Nine years – why is everybody white?

Nine years- _why is everybody white__ (1)
At nine years old I loved my life in London, everyone was different so everyone fit in. we were all different but all friends, I learnt a lot about people and culture from a young age growing up just off Holloway road with out even noticing. I was supported in a school I loved that had no uniform and we called the teachers by their first names. I had my group of the best friends that meant the world to me. That summer to my absolute shock we were leaving London, for good. The city I loved so dearly would no longer be mine instead a small, pastel coloured town by the beach were everyone looked the same was now my home. I was distraught. Before school started it didn’t seem so bad the sun would shine, the beach was nice and nan and grandad lived in the next town.
Then school started, everybody looked the same. The girls all had long hair and giggled at boys, I thought they were all boring. I came home after my first day and asked my parent why everyone was white and the only reply I got was “ its kent chlo”. This was my first experience with mean girls, they would pretend to be your friend then leave you waiting for them. I was the weird girl from London with short hair, that hated the uniform and didn’t anything to make it look better. I eventually made friends although I never got the feeling of true understanding, they were fine. That year was the first time I lied about my leg, it seemed important to be the same as everyone in this small town. I told a few people that my leg was bitten by a shark in Australia (I’ve still to this day never been to Australia). I carried on the lie to say that I still wasn’t scared of sharks, it wasn’t their fault. To make myself seem brave and heroic to a bunch of kids who thought I was already different.
This was also the year my beloved lop eared house bunny Pear died. I was absolutely devastated; how could this year get any worse. Then the winter hit and the small pretty town we lived in turned grey and quiet. This was the year I begun to hate. I hated school, I hated the people in it bar a select few and I hated Whitstable. I vowed then and there to make sure I would be back in the city I loved so much as soon as I could.
Although my leg my little difference to me this year, I was out of a wheelchair and no longer had plastic attached to it. It was when I learnt to be ashamed of it, to lie.

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