Growing up, I was not very fond of peaches. The issue was not the level of sweetness nor texture but instead, it was the way it was prepared. In my home, fruit was served skinned and cut; no peel was ever in sight. This is usually an Asian way of preparation and way of displaying love. However, accepting that love was a difficult slice for me to swallow. Being Vietnamese within the predominantly white-populated city of Myrtle Beach was the start of my bitter relationship with peaches. In the majority of classes I was in, I would always find myself being the only Asian person there. With a glance, my yellow hue distracted the palette of peachy white in the room, but my contrasts with my peers were not limited to physical appearance, and it inevitably influenced how I was treated as well. I considered myself Asian American; yet, to them, I was solely Asian. No matter how much I tried to fit in, a yellow peach must accept it’s golden flesh.