How do I know when to focus, and when to let my heart guide me?
Because my skin was brown, my features not quite this or that, passersby regularly inquired about my ethnicity. What are you? Kids would say, pointing to their noses, meaning mine. What are you? Adults would say, then fill in the stilted silence that inevitably followed by guessing — Persian? Israeli? Indian? Puerto Rican? Spanish? Perhaps thinking that these questions weren’t enough to induce an identity crisis, my mother clipped my hair into an unbecoming bowl haircut and people began to assume I was a boy. What am I? I asked myself, and sought my answer in books.
Flesh, with a lot of blood.