conceptualising the narrative arch of the analysis and generating conclusive names for each theme. Finally, I produced a scholarly report of the analysis (this article) by putting each theme in dialogue with each other and relating my analysis back to the research questions and existing literature.

As sole author I carried out all of the data collection and data analysis and, as a Mixed Black British woman with light-skin, it is likely that my positionality as an insider/ outsider influenced some of the responses that I received from participants. During their interviews two respondents with light-skin noted that they would not have disclosed certain details about their lived experience if they did not also presume that I shared those experiences. Additionally, when asked to elaborate on their understanding of skin tone variations, several participants with dark-skin identified me as white and/ or “white-skinned”, which might have generated a reluctance to disclose intimate details of their experiences of racism to me during the interview. Whilst perceptions of skin tone can be subjective (Roth 2010), self-reported skin tone was used to contextualise participants experiences of racism in relation to their understanding of how they are socially perceived. Additionally, self-identification allowed for further discussion about the relationship between race-related mistreatment and health by making clear how internal and external recognitions of racial identity can differ when navigating multiracial systems and environments.

Understanding colourism

Colourism operates both inter- and intra-racially to afford privileges and, often, preferential treatment to people of colour with light-skin both outside of, and within, their own racialised groups. Whilst colourism is directly related to racism, it differs conceptually because of its ties to both inter- and intra-racial forms of discrimination. Whilst racism is a system that operates between racialised groups, colourism operates both between and within racialised groups in ways that benefit people who are recognised as having light-skin. In this way, colourism adds further intersectional nuance when examining lived experiences of discrimination (Monk 2021a; Phoenix and Craddock 2022). People who benefit from light-skin privilege are often recognised as the recipients of unearned advantages that allow them to navigate predominantly white environments more easily than people with dark-skin, often due to their perceived ability to more closely approximate whiteness through their relative conformity to normative (white) beauty ideals (Hunter 2005).

Because beauty capital can disproportionately lead to social and financial success for women (Anderson et al. 2010), colourism can be understood as a gendered construct that allows women of colour with light-skin, in particular, to benefit from their alignment with hegemonic beauty norms and ideals (Hunter 2005). However, whilst colourism is widely understood to disproportionately affect women of colour, research shows that it can also affect interpersonal dynamics between Black men. In their qualitative study examining the effects of colourism on Black British men, Aisha Phoenix and Nadia Craddock note that self-identified Black and Mixed (Black/White) male participants discussed similar forms of colour-driven stratification to those experienced by Black women (Phoenix and Craddock 2022). However, their findings also showed that some Black men felt they were not subjected to this form of stratification in the same way as their female counterparts because their dark-skin could be positively read as symbolic of their masculinity and desirability (Phoenix and Craddock 2022, 10). This finding coincides with previous research (albeit predominantly non-UK-focused) suggesting that, for Black women, having dark-skin is often negatively perceived as both masculine and undesirable (Broady, Todd, and Darity 2018; Hughes 2021). It is also supported by the work of sociologists Remi Joseph-Salisbury and Jennifer Sims who, through their examination of the experiences of Mixed Black men in the UK and US, argue that dark-skin can function as a form of capital (Sims and Joseph-Salisbury 2019).

In addition to recognising the potential importance of gender in discussions of colourism, it is also important to note how interpersonal relationships within family and friendship groups can be informed by colourism. Horizontal hostility is a term that is used by scholars to describe the divisions that can emerge within oppressed groups because of differences such as skin colour, and how those divisions can lead to feelings of exclusion and marginalisation amongst those who are made to feel less included in their respective groups by their peers (Campion 2019). In Black communities, horizontal hostility can occur in ways that concurrently reinforce and invert colour hierarchies by presenting Black people with light-skin as both privileged and disadvantaged when it comes to social acceptance in Black and non-Black spaces. Whilst they are typically afforded greater privileges than Black people with darker skin in predominantly white spaces, Black people with lighter skin can also experience rejection and exclusion in Black spaces for “not being Black enough” (Campion 2019). These experiences can further lead to mental ill health amongst Black people with light-skin who seek within-group kinship ties and solidarity within Black spaces when navigating racist environments. Additionally, research suggests that these experiences can lead to physical ill health amongst affected people who concurrently experience racism-induced stress from non-Black groups and hostility from within Black communities that increase their risk of stress-related health conditions (Monk 2021a). In this way, light-skin privilege can operate as a complicated phenomenon that both confers and withholds relative “good health” from those who benefit from it depending on their social location.

