If you look at me, you probably don’t know that when I was in Kindergarten there were a group of children who changed my life. I can’t remember how old they were, but they were a little bigger than myself. They were dressed in their school uniforms. They looked like everyone else. Just kids. After school, I remember them teasing me and pointing at me. They would intimidate me with their body language and their catcalls of “Nigga, nigga, nigga.” They would ask why I was at their school and who did I think I was. At first, I would just slowly back off. My eyes fixed on them. Fear rising in my little heart. Then I would turn and run all the way home. Tears pouring from my eyes, leaving misty trails in the air. My mother’s reaction was very pragmatic. She didn’t know what to do or to say. I was her little “Indian princess.” She would hug me and say that I shouldn’t worry. She said that sticks and stones would break my bones but words could never hurt me. She was wrong, those words did hurt me. She said that by the time I was a teenager, they would all be very jealous of my skin. My five year old self was not consoled by either argument and continued to weep. I have to tell you that my kindergarten year was not successful. I was a very sick child and was not learning. On top of that, I spent a good deal of time in the corner and was punished in many different ways.

I remember my first day in high school. Our home room teacher went around the room assessing each student’s background and attitude. As a teacher myself, I expect that he was memorizing our names and starting to build himself as an authority figure.  As he went around the room, he asked rhetorical questions or made statements about our names and how we looked. He was faced with a room full of freshman who needed to be sculpted in fine young scholars. I cannot really recall what he was saying to people. Something like, “Jackson, that is a good Scottish name. Son of Jack, only you are a daughter. You look like a nice Scottish lass.” “Dobinson, that is an old name from Normandy. We will call you Dobbie.” “Willoughby, well you do not look like a Willoughby. I don’t really know what part of the world you come from. You could be from one of many places.” At the time, I was just glad that he moved on from there. I did not know what he was talking about. I was sitting in the back row watching the world and wondering where I fit in. I had just left Catholic school and this was my first day in public school. I didn’t know anyone or anything, and my teacher didn’t know where I came from. As it turned out, my mother was right. Aren’t all mothers always right in the end? By the end of high school, my friends thought my naturally tanned skin was amazing. They would lie on beach blankets slathered in coconut oil trying to match the pigment in my skin. High school was a good place for me. I had friends, relationships, and perhaps, a future.

Now I am older, quite a bit older, my sister says that she hates my “black” skin. Her “English” pigmentation has allowed wrinkles to proliferate. People have stopped asking “Who is the older sister?” My thicker skin and lack of extended exposure to the sun has allowed my skin to wrinkle much more slowly. Thanks goodness for melanin. Now that I live in the diversity that is Southern California, I am considered to be a white woman. Nobody seems to think that I have unusual skin. No one thinks I am an “Indian princess.” I am not harassed. I am not called names. Often, after vacation, someone will comment on the beautiful tan that I had procured. After spending time in the tropics, I thought this was a nice compliment. But then I realized that I also get the same comment after traveling to wintery places as well. Vacation and tanning seem to go together. But most of the time, I am judged as a white woman.
I don’t know what happened to those children who called me names. I don’t know why they would even know the name to call me. We lived in a very white Australia. We lived under the White Australia Policy so that it stayed that way for a long time. I guess adults around those kids must have filled them with hateful ideas. I just know that it hurt. It turns out that my high school teacher had been a soldier in the German SS Army. Many parents would not allow their teenagers to take his class. He had traveled in a dark circle of his own.

Today is my birthday which is driving me toward retirement. I still am wondering who I am. In hindsight, this all seems such a small part of my life, but it has helped me build my identity. In many ways, I am invisible to the rest of the world. They see what they want to see. If they think I am a white woman, then that is what I am. If they think, I am beautifully tanned, so be it. If they think I am an Indian princess, that is their choice. When I think of myself, my eyes are closed. The thickness of my skin, the color of my skin, nor the amount of wrinkles do not enter the equation. I think about my challenges, the love in my life and my successes. Today I will enjoy my birthday and not worry about who I am.