Yet I have always carried around the nagging feeling that I am only a guest in someone else’s home. May I really open the fridge and help myself to whatever I find? I have to be careful not to knock over someone’s vase or accidentally break something fragile. May I have permission to stay here as long as I like? Will the color of my skin always follow me like a shadow that can be turned against me at any moment, can become the only thing that defines me? Can I manage not to be reduced to Other?