It is important to note that, whilst some Black people with light-skin experience double discrimination in the form of anti-Black racism in inter-racial environments and colour-driven exclusion in intra-racial environments, Black people with dark-skin are significantly more likely to experience ill health as a result of racism (Monk 2021b). Because both racism and colourism operate in ways that disproportionately disadvantage people with dark-skin, Black people with dark-skin are more at risk of the race- and colour-related harm that comes from routine forms of anti-Black discrimination. With this recognition in mind, this article examines the experiences of 20 self-identified Black British women with light-skin, a medium complexion or dark-skin to discern the relationship between light-skin privilege, racism, and stress-related health outcomes in the UK. In doing so, I situate experiences of anti-Black racism within the context of light-skin privilege to explore how the relative privileges afforded to Black women with light-skin influence their overall health outcomes.

Theorising Black experiences

Despite their variances in skin tone, all participants reported routine experiences of anti-Black racism from a young age. These experiences ranged from being marginalised in school settings, being routinely referred to using racist slurs, receiving discriminatory treatment in healthcare settings and being discriminated against in the job market. Moreover, all participants discussed early memories of racism when either they or their family members were directly targeted:

The first time I became aware of what racism is was when I was little and my mum told me about it. She went to a healthcare centre to receive some treatment and she said that the people there didn’t listen to her and weren’t interested in what she was trying to explain … she was asked to wait for some time because the doctor was busy and then a white person came and the [healthcare co-ordinator] told the white person the doctor was free. She actually allowed the white person to go and meet the doctor while she didn’t let my mum in … mum explained to me that, as a Black person, at some point you will experience that, especially in healthcare. She also told me that maybe at some point children [will] also do that, maybe in school.

-	Joyce (mid-20s, dark-skin)

We used to live in an area in Nottingham where it’s Asian and Black, and then my mum got a council house in a quieter white middle class area. There were no Black people for about a four-mile radius … in infant school some boys in the year above used to chase me around shouting “blacky” at lunch time and break time.

-	Kayleigh (late-30s, medium-complexion)

I remember another time when I was in McDonalds … there was this kid that just kept like pointing at me because I’m Black. And their mum kept pushing their hand down recognising it was rude and I remember the child’s mum looked mortified but they [child] just kept pointing at me.

-	Grace (early-30s, light-skin)

For each participant, external recognition of their racialised differences (i.e. being made aware of the likelihood of future experiences of institutional mistreatment, being referred to using derogatory terms, and being pointed at for being Black in a predominantly white space) influenced their understanding of social perceptions of racial difference from a young age. Joyce’s early awareness of how racism operates in medical settings through her mother’s experience was intended to prepare her for similar experiences she would likely have as a Black woman throughout her life. The re-telling of this story was intended as a protective act to ensure that Joyce recognises this mistreatment as structural rather than caused by anything she might have personally done, thus reducing the likelihood of Joyce believing herself to be at fault for any racist mistreatment. For Kayleigh and Grace, being singled out for being Black in predominantly white spaces provoked an early awareness of how their bodies were racialised as different. For Kayleigh this meant being verbally reminded of the fact that she is perceived as Black through persistent derogatory name-calling, and for Grace this meant being literally pointed at for being Black.

During their interviews some participants discussed their discomfort with being subjected to racism from a young age despite not yet having a language for it or fully understanding what it was. This often meant that participants understood these experiences retrospectively, which for some increased feelings of confusion as they reflected on previous incidents to determine the specific racist logics at play. One participant with light-skin recounted how she was retrospectively made aware of a racist incident that occurred during her infancy after being told about it by a white family member years later:

I was recently told by [a white family member] that when I was 18 months old or around that kind of age she was pushing me in town - I grew up in like a working class town in the south of England - she was pushing me round town and a child that she thought was about 3 pointed at me and said “look mummy an N word.” Obviously, I don’t remember any of that because I was 18 months old and I didn’t know anything [about racism] but it makes me really sad to think of how many times that kind of thing probably happened to me without me knowing about it.

