I became aware of my blackness when I was in the 8th grade; oh, excuse me, I became aware that I was African American in the 8th grade. It seemed as though a great majority of the black kids I grew up with in school discovered their ethnicity that year. You see, I started to hear things like "I'm not black, I'm Jamaican." or "I'm only half black, I'm mixed with..." or even "My family is from Ghana, but I was born here. I'm African, but not African American."
With the journal held close to her chest, she took a deep breath in as if she were trying to burst her lungs with air. She exhaled and opened her eyes slowly, and saw what she had only seen in pictures far too faded with age. The ocean ranged in multiple shades of tropical green and blue, and the trees stood tall with palms facing down. The mountains looked like stones covered in moss, and the sand was as soft as powder. For most of Luna's life, Thailand was a dream, though so much of it ran through her veins. It was only ever described in her father’s journal; the one she continued to hold close to her chest.
The rain lightly pattered against my window. It was fourth day of April, and the sixth day of rain. I rolled over and reached for my phone on my nightstand. The back light blinded me for a second, but my eyes adjusted quickly. Two text messages from mom, three Facebook notifications, and ninety-three unread emails. No calls from him. I laid in the bed staring at the ceiling. It's only been two weeks. You have every right to feel this way.