When I was growing up in Queens, New York, you failed to be that big of a deal. So, up to the age of 11, you weren't that bad. I barely noticed any difference between you and what surrounded me, because what surrounded me was just like me.

It was when we moved to Royersford, Pennsylvania, in 2007 when you started to be a lot more prevalent in my life. The contrast between you and the suburban population swallowing me whole was stark, and I found myself hiding behind a curtain of black hair hoping to disappear. But, it’s hard to hide black coffee in a sea of cream and sugar.

I’m sorry I was young and naïve and that the world can be harsh. I blamed you because I thought that maybe, just maybe if I were lighter, the world would be kinder. This color I wore, I kept seeing it as weighty layers keeping me from staying afloat in this world. What else am I supposed to think when the first class I go to in this town, a group of boys scoffs at me but not the blond-haired, blue-eyed girl beside me. Eleven-year-old kids shouldn’t have to know what prejudice is—or better yet, teach them what it is, but for heaven’s sake don’t you dare let them experience it.

We went to the airport, and they pulled us aside because my father seemed distant, and it only makes sense to question my 13-year-old brother with things like is that actually your sister? Because then, we have to explain to the nine-year-old why that happened. I remember wanting to wipe you off in the terminal bathroom so I could get on a plane without a second glance.

I used to lighten you in pictures because I thought that if I looked a little closer to white, I could be a little more beautiful, a little more loved. Looking back at pictures from those years between moving to the suburbs and the end of my sophomore year in high school—that’s not me. That’s glaring light effect and too many filters. That’s insecurity and self-hatred.

I’m sorry I blamed you for the bullying, for other children’s ignorance and upbringing. Not everyone is tolerant. It takes a couple of years before I find friends that don’t care about the extra melanin in my skin. They care that I’m there for them, that I make them laugh, and that I love them. I’m sorry I bullied you, too.

When that boy turned and told me that I was pretty for a brown girl, I waited for the cameras to come out because I didn’t realize people said things like that seriously. If someone were to say that to me now, I would turn and tell them no, I’m pretty, period. But then, then I resented, you so I took what I thought was a compliment and smiled.

I really am sorry for not appreciating you the way you deserved to be appreciated. For not realizing how beautiful you look with my black curls, my dark eyes, and my bright smile. I tell people to look for the short, brown girl when they need to find me. I joke about disappearing in the dark—as long as I don’t smile of course. I get to see you turn a beautiful bronzed color in the depth of the summers. I love you.

I know it’s taken a couple of years, practically a decade, but I’m here now. I love you. You are nothing less than my gold-plated glory, drenched in sunshine and stardust.

So thank you for putting up with my hatred and waiting for me to realize that you’re not an additive to who I am. You are a key part of who I am. You don’t hold me back. You catapult me forward. I love you.