-	Grace (early-30s, light-skin)

By retrospectively examining her position as a person who was racialised as Black in a predominantly white environment, Grace expressed feelings of sadness when speculating about the likelihood of her experiencing racism without being aware of it at different points throughout her life. Despite having light-skin and, as she later stated during the interview, a “visibly Mixed” appearance, the racism that was directed towards Grace in the predominantly white semi-rural town she grew up in was specifically anti-Black, thereby demonstrating her social positionality as a Black child in a predominantly white environment. Similar forms of anti-Black racism were reiterated by other Black women with light-skin (BWLS) who recounted being racialised as Black in white spaces. Despite being perceived as having light-skin in Black spaces, these participants were perceived as having dark-skin in white spaces and were subjected to various forms of anti-Black racism:

I grew up in Lincolnshire and so I basically was Black there, because I was like the half-caste² kid. That’s what I would be called, without any redress. People would call me that at school, like no problem, no harm, no foul.

-	Amber (early-30s, light-skin)

I’ve got a very strong Black identity because we grew up in a white area, we weren’t trying to assimilate or anything like that. My dad he was very Jamaican, we grew up with animals, we grew up with chickens, we had goats. We kind of grew up like kids do in Jamaica.

-	Bernice (mid-40s, light-skin)

Amber’s positionality as a Mixed Black woman with light-skin growing up in a predominantly white environment meant that she was consistently racialised as Black from a young age, despite being later recognised as having light-skin in Black spaces. As the “half-caste kid” Amber was treated as a Black child by her peers at school and was routinely reminded of her perceived racial difference by white students who viewed her Mixedness as evidence of her Blackness. For Bernice, the “strong Black identity” she developed because of her upbringing meant that her family existed as an insular unit within the predominantly white environment she lived in. Growing up “like kids do in Jamaica”, Bernice and her siblings did not attempt to assimilate with people who were not Black in their community and, instead, immersed themselves in Jamaican cultural traditions that were introduced by their father and encouraged within their family unit. In this way, Bernice’s light-skin was immaterial to her adoption of a specifically Black identity and, instead, signified her position as a Black child in a predominantly white community.

During their interviews many Black women with dark-skin (BWDS) discussed how their experiences of colourism meant that they were routinely disadvantaged compared to BWLS in areas such as employment, education and healthcare. For some, this fuelled beliefs that BWLS do not experience racial discrimination in the same way that they do:

sometimes a light-skinned person may be treated better in the job market because [they] have lighter skin … because of your skin they [white employers] might think you have more potential or that you will be able to carry out your duty better.

-	Kimberly (mid-20s, dark-skin)

Int: Do you see Mixed Black people as Black?

B: Not entirely, no

Int: Why do you say that?

B: Because, I don’t know, it’s me that knows Black because they [Mixed Black person] may not have faced the same troubles, the small little challenges of Black persons or people with black [dark] skin face.

-	Briana (mid-30s, dark-skin)

sometimes you may be treated better because you have lighter skin than the dark person and there are some individuals, mostly the white [people], who tend to understand that in all things the white [people] perform better than the Blacks. So, because of your skin, they might think you have more potential or you will be able to carry out your duty more perfectly compared to the Black [person].

-	Iyanna (early-20s, dark-skin)

For Iyanna, racialised assumptions about work-based competency means that BWLS are more likely to be offered employment than BWDS and are more likely to be recognised as having the potential to achieve success. For Kimberly and Briana, everyday forms of racial discrimination in the job market and in routine social interactions are not experienced equally between Black people who have light-skin and those who have dark-skin and, therefore, are not shared in the same way. Whilst this assumption is warranted given the material benefits and privileges that are often afforded to BWLS in the UK (Andrews 2021b), they do not correspond with the experiences of anti-Black racism that all participants with light-skin reported during their interviews. Because of the relative nature of skin tone in any given environment and context, despite being understood as having light-skin in Black spaces BWLS were subjected to anti-Black racism because they were understood to have dark-skin in white spaces. In this way, despite the clear ways in which colourism as a systemic form of discrimination privileges BWLS over their counterparts with dark-skin, all participants were racialised as Black and experienced anti-Black discrimination in predominantly white contexts.

