My brown skin, beauty or curse?

Growing up I never wished to be caucasian, I just wanted to get treated as fairly and respected as they were.

It's too personally identifying to name which country my folks were born in before emigrating to England but safe to say it was an Island.

I was born here so I really have known no different. The only time I visited my parents homeland was when I was three years old and I don't recall anything about it. 

When starting school both my parents were adamant that I never claim to be from where they were born. I was only supposed to explain I was British. 

I still don't know to this day if they told me that to acclimatise me and avoid seeming different but it caused an early identity crisis. 

Even though I was born in the United Kingdom, to save time from all the avid curiosity, I would have preferred stating I was British - (Censored). At least that would have covered all the bases. 

I maybe British but I don't fit into the typical mould. Someone tactfully put it as I'm a brown skinned other.. 

Nobody cared where I was from. Their sole concern was incorrectly assuming my ethnicity. 

Brown skin is open to interpretation but it is tedious correcting people over and over and it makes me roll my eyes when asked if I'm sure? Of course I'm bloody sure about my own background!!

Luckily I was able to attend schools where it was a great mixture of cultures. School was really never the problem but outside was a different story. 

I was attacked. My hair pulled, shoved and racially abused albeit with the wrong racial taunts. I had small stones thrown at me while walking home, minding my own business.

Stuck on a train, there were a group of youths screaming insults and I was petrified an altercation was imminent. 

The common theme bar one time was that onlookers stared and did absolutely nothing to assist or stop the violence. I had to avoid using a certain pathway to prevent the attacks and the last time it happened, some guy stepped in. 

The bag of food i was carrying got dropped and trampled on and my carefree mood was ruined as fear replaced it. The kind stranger picked it up, handed it to me and chased them screaming. All I wanted was a hug to reassure me I was safe. I nervously rushed home in case they returned.

The last thing that happened I don't especially know if it was a racial thing or not but years ago not to long after I moved in, some pet owner repeatedly let their dog do its business to the side of my front door.

I keep myself to myself. I don't know why I attracted this level of behaviour. Even in certain pubs, I will only feel comfortable if I can see non caucasians milling around.

Aside from being repeatedly targeted. I enjoy being different. Side note. I hate the expression tanned skin colour. It makes me think of a temporary shade. 

I was born with chocolate caramel skin. It's not fading away. People envied my skin colour and my race was different to the standard background of others. 

Another thing that bugs me is as soon as men hear the country of my parents origin. Suddenly I'm exotic. I'm full of exquisite beauty, curves and uniqueness. 

*Eye roll* Give me a break! I quickly point out that my parents are the exotic ones, not me but by that time they are too busy drooling to listen to reason.

I am not the epitome of lusciousness. I am just cute. I mean cute I can get away with. I love the accents, the music, the food and the traditions of my family.

I just abhorred the racism. I should have felt normal walking down the street, entering pubs or opening doors but instead I was gripped by anxiety. 

How was that an acceptable part of my life???