What does it mean to carry color when your world is washed white?

As a child, I was called nigger—but I wasn’t Black.Didn’t matter.I wasn’t white.

As a young adult, I was called taco—but I’m not Mexican.Doesn’t matter that I was born in Honduras.

Once, I hated my skin color.

Now, I wear my brown with pride.

It took loving what was inside first.Only then could I love the outside.

Hurt people hurt others.If they had learned to love themselves,they might’ve lovedthe browns, the yellows, the blacks.

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This is my experience growing up brown in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, where I was never quite seen for who I was. When I returned as an adult, nothing had changed. I’ve since left Louisiana, and I will never call it home again.