Light-skin is white-skin

When asked about light-skin privilege and how it shapes attitudes towards BWLS compared to BWDS, nine BWDS stated that BWLS are typically given preferential treatment because they are socially recognised as white. This recognition, they argue, is because they are socially read as “white-skinned”, which carries meaning in terms of how they are racially identified. According to these participants, because BWLS are perceived as “white-skinned” by white people they are largely recognised as “insiders” within predominantly white environments and are treated as such:

There is actually no specific difference between a light-skinned [Black] person and a white person because even if someone is British, African, or American and maybe you are light-skinned, you’ll be treated the same way as a white person.

-	Natalie (late-30s, dark-skin)

J: I actually choose people with my same complexion [to be friends with] because I feel like if I approached a light-skinned person that I want to be friends with she might reject me

I: Just to clarify, is that lighter-skinned people, so my complexion, or white people or both?

J: Light-skinned and white people, I think they’re the same

I: Why do you think they’re the same?

J: Maybe they feel like they are special and that’s why they were given such a complexion, and also they don’t have to maybe mingle with people that have my complexion.

-	Jenelle (early-20s, dark-skin)

For Natalie, Black people with light-skin and white people are treated equally because their “similar” complexions mark them as equal in racist societies that promote white supremacist logics. Implicit in this assumption is the belief that BWLS can effectively “pass” as white because they visually present as white, conferring upon them privileges that are commonly associated with living as a white person (i.e. white privilege). In this way, light-skin privilege is understood as synonymous with white privilege in terms of the benefits it gives those who are able to claim it. For Jenelle, Black people with light-skin and white people are “the same” because both are afforded privileges that allow them to “feel like they are special” when compared to Black people with darker skin. Moreover, because they feel that they are “special”, BWLS may purposefully seek to disengage with people who have a darker complexion in favour of associating with white people with whom they share “equal” status. This sentiment was shared by other BWDS who felt that they would be treated better by white people if they had “white skin”, a term they used when talking about Black people with light-skin:

I: Do you think white people would discriminate against you as much if you were light-skinned, like my kind of skin colour?

M: Yeah, if I had white skin white people would not discriminate against me

I: And do you think that I have white skin?

M: Yes

-	Melissa (mid-20s, dark-skin)

I: Do you think that a light-skinned Black woman would be more likely to get that job than you?

H: Yeah

I: Why do you think that?

H: Because I think maybe they’re [employer] intellectualising the fact that if you’re white skinned you’re better than a dark-skinned person

-	Hayley (early-30s, dark-skin)

If they were light-skinned I would think that they’re white.

-	Joyce (mid-20s, dark-skin)

For Melissa and Hayley, having light-skin means having “white skin” in contexts where light-skin privilege positively influences both social interactions and job prospects. By using the terms “light-skinned” and “white-skinned” synonymously, both participants infer that Black people with light-skin and white people are treated equally and given equal opportunities. Moreover, by positioning both groups as equal, these participants present Blackness as a monolithic category that excludes people who do not have dark-skin. For one participant, presenting as “white-skinned” is not limited to skin colour but, instead, includes other physical features that are often racialised as phenotypically “white”:

B: My cousins were white and like were white-skinned and I was dark-skinned when I was like 7 years old. And I asked my mum, and I was like “mum, why do I have dark skin?” and she was like “that’s how God made us”

I: When you say white-skinned, what do you mean by that?

