It wasn’t until I left Jamaica many years ago, that my being black became a “thing”. It’s a superficial difference that invites curiosity ranging from the innocent to the overtly offensive. Most of the time I feel the same as anyone else. Accepted. Loved. I’ve also been told it’s nice to finally have some “color around here”, or had my skin and hair pulled at, and was shocked to tears by a shove and a racial epithet. I was the embodiment of an assumption rather than an individual. 

This woman gazes upward: dignified. She’s neither a victim nor a hero. She is aware and appreciative of the many facets comprising her individuality. She knows where she has come from, and what she is capable of. I am  a black woman. My character has been shaped by genetic traits, culture, experience, and my idiosyncrasies. I am different things to many people, and all those things are me.