“Haven't you heard of 'Don't brother me before you know me?'” This was the catalyst comment that confirmed my decision on the one issue out of question the five that I would like to pursue. Really a combination of my desire to examine my angst over hypersensitivity to race in North America, but also to explore and justify this discomfort from the perspective of a third culture kid who didn't pay attention to skin color until I came to my undergrad in Michigan. What the comment really sparked was confusion, sadness and some anger that my passport country, made strong by the diversity of its population, continues to think that the empowerment of ethnic minorities (I still find the term race in this context) disgusting) is best done by drawing clear divisions between them. As I further reflected on the sum of my life experiences, particularly my last 4 years in East Africa and explored as much of that continent as I could, I understood why the comment tore at the fabric of my soul. In all the countries I have visited, no matter what language it was, especially when I started to feel comfortable with the language, my race (which is simply skin color everywhere I have traveled outside of the United States) was not was never the first word spoken to me...most of the time it was brother. Likewise, the expected response was in kind, as a brother – if we were the same age – or as an uncle or nephew – depending on the age difference of the recipient. The idea that, as a seemingly white man (we are all so much more than our skin belies), I couldn't address other males the same age (but who looked different from me) as brothers in a place as diverse as the United States United, to me it's ridiculous. However, when I started playing around with how to deal with this problem, I realized that maybe it was because my accent and appearance were so American. The person who explained the