B: Like light-skinned, you know with straight hair and not the spongey hair

-	Briana (mid-30s, dark-skin)

For Briana, being “white-skinned” with straight hair marks one as white regardless of family ties and connections. In a similar way to how she might position herself in relation to her white peers, Briana recognises how she visually differs from her cousins with lighter skin and confers a separation between them in terms of how they are racially categorised based on that difference. By equating Blackness with having dark-skin, Briana infers that social recognition is the determining factor in racial assignment and in doing so minimises the importance of self-identification when it comes to race. Because race is socially constructed and largely determined by external signifiers of perceived difference (Jones et al. 2008), women who self-identify as Black and have light-skin risk being categorised as white because of how they visually differ from women with dark-skin who are unequivocally read as Black. This racial binary (dark-skin Black and white) directly challenges the experiences of anti-Black racism that BWLS reported during their interviews, as well as how those experiences negatively impacted their self-reported health.

Racism-induced stress and related health outcomes

Racism-induced stress is a known cause of poor health outcomes amongst racially minoritised populations who reside in predominantly white countries and are routinely subjected to overt and covert forms of racist violence (Davis 2019; Sikka 2022). These forms of violence can be physical, emotional or symbolic, with the latter denoting a type of harm that conditions the sufferer to perpetuate forms of racism that they have learned to accept (Thomas, Wyatt, and Hansford 2020). Emotional and symbolic forms of racism can occur gradually, sometimes extending over the course of a person’s life and culminating in ways that are not made known or visible. Research shows that the cumulative effects of this exposure to racism can lead to numerous adverse health outcomes and early morbidity. Routine exposure to everyday forms of discrimination can put racially minoritised groups at increased risk of health conditions such as cardiovascular disease, diabetes and hypertension, as well as mental health disorders such as anxiety, depression, and psychosis (Geronimus 2023; Hooks 2015; Kwate and Threadcraft 2017; Warren-Findlow 2006). “Weathering” is a term commonly used to describe the health implications of everyday forms of racial discrimination (also known as “microaggressions”) for racially minoritised groups. These everyday forms of discrimination typically consist of “verbal and nonverbal insults (i.e. being ignored or passed over), dealing with perceptions of distrust and perceived criminality, exoticisation, asserted race blindness, being perceived as less than capable [and] a constant fear of arrest and general contempt” (Sikka 2022, 220). This discrimination is often covert and persistent, operating at the level of everyday interactions between white and racially minoritised groups in ways that render the latter subordinate and, in some cases, at risk of immediate harm.

The cumulative effects of these everyday forms of racism, coupled with institutional racism, can result in shortened longevity and can lead to disparate mortality rates between white and racially minoritised groups. As noted by Arline Geronimus in a study on the long-term effects of “weathering”, Black women often experience early health deterioration because of the “cumulative impact of repeated experience with social, economic, or political exclusion. This includes the physical cost of engaging actively to address structural barriers to achievement and well-being” (Geronimus 2001, 133). By highlighting the particular ways that Black women experience weathering, Geronimus points to Black womens’ unique susceptibility to systems and inter-personal relationships that negatively affect their health by consistently generating stress responses. This finding is consistent with scholarship detailing the unique burdens placed on Black women as caregivers and emotional providers in contexts where pervading stereotypes about Black female “strength” and “resilience” create expectations of durability when it comes to bearing emotional strain (Watson-Singleton 2017).

Because all participants experienced anti-Black racism from a young age, all were subjected to the conditions that generate racism-induced stress and its concurrent health risks. Whilst BWDS are significantly more likely to experience harsher forms of anti-Black racism in predominantly white environments, all BWLS reported that racism negatively affected their health:

I can feel the kind of stress of racism, even when I’m reading about it I can feel it in my body and I know that stress does bad things for your body when it’s chronic … when George Floyd was murdered and a lot of people were kind of having conversations about Black death … I can’t not think about my family. And being exposed to those kind of triggers constantly I would say has a harmful effect on my health because of how I kind of treat my body. In the sense that I might lose my appetite and that can have all kinds of effects on my health.

-	Grace (early-30s, light-skin)

I have really unhealthy responses to race and racism. I eat too much, I drink too much at times. I think as I was younger my go to moves were probably drugs, alcohol and men in my teenage youth. That’s how I responded to dealing with stress. I think as I’ve got older it’s more an overindulgence in Disney films and food … I overeat when I’m stressed, and it helps but it’s really unhealthy.

