My face is hot and red. I drop the bike in the driveway and run to find my father. I see him in the garden under the big magnolia. He is digging in the red Georgia clay. He stands up as I run to him. I cry angry tears.

A moment like this comes for every immigrant child.

It is hard to leave a home you know. It is even harder to make another place home. Everything is new. Everything is strange. Everything is different.

I tell Papi how I feel.

“I hate it here! I am not like them, and they are not like me!” I say to him.