As a kid, I didn’t care that my adopted mom was a different race than me. But as I got older, race became more important.
As an African-American teen, I often feel like I’m walking around with a big target sign on my head.
I was six when I met my mom for the first time. We were at the Oakland Zoo at an event where people meet foster kids. This tall, caucasian woman walked up to me and offered to get me a slice of pizza.
When I was a little kid, I didn’t really care that my new mom was white. As I got older, though, race became more important
I never felt comfortable in family pictures because I was the only black person and I felt out of place. I never told my mom about this because I didn’t want her to feel bad because it wasn’t her fault.