Brown Boys Never Become Scandinavian
<p>We’re strangers the moment I enter a room, yet you think you know what kind of person I am. The skin that I carry babbles the story for you. You must think that I managed to escape some destitute village in South America, where stray dogs die of thirst curled up against a wall.</p>
<p>“He must be one of the lucky mestizos that now dwells in Northern Europe.”</p>
<p>It’s no secret that I looked different from the other kids growing up. I didn’t bear any golden locks and lacked the creamy complexion of my classmates. Frolicking around in the blazing July sun tanned my skin, making my September body stand out when school started again after summer break. A brown boy with teeny bronzed arms and lanky legs roamed the school. I felt out of place, like a farmer strolling through palace halls.</p>
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