The first time I really took notice of my race was when I came with my father to work. At the time, he rented out bounce arounds and other party supplies. This time, the party was in the hood. 

I was six and thus excused to play with the other kids. I was happy to be able to enjoy that hot summer day. I approached the group of kids carefully, and smiled.

"Hi. Can I play with you?" I asked politely.

The ringleader, an eight year old boy with an empty gun holster and a dirty lollipop laughed.

"You white. You cain't play with us. You white." 

I was not. My mother is black and my father italian. My face flushed and I nearly growled.

"No, I'm not." I had meant to say more, but my dad dragged me away.

As we drove home, I kept thinking about what they said and why I was angry. Was I ashamed of being light skinned? Was I upset that my mother and father were of different races? No, I wasn't. I was proud of my heritage; it was the way the boy said it that made me feel dirty and insulted. It was what was implied that stung so badly. 

It has been nearly nine years since that incident, but I still remember it. I remember the shame when black people glare at me like I'm the enemy. I remember my pride when people ask about my race. I remember the pains my parents took to be together and all that they suffered, and furthermore, how they still suffer today.