In writing my recent book, Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity (Kindle) or Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity, I tell the story of growing up within a culture and a race that was different to my own. Here’s an excerpt:

My German mother and I boarded a busy two-propeller Viscount and lifted into a cool Guatemala sky, heading northeastward. Two hours later, hopping and skipping like an albatross trying to avoid scorching its feet, the plane landed on the sizzling strip in Belize. The door flung open and hot air flooded the cabin. Outside, I could barely breathe in the stinging mid-morning heat. Belize smelled of salt, bananas, and tar.

I was told the place had Black people; I just didn’t reckon they’d be everywhere. I became painfully self-conscious. Was something wrong with my beige suit? My hair? My speaking German? I stayed close to Mutti, clutching her arm, even squeezing it when someone came too close for my liking. “Stell’ Dich nicht so an!” (Pull yourself together) she’d hiss at me while smiling sweetly and shaking me off. I noticed how she asked for information, arranged for the luggage to follow us, and when and how she handed out tips. I should have noticed, but didn’t, that she was not scared of anyone and no one meant us any harm. Of the two days in Belize I only remember writing to Putzi that it was a frightening place. “Everyone is Black, from the street sweeper to the hotel manager. You’d be scared too.”

In Kingston, Jamaica  we stayed the first three days in a hotel that exemplified gracious British colonial living. At first I thought we were driving through a park, but the road led us to a white building that was more impressive than the presidential palace in Guatemala. Flamingos and peacocks paraded freely on the manicured lawns in a landscape of palms, giant ferns and waterfalls. There was a swimming pool and several in and outdoor restaurants. The breakfast room was an airy buttercup-yellow environment where golden canaries chirped in white rattan cages, while we scooped balls of chilled buttery papaya from Wedgewood bowls. I was quite aware of being the only dark guest in the hotel where the management was White, and the help came in assorted shades of brown to ebony.

Read more: Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity (Kindle) or Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity.