Untitled...

I was always different. As far back as I can remember, I knew I was different, I just couldn't put my finger on it. People would make strange comments and my mother would chuckle them off. My sister and I look nothing alike. We don't even look like third cousins let alone sisters. She would dress us alike and as hard as she tried to make us look alike, it just didn't work. The weird comments just kept coming. People would speak foreign languages. I would just give them a blank look. They would often ask me, "What is your nationality?" "Are you mixed?" My own sister would tell me, "Mom found you in the neighbor's oven, that's why you don't look like us." And other kids can be so cruel. "BlackJap!", "Pie Face Negro", "Eskimo", "Black Chinky" "NiggaRican, So, finally when I was around 10 years old, I asked my mother about my father. She told me she'd tell me about him later. 34 years later and she still hasn't told me.

I used to get mad about it. After all, why withhold information when I am entitled to it. I still get a little upset about it to this day. But, what can I do. And besides, it really doesn't matter now...not really. If nothing else, it has taught me that race should never matter and that your past and background should never dictate the person that you choose to be now.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Regarding "My New Blender", I've always had vivid dreams...I fell asleep before I even made it to the kitchen...