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Flo Rida’s “Can’t Believe It” flowed through party speakers with its lyrics “Damn that white girl got some a** I don’t believe it” and “black girl got some a** it ain’t no secret”, taking me back to feelings of insecurity I started having as a little kid.

The first time I had ever questioned my physical appearance was before I even began first grade.

I grew up in one of the seventeen cities in the United States named Rochester (Wikipedia, 2015).

” didn’t become frequently asked questions until I began attending school at Towson University (TU) as a freshman.

I began attending parties where I was one of the few white people.

Guys would approach me, rarely avoiding grabbing my butt or asking the question, “So you like black guys?

” I became known as that girl who was only interested in dark men and suddenly, the body that took me years to become comfortable with became one I was questioning again.

Although New Hampshire is over 94% “white alone”, (and zero percent Native American) my high school proudly flaunts the Red Raider mascot, a stereotypical Native American with a face tinted blood red (Census Bureau, 2014).

To them, Black men were filthy and diseased, which could only mean one thing: I was too.

As my luck with white men plummeted, I was inevitably pushed further towards black guys.

It put me in a box, limiting me in ways I didn’t realize until recently.

The more attention I received from black men, the less white men wanted to talk to me, as if I had been eternally branded as a traitor.