NOTE: This column is for black people only.

No white people nor those of any other race or ethnic group are permitted to read beyond this point.

On this day, during the celebrated Black History Month, I need to talk to my African American brothers and sisters, and, believe me, this is just between us bloods.

Did I just say “bloods”?

Well, I’m from the old school, but I believe you know what I’m talking ‘bout.

Listen up, my brothers and sisters – and again, this is just between us.

Twice this week, I have been reminded by some “African Americans” that many of us still have a hangup with this color thing.

A friend of mine from Dallas called just to check up on me, but the conversation evolved into a rant about his late grandmother. According to him, this woman, known throughout the community for her benevolence, lavished praise and presents on most of her other grandchildren, including his two half-brothers, but my friend thought he always came up a little short when she was handing out love.

All during his childhood, he knew he was different, he said, but he thought it was because he was the “illegitimate” one in the group.

As he got older, he told me, other children were born into the family out of wedlock, yet they were favored by this grandma who liked to have her grandchildren around on weekends, and especially at Christmas, birthdays and other special occasions.

The other kids were always welcome, he said, but he felt he was simply tolerated at best.

Then he overheard some of the adults talking and realized that all the privileged grandchildren were “light-skinned.” He happened to be the “darkest” of the bunch, taking more after his mother than his Creole-looking daddy.

It really hit home, he said, when he learned that he was the only grandchild not included in his grandmother’s will. He assumed that it was because he was indeed the “black sheep” – or would it be white sheep – in this black family.

Needless to say, he’s still dealing with that color thang.

A day later, I overheard a conversation about a black parent who never forgave her very light-complexioned son for marrying a dark-skinned woman.

That was years ago, so the fact that it’s being talked about today tells me that it is still an issue, just as much as it was back in the 1940s and ‘50s when fraternities and sororities at all-black colleges had their “paper sack” policies for admission (you had to be lighter than a brown paper bag to get in).

Coincidentally, one of the art works in the William H. Johnson exhibition at the Amon Carter Museum speaks to this matter. Johnson’s Three Friends, a serigraph on paper, depicts three black women, all with different skin tones.

I’m not naive. I know this issue will remain with us. And, yes, I know it is an issue in many cultures, including Asian Indians and Hispanics.

But I have never understood discrimination based on skin color, or ethnicity or religion or gender or nationality, for that matter.

The fact is, my brothers and sisters, it’s hard to fight those who hate us because of our color when so many black folk hate themselves, and even their kin, because of their color. The hatred of one’s own race is a pathetic character flaw.

Frankly, that’s the kind of racism I really don’t know how to fight.