My first conscious memory of clocking my skin colour is when I was about 4 years old. I remember looking down at my arm one day and being surprised, seeing the colour of my skin from the outside and realizing that it would always be there. For a moment it confused me, but then I picked up my pencil and just kept drawing. My hair was always big with a soft afro texture, sometimes braided with colourful cloth or adorned with beads and flowers. Beyond hating the pain of having it combed out, I never noticed it, there were too many trees to climb and imaginary friends to entertain. I was very close to my cousins on both sides of my family, and I remember when I was 5 my black cousins began pointing out my whiteness with a smile, and my white side, my blackness. I began to become conscious of being neither, but it wasn’t important. They loved me regardless, and I was happy.
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