More than Coffee: My Life Between Black and White

When I learn about history, I see myself standing in Ghana with the bloody Atlantic washing at the backs of my feet, looking ahead at the white castles where my ancestors must have been taken. When I visit the castles, what will I feel? Guilt or grief? Vanilla or chocolate? Vanilla or chocolate? Since I have never met my black father or traced back that side of my history, are my roots forever snipped? Can I claim this story as my own? If I come from a white family that is comfortably middle class, does that mean I have white privilege? What if my ancestors owned slaves? Is this what race means? Having questions without any right answers and asking them anyway?

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