When I was about eleven years old, my family moved from our tiny island home of Trinidad, located just off the border of the South American country of Venezuela, to the relatively large town of Kingwood, located just off the border of the Texan city of Houston. I remember going to school that first day, with my short afro and sensible shoes, staring open-mouthed at the Kingwood Girls with their long, elaborately styled hair, tight blue jeans, lip gloss, pink bubble gum and high heels.
The Kingwood Girls were one of my first exposures to Different. In their defense, I was probably pretty odd looking to them, as well. So naturally, they stared right back.
In response to all this gaped-mouth staring, I reacted as most eleven-year-old girls would, I suppose: as much as humanly possible, I did everything I could to look like them. I talked my mother into buying me tight jeans, lip gloss and high heels (or as high as my no-nonsense mother would allow). I grew my hair, straightened it and wrestled it into “wings.” I officially began my long career in Trying To Be The Same.
I am embarrassed to tell you how many years I spent working at this career.
However.
At some point, I grew up. I got educated. I got a job and I traveled. I met people who looked different from me, sounded different from me, loved different from me. I saw buildings different from the ones in my neighborhood, ate food different from my favorite cuisines, smelled different aromas, touched different things. I began to seek Different, taking note of it. Writing it down. Photographing it. Celebrating it.
Because after all those years of Trying To Be The Same, I had finally discovered that Different is
very,
very
beautiful.
What follows is what I found.