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I had an extremely happy childhood. My parents created a world for me and my brothers that were filled with love, security, and endless moments of play. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling I had that I was an “other.” It was a feeling that would underlie every moment I spent outside of my home. I felt it when I was in school when I played with my friends when I went to the grocery store with my Mom. This feeling carried on with me throughout my teenhood. By then, I had figured it out; I was different. I was different because I was a person of color. I was different because I was an immigrant. I was different because my parents spoke broken English.