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The Color Of My Skin Essay

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Racism Speaks
As a child, I never thought I could be judged by the color of my skin. I learned very quickly that my race is seen before my worth. It is almost a fascination to guess what I am racially before getting to know the person I am. I believe, overall, that I would never be me without the lessons the color of my skin have taught me.
I was born to a hardworking black man and honest white woman. Our family ethnic background is a lot more than that, but for sanity’s sake, I refer to myself as multiracial. I can recite what I do not have in my ethnic make up before I can list everything that I am. My parents married during a time when it was frowned upon to be with someone of another race. It was no longer illegal to do, but it was not very accepted either. My dad served in the United States’ Marine Corps, while my mom bartended at an officer’s club on Camp Pendleton. If anyone were to ask them now, my mother will say the only reason she spoke to my father is because she thought my eldest sister was cute and in need of a hair brush. It wasn’t love at first sight, no. I have given it the lovely saying of mutual annoyance that blossomed into something beautiful. By the time I came around, we lived in a small close-knit community called Eden’s Garden. Everyone knew everyone, and if my parents did not whoop my butt, the neighbors would in a heartbeat. We were surrounded by a maze of corn! People in DeKalb called us the children of the corn for good reason. There were tons

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