Joana Russell

I could feel the heat of tears dripping off my nose before I had even begun to write. “Dear Dad,” I began, and my hands started to tremble. The feeling had been gnawing at me for a while, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong.

What does it mean to be white? What happens when your skin doesn’t match your assigned race? My high school was participating in a diversity poll and had asked students to identify their race by a show of hands. “Black males.” Pause, as students raise their hands. “Black females…