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Home was where I belonged, where I was. In America, I simply was not. Emptiness spun into physical form, a nothing forced to wander a world made for something. My only comfort was that one day, when I was grown and the war was done, I could return home and sit at my mother’s grave again. I would bring paper ghosts and Christmas trees. I would nap there each day to be as close to her as I could without being dead myself.
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I might as well have been dead, though. I couldn’t do school or make any friends. I did not know how to speak to my classmates. I had experienced horrors they could never imagine, but in turn they had experienced hells I couldn’t begin to fathom. Children whose parents starved them. Beatings that caused brain damage and amputations. There was even a boy who came home one day to find his murdered mother’s head in the kitchen sink.