Life on the Fringe

I had always felt a little odd, a little misplaced. A little unsure in my step. I was pale white with a smattering of freckles, surrounded by a sea of tan skin, chola skin, golden-yellow, browning under the incessant rays of the sun. I could not tan, and baring my skin to the unforgiving sun only blessed me with more freckles and wicked sunburns. Took me years to make peace with my uneven melanin, and even so, I would still punish my skin with the ultra bright light.
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My first grasp of bilingualism was in pre-school. My nanny could not understand English, and so I would prattle on in Spanish. At some point I tried comprehending why I could understand both languages, while my nanny could not. Years later I asked my mom when exactly I learned Spanish. English is my first language, of that I am sure, but I was interested in pin pointing when I had learned Spanish. She looked at me quizzically and said that I must've learned it from my nanny's or else, how else did I communicate with them? How else, indeed.
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I am still struggling with my identity. I am pretty good at camouflaging how uncomfortable I feel when certain aspects of my accents or lack of is pointed out. I am a big guacho, bits of this and that clumped together and cooked over a low heat til the soup appears like a melded mush, all deifining parts melted into one.

This is my life on the fringe, a multicultural woman making her way through a colorful new world.