I hate being black. No, I don't hate being black, I just hate that being black carries with it much more than just a darker pigment to my skin. I have always felt reluctant to share my experience of being a ‘little black girl' in fear of sounding like the angry, black, self-righteous and victimized lady that we see in a Black Power movement. That isn't who I am. I am just your regular 19 year old girl living in Queensland, Australia. I probably have similar hopes and dreams to anyone my age; uni, travel, meet a tall handsome man, marry, babies, the whole shindig. I speak fluent English (to the surprise of many old ladies I meet) and am always on time (contrary to the stereotypical black person we hear about). I was adopted from Ethiopia, graduated high school and no, I don't run cross country. No, I don't sunburn easily, and yes, I have been to Africa. No, I don't speak ‘African' and yes, I can (and do) brush my hair (but no, you can't touch it). I know I look different, and I know you don't mean to offend or mean anything by your questions, but sometimes the questions, in my eyes, serve much more as evidence of my blatant differences than curious inquiry into the unknown. I have always been told that being white is much better than being black. Very few times has this been said outright but it doesn't take a mastermind to read the signs. In fact, it can just take a preschooler, sitting, listing in to her teacher, minding her own business, wearing her afro. She hears a boy say behind her, ‘I can't see over that girl's hair.' He means no harm, but she begins to notice that ‘none of the other girls have hair quite like mine, nor have little boys struggling to see over their curls.' She begins to notice that there is something different about her, and that this thing that is different, it isn't good. I wish that the colour of my skin wasn't the first thing people notice about me, my most defining feature. That the reason I am picked, or not picked was because of my exterior hue. At age 7, again sitting in class, that same little black girl enthusiastically threw her hand into the air, desperate to be chose as a volunteer for a magic trick. With hand still high in the air, the boy ‘magician' upfront, looks her is the eyes and says, feigning sympathy, ‘sorry, the volunteer has to be white. They can't have…..olive skin' Abashed, confused and unsure of how to react, she places her hand back into her lap, an invisible blush spreading up her neck, heating her cheeks. I never like to admit that these encounters affected me, because maybe by admitting their impact and facing my emotions, I would be acknowledging some sort of truth to what was said. In grade 5, the cogs of reality already beginning to spin in her mind, this little black girl copped her first earful of overt racism. Miss Heidi Sutton, a beefy, red faced, blond haired grade sixer spat that one loaded word in her face. ‘Nigger'. She didn't know at all what to do. ‘Do I cry, shout, tell her she is wrong.' But is she? Is she really wrong? is that who, is that what I am? I remember hearing my older brother say that he wished that he was white. I didn't know what to say. In high school she started to compensate for her ‘blackness'. ‘If I am going to stand out, I want it to be for the things I choose.' Music, art, sports, academia, all a cleverly played act to hide her fear of really being seen. A beautifully constructed but frightfully precarious wall she built and a cleverly constructed curtain was hung to hide her innermost fears Of really being known. Of finding a truth that was too unsavory. Buckling down and straightening out, if I had a biography of my high school years there couldn't have been a more fitting title. Nose in a book, feet in netball shoes like every other year nine girl. Hair straightening appointments and the stress of watching curves form as I grew. Buckle down and straighten out. Fit in and don't stand out. I have, and always will stand out. Amongst the company of my white friends I will always be the blackest and in the company of my black family, I will always be the one who is most ‘white'. I had to make the choice between my culture and comfort and I chose the latter because it was simply easier to ignore one more thing that made me different from my peers. I don't hate my white friends or my black family, because I know they love me for me, but I also know that I am always going to be that random, not quite exactly how it should be, refraction in the looking glass. That little black sheep. I have always been told that being white is much better than being black. Very few times has this been said outright but it doesn't take a mastermind to read the signs. I am black, and I will always be black and, you know what, I don't mind. I don't mind that I look different. Or that I'm constantly asked the same, sometimes stupid questions. But sometimes I just wish I could be invisible, even if it was just for one day.