vitiligo others
arthur wright
Ebony 11/1978
I think he passes for Asian. I would have guessed that he underwent some cosmetic procedures.
Irony of ironies: On the cover of this issue is Diana Ross, on the occasion of “The Wiz” being released.
Safe to say, Michael knew about Arthur Wright’s story.
In the bathroom of my apartment the makeup looked even, the same color as my face. But in the sunlight it was a different color than my skin. I looked like a clown. I ran back to my apartment and cried.”
What followed that memorable day was eight years of suffering, Wright says –eight years of being laughed at, talked about and singled out in crowds. They were years of applying facial makeup daily. Eventually, when the disease spread to the chest, thighs, arms and legs, makeup had to be applied to Wright’s entire body before he appeared on stage. Meanwhile he consulted eight dermatologists in New York, Chicago and Washington, and even in Europe. Each offered a different cure. None worked. There were numerous pills, lotions, creams and balms which purportedly would restore Wright’s skin to its once rich brown color. None worked. There was deep depression and a short barbiturate addiction, the results of a cure prescribed by one dermatologist. There was the loss of friends, the loss of lovers, and there was fear – fear that the makeup mask he so diligently applied each morning would be discovered, his condition revealed, and the rejection that usually followed the unmasking repeated.
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Under Dr. Stolar’s care he underwent depigmentation, a process of removing color from the skin by applying a special cream. Dr. Stolar has prescribed the treatment for more than 50 Blacks afflicted with the disease.
“It took three years to make the decision to have that done,” Wright says. “I just couldn’t believe that there was not some way I could get my own color back. Plus, I didn’t want people thinking that I wanted to be White. During that time everything was ‘Black Is Beautiful’ and ‘Be proud of being Black,’ and here I was getting ready to undergo a process that would turn me white. But I decided that I couldn’t live as I was for the rest of my life. I couldn’t continue my life running away from people, living partly as a hermit. I had to do something, and depigmentation seemed to me to be the only way out.”
It took five years for the process to be completed, but Wright stopped wearing makeup after only three months when his face became all white. “I was so happy not to wear another speck of makeup that I didn’t know what to do,” he says, clasping his hands in a moment of jubilation. “You have no idea what a relief that was. I was so glad to be released from that bondage. It had become such a routine that it was as natural as breathing, as brushing my teeth or combing my hair. Every day when I went to the bathroom for the ritual, it was like standing in front of a mirror behind someone else, making that person up and then superimposing myself. You see, without the makeup, it wasn’t me. I had to recognize my own face before I could go out, and that person with all those spots was not me.”
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Wright says he is no longer the focus of stares and snide remarks, though he admits, “I get the strangest looks from Orientals.
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‘But after this I became that sort of hermit. I lost a lot of friends, and that hurt. I was afraid of people, afraid of being rejected.‘
I was a very outgoing person when this happened, always on the go, doing things and loving people. But after this I became that sort of hermit. I lost a lot of friends, and that hurt. I was afraid of people, afraid of being rejected. I had no sex life, for years and very little when I started back. I ran away from anybody who showed any interest in me. I didn’t want to be rejected, and I couldn’t know if they would accept me with those spots all over my body.
“I met people and they didn’t want to shake my hand because of the spots. I was a freak. When I rode the subway people would laugh, giggle and point at me, because when my makeup came off my lips they were pink and there I was with this dark complexion and pink lips. I found that a lot of people that I thought were my friends were just phony people, and I started getting rid of all phony people around me. A lot of people let me down because they fitted in the category that I didn’t think they fitted in. The whole thing caused me to lose faith in people and distrust them.
Luke Davis
Luke Davis vitiligo – child to adult
Photo AI Enhanced
Today, at the age of 44, as a result of the skin condition vitiligo, I am white. Were you to see me in the street, it wouldn’t cross your mind that I’m anything other than a typical middle-aged Caucasian man. The only reminder of the colour I once was is a circular patch of dark skin just 1cm wide at the top of my back.
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Yet, despite all this, I can’t say I am truly content. Once, all that mattered to me was fitting in and being accepted, and I would have denied my heritage to achieve it. But I’ve come to realise that to deny my heritage is to deny who I am. Often, when I look in the mirror, I am shocked by the unfamiliar white face staring back at me, and I can’t help but mourn the colour that I once was. I want people to know that, despite my fair skin, I am a black man.
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Like any child, I just wanted to fit in. I had no idea what was happening, but my skin continued to fade from black to completely white in patches. When I was six, I noticed lighter patches appearing on my fingers. Within a month, the tips of my fingers were white. The other children – and even the nuns – would grab my hands in fascination, while I tried to wear gloves as much as possible or else keep my hands firmly in my pockets. At seven, my toes and groin had turned a blotchy white, and by eight the transformation was slowly pushing down my thighs. I’d been ridiculed and abused because I was black, and now I was even more of an oddity.
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All I wanted was to be completely white. […] (My mother) was horrified when she saw the state of my skin, and assumed the nuns were bleaching it. When I told her they weren’t, she insisted on taking me to see a skin specialist in London. It was there, after a number of tests, that I was diagnosed with vitiligo – a chronic skin disorder that affects around one per cent of the population and causes depigmentation. The doctor’s prognosis was that the vitiligo wouldn’t spread much farther, as in its most common form it does not cover the entire skin. I was also told there was no treatment for it. […] I’d been sure the doctor would have a remedy to turn me either wholly black or white, so that I’d no longer be perceived as a freak.
Today, many theories exist to explain vitiligo. The most popular is that the body’s own immune system attacks pigment cells.
‘It’s a terrifying feeling your identity is about to be changed and you have no control over what is going to happen’
It has been established, too, that genes predispose some people to vitiligo, and environmental factors such as psychological stress and hormonal changes can play a part. But whatever the causes, the white areas on my skin continued to spread.
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It’s a terrifying feeling to think your identity is about to be changed and you have no control over what is going to happen.
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I am now getting used to my white face and finally learning to accept myself. One of the best things I’ve found about being white is the anonymity that comes with it. I am not seen as an obstacle, or a potential problem, and it’s much easier to mingle within a group.
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I will always remain fiercely protective of my black origins and I recently walked out of a wedding after a racist joke was made.
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If I had the choice and could live in a world without racism, I would choose to be black. But whether my skin is black or white, I am still the same person inside.
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