Growing up in Antwerp as the daughter of a Jewish mother and a Muslim-born Senegalese father, I was aware of being Jewish. My mother took me to her side of the family for holidays, she taught me Hebrew songs, and we went to the synagogue once in a while. But I was more aware that my skin tone was brown. Other children made sure I knew. They made racist remarks and teased me.
His paper skin reflected off my grandmother’s dark dark complexion. His head was a mound of sleek red waves, hers a thick black halo. Oil and water. Black and white. They were not expected to merge.