I had a light bulb moment recently.

It was just like the ones you see in cartoons, where a bulb appears over a character's head, flicking on to inform us that they've just figured something out.

The rise of Indigenous voices in the media and the topics they've explored has inspired, lifted and empowered me — and really helped me become a stronger black person.

It's pulled a curtain from my eyes that I didn't know was there and helped me see the subtle racism in my life.

Now, when I look back on my high school years, things that I'd thought were awkward moments were actually instances of casual racism.

At the time I could sense that something was off — it's something I felt in my body but I couldn't put my finger on it until now.

I was the token black person in high school and that came with baggage I wasn't ready for.

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From a ghost town to the big smoke

At 12, Molly Hunt flew across the country, leaving her hometown of Wyndham in WA for Sydney. ( Supplied: Catherine Atkins/Supplied: Molly Hunt/ABC Life: Juliette Steen )

I grew up in Wyndham, north of Western Australia in the Kimberley. It was a ghost of a town populated with less than a thousand people, circled by hills, living up to its name — cliff country.

The rivers were muddy and croc-infested, the air sticky with 40-degree days, and everyone knew each other.

When it came to school, there's wasn't much on offer unless you left the region and went to private school in a city, which is exactly what I did.

At 12, I received a full scholarship and was flown across the country to spend my high school years in Sydney.

Remember when Dorothy landed in Oz and said "We're not in Kansas anymore?" Dorothy, girl, I felt your pain.

Soon after I landed, I was nervously tapping my cheap volley shoes on the ground quicker than anything else.

The town that I had just come from was roughly the size of a single suburb in Sydney, potentially even less.

As tiny as Wyndham was, it was my safe haven, my little bubble. And my little bubble popped as soon as I landed in Sydney.

The only black girl in the room

Without knowing it, I had jumped head first into a world of white privilege, where people knew more about other countries than the other side of theirs.

I didn't know it was white privilege at the time, I just knew it felt off.

The word 'wrong' vibrated throughout my body like a warning. I was in a foreign place, far away from home. I guess that made me hyper vigilant of the people around me.

Soon it was time to start school.

There was only a week between landing and starting school. It was scary to be at a school so big and I had to adjust quickly to what was my new reality.

Thinking back to how the kids at my new school treated me, each reaction I got was similar.

I was the latest attraction, people wanted to be my friend, they wanted to know where I was from, what my background was.

I think their curiosity came from the fact that I stood out — because, well, there were no other Aboriginal kids in the school. Heck, none in the suburb.

Maybe they were confused because I didn't fit the stereotypes of an Aboriginal person. I wasn't the angry black person or the trouble-making black person.

Instead the students would say "I talked very well" and that "I had a well-shaped nose." They didn't say "you're pretty for an Aboriginal" but I would too often get the "Wow, you're so pretty!"

It felt wrong hearing that from a white person, as if they approved of my appearance.

That all being said, I had some good times at school, I made great friends and enjoyed my time there.

But it wasn't easy — I knew I was the odd one out when I would show videos of Black Comedy to my friends, and was the only one laughing. Yet they'd find some average white guy impersonating another race hilarious.

When I was younger I had no idea of what a token was or what it meant. I just remember always feeling weird, confused and hurt.

But the most frustrating part of it all was not being able to articulate why I felt like that for so many years.

If I had a time machine I would…

Say no to doing an Acknowledgement of Country at the end-of-year assembly, chosen probably because I was the school's only black student.

An 'Acknowledgement of Country' can be done by anyone, and is an opportunity to acknowledge and pay respect to the Traditional Owners.

This is different from a Welcome to Country, which is delivered by Traditional Owners, or Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people who have been given permission from other Traditional Owners, to welcome visitors to their Country.

Have a wittier response to questions like "do you live in hut?" which was probably one of the first questions I was asked when starting high school, closely followed by "do you have electricity?"

Instead, I would laugh nervously and politely replied with a "no". Oh, but how I wish I played the smart-arse!

Register the name 'Siri' because I was basically the black Siri before smartphones were a thing.

"Hey Molly, what is the dreamtime?"

"Hey Molly, do you know [some random Aboriginal person]?"

"Hey Molly, what are your thoughts on Australia Day?"

They had a million questions and I had tried to answer them all.

I never got angry or vocal about comments people made. Instead I tiptoed around them because I didn't want anyone to feel awkward.

I wanted to be the cool black girl. I wanted to be the safe black girl. Safe enough for people to make statements that started with "I'm not racist but…"

Man, I just encouraged their ignorance and privilege as I made myself small, so they could handle my blackness. I wasn't too black, but just black enough.

And if I truly had a time machine, I would go back to my 14-year-old self to find her pondering, "Is my skin too black?"

I would tell her "Your skin is like a uniform — a uniform that you wear for the rest of your life. It represents resilience, power and 60,000 years of ancient history.

If you ever doubt yourself, look to your skin and know you are a descendant of warriors — be proud, black girl!"