Medium Introduction: Writer, Modern Day Philosopher, FosterCare Survivor, Brooklyn born and raised.

The question of where I am from resonates within me through the deep ventricle catacombs of my heart. The only resource of my race is from my Aunt who claims that I am black, but black is only a color. To refute my argument she would correct me, defend her position, and say that I am African American. Yet, for some reason, that does not explain the porcelain paleness of my mother coupled with her aged green eyes. She is still beautiful, but still in her sickness, very lost. For later on, as I grew curious, I asked my mother, and all she could offer were pieces of her fragmented mind, most of which were fashioned from what she thought I wanted. I told her I made a jewish friend. And with that, she said that she was half jewish. To me, her only true honest answer was the one that she thought made me happiest. Before then, I also asked my grandmother. A lady of complexion polar opposite to my mother. I asked her who my grandfather was. The answer was a choked back lie. The answer was John. It was only later, once I excitedly told my Aunt the good news, that she revealed John to be as brown as a bat during a new moon. Yet, this was still not the catalyst of my confusion. Click the link for the whole read, and find out why