It was August of 2016 when I booked my flight to Bohol and decided that I’ll give it a try. I tried not to be too excited and hyped up about it so my expectations wouldn’t be much, but from the time I took my seat in that plane, there was nothing I felt except pure bliss.
“Finding myself” in relation to my travels make it sound as if I actually left my right leg in Medellin, or something. But “finding myself” is exactly what I’m trying to do.
Because after 23 years of thinking that I knew my ethnic background — of thinking that I knew who I was — I have found out news that changes everything, but at the same time, nothing:
I am (probably) black.