But for me, it’s important to find my roots. Since I was eight or nine, I’ve wondered who I really am, or rather, what I am. I’m not white or black; I’m not American or Swedish. I’m rootless. It hurts me that Dad doesn’t want to, or can’t, see how complex the question of identity has been in my life. It’s like he doesn’t understand how impossible it’s been for me to maneuver through a world where I have so often been considered neither black enough to be black nor white enough to be white. Maybe he thinks that the safe streets of Lund have spared me from learning what racism feels like.
