The part of me that’s descended from African slaves, and which makes my skin anything but white and my hair not totally straight, is what cries out the loudest. It’s those drops of midnight that make all the difference. It’s what strangers’ eyes notice first, what may prompt them to form preconceived notions about who I am and what I’m like. Indeed, many of my most painful childhood memories are related to not being accepted for who I am.
