My (mostly) scottish upbringing was blighted by one tiny but intractable fact. Embarking on the crooked journey of adolescent self-discovery, I scoured a (mostly) Scottish landscape for reassuring reflections of that most important entity: me. They weren’t very reassuring-bits of border country, a few dank drinking holes in Perth, many grim-yet-transcendent highland years, my Scottish-nationalist granny in Orkney. I didn’t come from any single one of these places. Echoing my teenage self, they were contradictory and temporary. But they were (mostly) Scottish. Or, at least, they would have been if it weren’t for my “black fact.” I was born in…

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