Being a gringa in a foreign land

I'm re-reading one of my favorite books, The Soccer War by Ryszard Kapuscinski and I came across a passage from his reporting in Africa. Though the context is obviously different and the racial tension in Africa is much more severe than here, the passage really struck a chord with me about what it's been like to be such an obvious foreigner all the time and I thought I'd share it with you:

"... I had a wolf ticket. You get that ticket when you cross a certain parallel. When you reach a place where you find out that you have white skin. This is a discovery, a sensation, a shock. I had lived for twenty-five years without knowing about that skin. A hundred children play in the courtyard of the townhouse I live in back home, and not one of them has ever given his skin a thought. They only know that if it's dirty, that's bad. But if it's clean and white - that's good! Well, they've got it wrong. It's bad. Very bad. Because white skin is the wolf ticket.

Books about Africa used to get on my nerves: so much about black and white in them. This color, that color, and all the hues in between. When I finally went myself, I understood. Right away you find out what's assigned to you, which line you're supposed to stand in. Right away that skin starts itching. It affronts or it elevates. You can't jump out of it, and it cramps your style. You can't exist normally. You will always be above, below, or off to the side. But never in your own place..."

(Kapuscinski 62)