-	Nima (late-30s, light-skin)

For Grace, routine exposure to images of anti-Black violence both generates a physiological response and influences her health behaviours by shaping her appetite and her ability to promote self-care. Because she personally identifies with the anti-Black violence that is depicted through widely circulated images of Black death, Grace is particularly susceptible to the negative health implications of racism-induced stress and exposure to anti-Black violence through online media platforms. For Nima, exposure to racism led to destructive health behaviours in her youth that increased her risk of developing ill health over her life course. By turning to “drugs, alcohol and men” to cope with experiences of racism, Nima increased her risk of developing addiction and substance dependency in ways that could have resulted in chronic illness and poor overall health.

During her interview one participant with light-skin described how routinely having to independently manage her responses to racial microaggressions often leads to feelings of anger and stress that, in turn, negatively affects her health:

I think the stresses and strains of either avoiding situations or getting angry about situations, you know, affect my health … . I’ll get on the bus and then the driver doesn’t take the money out of my hand. I’m vexed then, and I’ve got to make a decision. Do I say something? Do I not say something? Do I supress it and keep it in? So when you’re supressing all that kind of stuff, and not able to express it in any way, that builds up the stress, it’s toxic stress … I’m very clear that this is what’s happening to me, and I’ve got to make a choice at that time.

-	Bernice (early-40s, light-skin)

For Bernice, having to independently navigate racist interactions by contemplating appropriate responses and acting accordingly generates feelings of stress because she feels required to suppress instinctive responses that could be perceived as “hostile”. This suppression, in turn, leads to “toxic stress” when accumulated over time, which negatively impacts both her mental and physical health (Geronimus 2023).

Whilst all participants reported that racism-induced stress negatively impacted their health at some point in their lives, BWDS were significantly more likely to demonstrate resilience during their interviews by highlighting coping strategies that they use to independently manage racist encounters. All participants discussed how they singly responded to these encounters in ways that purposefully prioritised their own health and wellbeing, but BWDS were more likely to relate specific strategies that they had cultivated and perfected over years to mitigate the effects of racism-induced stress on their health. This disparity between BWLS and BWDS potentially points to a difference in rates of exposure to anti-Black racism and/ or differences in how both groups were taught to expect (and prepare themselves for) anti-Black racism from a young age. The coping strategies that BWDS typically reported using included emotional regulation and distraction:

I kind of put my emotions in check, I don’t react I public. That’s very, very important … whenever it seems that it really, really gets into me I listen to music, good music. After listening to music I’ll just fall asleep [and] when I wake up I feel much better and refreshed. Then I’ll just take a shower and move on with my life … I grew up knowing that I would at some point in my life experience this kind of thing, so I had to train and channel my mind or train myself [in] how to treat a particular problem.

-	Lisa (early-30s, dark-skin)

Lisa’s decision to “keep [her] emotions in check” and not react to racist encounters in public demonstrates an attempt to practice self-restraint for the purposes of self-preservation. By removing herself from that situation, listening to “good music”, sleeping, taking a shower, and “[mov]ing on with [her] life”, Lisa can cope with that encounter and mitigate its negative effects on her health and wellbeing by employing mechanisms that she is able to control. In this way, Lisa’s response could be seen as a demonstration of agency that positively impacts her health by allowing her to recover from the encounter in ways that have previously proven successful. Yet whilst this response is undoubtedly effective, it not only fails to address the root cause of the issue but also renders Lisa responsible for independently managing an interaction that she was unwillingly subjected to. Despite seemingly promoting health, this responsibility is potentially harmful when recipients of racism-induced stress experience the additional burden of countering stress through independent action.

