ABSTRACT
When did I know that I was black? You might think that someone like me, one of the few black kids in my neighborhood and frequently the only black student in my classes at school, would be extremely conscious of the obvious difference between myself and my white peers. You would think that even if I was not aware of the contrast, someone must have certainly pointed it out to me. Not that I walked around completely oblivious to my racial identity, but I had little anxiety about my light brown skin and head full of curly hair. Growing up in suburbia, I was just another happy, self-confident, smart kid, who happened to be black.
