What do you want me to say? I’m American. My family’s American. We have been for hundreds of years. But no one believes me.
I was like him. I was not like my mother who was dead. I was like him. He was alive.
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.