Who am I? I was quiet, and once again that indestructible memory hit me. “I’m the little girl who would run after school every day in third grade because these boys hated me because I was ... not pretty. Because I was ... Black.” Memories are immortal. They’re deathless and precise. They have the power of giving you joy and perspective in hard times. Or, they can strangle you. Define you in a way that’s based more in other people’s tucked-up perceptions than truth.