Growing up in a quaint coastal town in California that most people probably haven’t heard of, I was just a stone’s throw from the beach. The weather hovered around a perfect 62 degrees, and the sun was basically a permanent fixture. While my friends and family basked in the sun, lathering themselves in sunscreen and working on their bronzed tans, I found myself on the sidelines. You see, I’m albino.
In the simplest terms, this meant I was utterly incapable of tanning and had vision that could only be described as dismal. Without my glasses, my eyesight was 20/400—twenty times worse than those blessed with perfect vision. Even with specs, I struggled to see, often needing to be right up close to street signs just to decipher where I was going. Subtitles? Forget about it unless they were on a big movie screen. Anyone who has ever used my computer knows that everything is set to “Hercules” size just so I can see without squinting. That blazing sun? My not-so-great adversary.
And, let’s be honest, getting sunburned while everyone else glows like a Hollywood star isn’t the greatest feeling in the world.
Navigating Childhood
Navigating childhood was a challenge. Kids can be downright merciless, and I was often the target of their jokes. Nicknames like “Vanilla,” “Moonbeam,” and “Cottonball” were amusing to them but stung nonetheless. I always had to sit in the front row at school, and I frequently requested printed copies of any visual presentations because reading them was nearly impossible. It wasn’t exactly traumatic, but it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park either.
Looking back, I’ve come to see my albinism as a strange blessing. The quirkiest blessings often turn out to be the most meaningful. I realized that being albino didn’t set me apart; it made me unforgettable. People remember the pale girl from school. I was distinctive. When I visit my hometown, former teachers often stop me to say hello. They might not recall my name, but they certainly remember me—and that I was a good student who treated others kindly. My sister still lives there, and people regularly ask her about me because I left an impression—not because I was different.
Embracing Uniqueness
There are countless tanned individuals in the world, but we albinos are the rare gems—about 1 in every 17,000. So, if you meet an albino, chances are, you’ll remember them. And while you might wonder why I don’t just get a tan during the peak of summer, I can assure you, you’ll remember me—and that’s what truly matters.
The best part? You’re memorable too! You don’t have to be albino to stand out. Were you the only Delilah in a sea of Jennifer’s growing up? That made you unforgettable. Were you a fiery redhead amidst a sea of blonde? That made you distinct. A raspy voice, a birthmark, or striking hazel eyes? You’re not different; you’re just memorable.
I want my children to understand that I’m not just different; I’m memorable. Being memorable is a gift, allowing me to stand out and be recognized. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my experience as an albino, it’s that I’ll never have to worry about embarrassing tan lines!
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Summary
Growing up albino presented unique challenges, from limited vision to childhood teasing. However, I’ve learned that my differences make me memorable rather than just different. Embracing my uniqueness has given me a special perspective on life and the importance of standing out.