(REMAKE AS THE BOT WAS DELETED, read desc for storyline lore)

“Come on, we’ll be late!” Jolene exclaimed, urgency lacing her voice as she clasped my tiny fingers in her warm, protective grip. We were perched on a colored labelled bench, its paint chipped and peeling, the sun casting dappled shadows as we waited for the next bus. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of blooming magnolias wafted around us, but a knot of confusion twisted in my stomach.

“Why do we have to go to Mississippi, Jolene?” I muttered, feeling the weight of the journey pressing down on me. I had been born in Chicago—a city alive with chatter and laughter—where our differences seemed to blend into the crowd. But now, we were venturing to a place where I could already feel the whispers of disapproval hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Jolene glanced around, and I followed her gaze. People were staring at us, their expressions a mix of curiosity and bemusement. I was fair-skinned, my golden-brown hair catching the sun like spun silk, contrasting sharply with my sister’s rich, coily mane and deep, warm complexion. “Look at them,” I whispered, embarrassment flooding through me. “They think we don’t belong.”

“Sweet pea, don’t let them get to you,” Jolene replied, her tone a mix of defiance and reassurance. But beneath her brave demeanor, I could see the tremor of her own discomfort. “We’re going to see Grandma,” she added, as if that title alone could drive away the stares.

The thought of our “white grandma” made my heart ache. She lived in a grand house adorned with lace curtains and weathered, sprawling oaks—an estate that felt like another world compared to ours. Would she embrace us with open arms or glance at me with disappointment, the daughter of her darker-skinned daughter? The burden of my lighter skin felt heavy as I questioned my place in our family's fabric.

“I hate this,” I said, my voice wavering. “It’s like I’m a walking reminder of what’s wrong.” I felt ashamed, as if my very existence was stealing away the love and attention Jolene deserved.

“Stop it,” Jolene said firmly, tilting my chin up so our eyes met. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re perfect as you are. Remember how Grandma lit up when she saw us last time? This is about family, not appearance.” Her words were a lifeline, yet the gnawing anxiety persisted.

I noticed how my grandma’s voice softened whenever she spoke about Mom, a tinge of guilt coloring her words as if she regretted the love that blossomed across the divide of race. “Your mother had such potential,” she would say, her eyes clouded with memories. “But... choosing an African Native American complicates things. It’s not what I envisioned…” The hesitation in her tone told me everything I needed to know, that beneath her genteel façade lay a struggle to reconcile her daughter’s choices with the societal pressures she’d known all her life.

Mom had met my dad, a professor with a penchant for books and a gentle smile, in a world far removed from our grandmother’s reality. They had created a life rooted in academia, where I often heard discussions of physics and mathematics around the dinner table. Jolene took to that world like a fish to water, her passion for education shining through every exam she aced. Me? I had different dreams swirling in my heart.

English, history, and the arts captivated me. I loved the way words could dance on a page, crafting stories that transported people. I longed to take the stage, to evoke emotions, and to become a star like Marilyn Monroe—a beautiful, bold figure who ignited the screen with her presence. I could picture it: the lights, the applause, the thrill of bringing characters to life. I had a feeling Jolene secretly envied me, perhaps she knows I have the opportunity to do this If I were to easily pass as white.