In  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:

When we were about three years old, Hannali, my German friend caught me observing her. “What?” She’d ask, as I looked and just looked at her. “Nothing,” I’d answer, embarrassed at being caught staring. I loved the freckles on her nose that looked like caramelized specks of sugar, or how her deep blue eyes turned purple when she got mad. But above all, I loved her straight, flaxen hair that flew around her head bending to the slightest breeze. I had no freckles, my eyes did not change color when I got mad, and my hair, in contrast to hers, was always immaculately well arranged. But my invariably perfect presentation came at a price, and Hannali commiserated with me every morning by sitting next to me on the bathroom bench while Ruth opened the four braids she had carefully woven the previous day. Meticulously, she combed through every bit of my kinky hair. “We’ll be done sooner if you hold still,” Ruth would inevitably say, “it hurts me more than it does you, Mohrle.” Of course it was never soon and it’s debatable who suffered more, but in the end my four braids were held in place with silver clasps and I looked as perfect as a doll. One thing was certain: having my kind of hair may have been painful, but I looked well groomed all day. I would have given anything, however, to have had the sort of hair that required the inconvenience of having to fix clips to hold it in place when the wind disheveled it. Many years later, I painted freckles on my nose with an eyebrow pencil.
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.