Conclusion

As a structural advantage that often confers multiple social and material rewards, light-skin privilege can be understood as a benefit that is conducive to “good health” and a reduced risk of early morbidity for BWLS. However, when it comes to individual interactions, the inherent subjectivity of how light-skin is socially perceived is important when determining the extent to which one has access to these privileges. For BWLS who live in predominantly white environments, being socially recognised as having dark-skin relative to their white peers alters, and potentially diminishes, the material effects of light-skin privilege. This could, in turn, mean that BWLS in these circumstances do not benefit from the positive health associations between having light-skin and having greater access to health promoting resources. The anti-Black racism that BWLS are often subjected to can, in this way, be seen to somewhat mirror the anti-Black racism that their peers with darker skin might receive, although in different ways and often to a lesser extent. When asked, most BWLS concurred that the anti-Black racism they received would likely have been worse if they had darker skin. However, many also noted that they were often privy to racist conversations amongst white peers that they otherwise might not have been privy to because, although their peers recognised them as Black, they often did not fully associate them with negative Black stereotypes. As “outsiders on the inside”, these BWLS were often subjected to forms of racist violence that they might not have otherwise been subjected to, which often led to experiences of heightened anxiety and, in some cases, prolonged periods of depression.

Existing in spaces that promote and normalise anti-Black racism necessitates community and solidarity-building amongst one’s peers to survive. Feeling alone and unsupported in those experiences can generate feelings of isolation that cause mental and physical ill health (Keum and Li 2023). For BWLS who are recognised as “white skinned” and, therefore, white by some of their Black peers with darker skin, this othering can prohibit community and solidarity-building that, in turn, potentially impedes BWLS’s health and wellbeing. Moreover, this can (and often does) exist in conjunction with the numerous structural advantages put in place that make it more likely for BWLS to experience better health and wellbeing than their peers with darker skin. White privilege and light-skin privilege are both derivatives of white supremacist logics that characterise whiteness, and one’s proximity to whiteness, as a signifier of racial superiority (Garner 2007). As such, they confer innumerable benefits on recipients who exist in a world that is more likely to affirm them through public representation, financial reward and social engagement. Yet despite their relatability, white privilege and light-skin privilege differ significantly in contexts where anti-Black racism is also directed towards Black people with light-skin.

Unlike light-skin privilege, white privilege is characterised by the absence of race and racism in the daily contemplations and social interactions of those who benefit from it. As noted by Vicki Harman in their study of how white mothers who parent Mixed children navigate racism in everyday contexts, white privilege “can be conceptualised, at least in part, as the knowledge of what it is to live without racism and the fear of racism” (Harman 2010, 191). For BWLS, race and racism continue to be factors that influence everyday interactions and are often at the forefront of conscious thought, particularly when they attempt to navigate predominantly white spaces. Whilst both forms of privilege bestow numerous relative advantages (white compared to people of colour and people with light-skin compared to people with dark-skin), light-skin privilege, when understood in relation to white privilege, is not always protective. Despite being routinely subjected to anti-Black racism, BWLS are more likely to achieve educational success than their peers with darker skin and are, consequently, more likely benefit from the material advantages that come with that success (Hunter 2005). In this way, light-skin privilege can, and often does, exist in conjunction with anti-Black racism in ways that make clear the need to adopt an intersectional approach when studying its health benefits.

Whilst this study offers a unique understanding of the principal contentions between benefitting from light-skin privilege and being subjected to anti-Black racism in the UK, there are two key limitations that are important to note. Firstly, this study’s relatively small sample size (n = 20) means that these findings cannot be understood as representative of all Black British women’s experiences and, therefore, should not be understood as conclusive answers to the overarching question of how light-skin privilege exists in conjunction with anti-Black racism in ways that influence health. Secondly, this study did not collect data on other identity categories that could influence BWLS’s health in relation to their concurrent experiences of light-skin privilege and anti-Black racism, such as disability status. Future research should examine the role of intersectionality in promoting UK anti-racist public health, particularly in relation to how its application assists in recognising, evaluating and eliminating health inequities that persist in intra-racial, as well as inter-racial, contexts.

Ethical approval

This study was granted ethical approval by the University Research Ethics Committee (UREC), University of Greenwich.

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank the research participants for their time and willingness to engage with this project and Tracey Reynolds for her support throughout the research process.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Funding

This work was supported by University of Greenwich HEIF FLAS.

Notes

1 For further information about the criticism that Markle received from Black commentators following this statement please see for example: Nylah Burton (2022).

2 “Half-caste” is a derogatory term that has historically been used to describe people of racially mixed parentage.