Growing up, I never noticed people are different. There's something so innocent within the heart of a child, so undaunted by the troubles of the world around them. It's funny how children are blind to color, unable to see what separates us until it is pointed out to them.

America is a melting pot built off of different cultures and colors, all blended together to make a country so divine from any other. Who would ever imagine a world so educated and profound could ever tear through the eyes of a child, opening them to a portrait designed to separate them by the differences, which ultimately unite us?

I am biracial. My mother is White and my father is Black. Living within the confined walls of my colorful family, I was safe. Growing up, I was unaware of racial prejudice and hate. I was not scuffed by the realization that people who harbored hatred for me simply because I was "brown" even existed.

When I was four, I was finally able to begin school. Perhaps not really school, but what I interpreted to be school as I bragged to my sister who was a much older and matured seven-year-old, and able to enter the second grade. School would bring much more meaning to my life, as the previous nap times in daycare had begun to bore me.

The night before I remember tossing in my bed, unable to stifle my tiny body into the yellow covers, which smothered me and made it hard to breathe. When I picture it now, I'm wearing my pink silk pajamas. I wore them every night because my mother wore silk pajamas, and I would have given anything to resemble my mommy who, to me, was my twin. Whether I really wore those pajamas has escaped me now. Time often finds its way into your head, smoothing out the edges of the past, leaving you with key memories trapped in your mind of how you interpreted the event.

The day preschool started I willingly adventured off to a daunting new era. I could have sworn I was a woman as my father walked me down the hallway and past those glass doors which would, in the end, teach me more then school work ever could. Once in those doors, I was independent.

As a kid I was very creative. My best childhood memories are of me in my room, probably talking to myself, as I became the commander of a large army, or the conductor of a great symphony, as I wailed my arms back and forth feeling the imaginary music within the depths of my soul. For me, friends were just a bonus not a necessity, since I had always been just fine creating magical worlds and illusions on my own.

Being social, I was excited at the possibility of making new friends. After all, my sister had friends who sometimes even called to invite her over, which always made me cringe with jealousy. Now, in retrospect, I don't know if I was jealous because she received those phone calls, or if the idea of strangers stealing my only friend left me in the dust.

As my father gave his final good-bye kisses, I was left alone with 20 other children just like me. The nervousness flew from me as if I gave it wings, as soon as I was able to talk to my first peer. My new friend quickly became my confidant as we giggled while we were supposed to be napping. The few hours I was there felt like an eternity as the thought of being away from my mom and dad began to scare me.

If I close my eyes tightly, I can still see the doorknob turning as the first parents began to come in and collect their children. Then there she was—my hero and savior—swooping down over me with kisses as she swung me in her arms before going to talk to the teacher.

"Who's that?" My new friend questioned me.

"My mom!" I responded, the words bolted out of me, and it was evident I was shocked she didn't know who this very important woman was.

"That can't be your mom," she said. "She's White."

Puzzled, I stared at my friend in disbelief, my eyes shooting from her to my mother, who to me seemed to be a mirror image of myself. I was reassured when my mother grabbed my hand to walk out of the room. The girl must have been mistaken. Tomorrow she would recant, apologizing for her blatant misunderstanding.

I said not a word of the incident to my mother. To me the child was delirious, and I decided in the car ride back to school the next day that somehow I would correct her. As the morning left as quickly as it came, I was beginning to become upset at the idea of not yet proving my relationship with my mother to the girl. Then, we were able to paint.

I watched as the other children began their finger-painting portraits. Most of the colors cluttered their hair and clothes rather then the paper itself. Reaching for a bowl, I snatched the black container. The stained plastic felt cold as I fastened my small fingers around its handle. The paint passed as tar as its thick contents consumed my bowl. Reaching for the white paint, I copied my previous motions as I blended the two colors to form one.

"Black and white makes gray, Heather," my foolish friend snapped. I just smiled and began to stir, not even acknowledging her. I became a scientist as I threw myself into my work. The noisy room around me grew silent as I began to slowly mix the paints. I stirred vigorously as I bit my lip and waited for my master plan to unfold. Tears began to stream down my cheeks as I stared at the deep gray sky that sat on my table. It's not true, I thought to myself. You just have to keep stirring, she'll see. For an hour I sat, refusing to move or break my gaze.

"Honey, black and white does make gray; she's right," my teacher said. My eyes became bowls as they held my tears in place. Not a muscle in my body moved except the hand that just kept stirring. As parents began to collect their children, I closed the eyes that had for so long never really been open at all.

Sitting there, the room began to spin as my heart pounded rhythmically to my sobs. Then she came, compressed me into a tiny ball, and I collapsed in her arms. I begged her to never bring me back to this place; never again could I show myself to these people who had stolen my mother from me.

Once back at home, I told my mommy of the terrorizing ordeal I had faced on my own. I could see in her eyes the agony she felt at not being able to save me, as she always had done in the past.

"You can't paint people," she said. The words cut at me as I waited to hear whether she was truly mine or not.

Had I been lied to all along? Was my sister telling me the truth when she taunted me with stories of being found on the doorstep? I began to run my eyes along the walls, grasping everything I could in that moment—memorizing the paintings and letting my body be engulfed by the cream couches which held me. Perhaps I would have to move in with my real family now that I knew? Maybe they'd ship me off to an orphanage with other "brown" children who had found the truth.

"Black and white paint may make gray, but black and white skin can make brown. You are brown; some biracial children look completely white, and others completely black. I guess it just depends on genes." Calming myself, I held my gaze at the blue painting on the wall; I wanted to be transported into that picture, where the barn stood mere feet from the brown, shaggy fence bordering it. And the sky looked so blue, without any clouds to ruin the summer day. I kept my gaze on the picture, unable to look her in her eyes until she told me I was hers.

"So, are you my mommy?" The words escaped me before I could brace myself for her answer. Breathless, I awaited for the foreman to hand me her verdict.

"Of course, I'm your mommy!" The sentence blared out of her like she had used a microphone as she catapulted me into her chest.

I still feel as though my mother is my twin, although now I am competent of our differences. Often times, I find myself entranced by her smile, and duplicate it as I see her in me. I never did question our relationship after that. They were my parents, and I would guard myself from predators whose ignorance would ever state otherwise.

"How do I prove to the kids at school that you are my mom from now on?" I asked her later when the tears had stopped.

"Well," she began, "you just look them in the eyes and tell them, 'because I said so.'"

When I told this story to my kids at camp this summer, it hit me in a completely new light. How often do you think Satan approaches God saying, "They aren't yours! Look at them! They are dark and dirty, and you are white as snow. Didn't you see Heather sin last night after she 'prayed' for forgiveness? Didn't you see her lie and cheat, and hurt all those people's feelings? She can't be yours! She looks nothing like you!"

And then I'm sure God just smiles, "Trust me," He says while shaking His head. "She's mine. They're all mine." And then He raises His nail-scarred hands and looks Satan right in the eyes as He says, "because I said so."

Heather Thompson is a senior journalism and communications major at Andrews University.