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When people see me. They tell me I’m black. This is true, and by telling me this
they are saying that they know me. But how can this be when they have not walked
in my skin, nor known the thoughts in my head nor aspirations that feel my
heart. To me, like so many things in life, the word black is useful as nothing
more than a basic description – like the name of a road on a map. It has its
purpose as an identifier but does not embody the whole of what it represents.

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