In third grade, my family migrated from an ethnically diverse neighborhood to an affluent Long Island community outside of New York City. Our home was modest compared to nearby mansions, worthy of being featured in The Great Gatsby…..Playing catch-up in the game of inclusion became a strenuous marathon. I was not accepted by anyone, including myself. During the next eight years, I alternated between being a pale plant struggling for sun and a make-up artist sanitizing my identity with gaudy red lipstick. Gradually, my eyeliner pencil sketching on my cheeks transformed into a brush gliding on a linen canvas.  I began to search for meaning and answers from painting. Light-waves reflected galaxies of stars, carnivorous flowers, and question marks.             Azure bodies of water appeared, and tranquil lakes on silvery pebbles and roaring oceans were showered in white. Light and dark shadows contrasted in the crevice of a chin, violet mingling with lemon. The colors stretched and unfolded, cheerful and animated, waning my emotional numbness. I learned how to laugh and cry again.  Through art, I created a space to escape to, heal, and eventually accept myself.…..I realized the notion of a monotone object is deceiving…..Just as shades of colors are multidimensional, so are people…..Below the skin deep surface of my eight-year old classmates, each had their own stories…..It was the collective environment that shaped them.             With this insight, I gradually reconciled with the past, choosing to understand and forgive. Most importantly, I forgave myself.