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My name is Black, I guess black like the color. My parents never really explained this to me. When I asked about my name, they were always evasive. After both my parents died, me as an only child, started packing up and clearing out their house. I came across some of my father's writings. In one of the entries dated the day I was born he writes:
"I told Sylvie, that we would call him Black. Yes, we did not know the name of that colored fella who impregnated Sylvie. We didn't want to know his name. Yet, he was willing to help us out and had sex with Sylvie about four times that night to make sure that she would fall pregnant. I sat in the room watching them..."
I didn't turn up, too dark. In fact, until I read those words, I had always identified as white.
I started writing in my teens. I knew then that I would one day write books; sharing secret stories and truth about the many men I had interviewed and listened to, working at the pub in small town where I grew up.
When they were really drunk, and alone, I delved a little. They trusted me for some reason. Some of them just didn't care. Some of them were merely passing through town. I paid some of them for their stories. Many of them in kind.
I have very many regrets. At least now, I am happy.