||[Feb. 26th, 2009|11:00 pm]
I've been reading this book from Alexandra Fuller called ''Don't Let us go to the dogs tonight''. In the beginning of the book there was a part that really got to me. It was just as I had written it in my childhood.
''My God, I was the wrong color. The way I am burned by the sun, scoroched by flinging sand, prickled by heat. The way my skin erupts in miniature volcanoes of protest in the presence of tsetse flies, mosquitoes, ticks. The way I stand out against the khaki bush like a large marsmallow to a gook with a gun.
White. African. White-African.
'But what are you?' I am asked over and over again.
'Where are you from originally?'''
That's the question that always strikes to me. I hate it. They ask me
Where are you from?
- South Africa.
But you are white.
- I know.
Home is home for everyone right? I was born in South Africa, and that's where I grew up. I would love to add ''Oh my parents are from there and there'' if I could. But I cant. I have no idea where they're from. I dont know them. The only home I know is South Africa, isnt that enough? I'm always asked questions. I dont mind about it, I like telling people about me if they want to know, the problem is THE WAY they ask, the look they have on their face.
My mom is white and my dad is black, that's where it starts from. ''He's not your real dad'' Oh, yes he is. He is the REALEST dad I ever had. He is not my biological dad but he sure is real. Just like my mom is real. One of my friends just met my dad and I guess I hadnt mentioned it to him before, because my dad's skin color seemed to be a huge surprise. Later he said ''Oh come on he's not your real dad anyway. He's black'' so I asked him if he had ever heard of adoption. ''You're not adopted'' he said. Whew, now why would I say that if it wasnt true? ''Yes I am.'' I said, and I guess he could hear from my voice that I was getting pissed off.
'' WELL THEN it can be accepted''
His dad sure doesnt need anyones acceptance.