This hide, this color, this skin. It doesn't tell you anything. It doesn't tell me much neither. It tells you that I was oppressed, that I was cheated of my rights, that I fought for an equality that is still unequal. But I don't know that any of that is true. I have no ancestry that I know of. My dad was adopted at age ten. He doesn't know his birthday, his real name, his race. He was adopted by a white woman who raised me. She taught me her heritage. But I knew that her heritage wasn't mine. Her last name was mine, and her address was mine. But, while my hide was brown, hers was white. When I asked her about my heritage, she said don't worry about it. “You are a part of my heritage. If you want to be white like me, then you're white like me. You don't choose your skin color, but you can choose your story.” . . .I looked at her and worried about how I could tell the woman that raised me that I didn't want to be white like her.