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The Fall of My Identity
It wasn’t until I had oppressed half of my identity that I was accepted as part of the larger community.
It did not happen until my curls were fried by the heat of a straightener, flattening them on a daily basis, not until I no longer carried the name of my father or the colour of his skin with pride, but rather with shame, that I was told that I belonged.
The acceptance came with the conditions of me talking as if my skin was white, dressing as though my skin was white and composing myself as a «white person» - whatever that means.
