My story begins even before I was born. My father lived in a world of oppression and persecution. As a child in Czechoslovakia ravaged by Communism, he was compelled to escape to the United States.

Eleventh grade. This is a combat zone. The American Studies classroom is adorned with shiny gold stars, glimmering like military medallions.

“Right here,” says my dad, motioning to a large booth on the right. It’s a cold winter morning and we have not eaten yet, but before picking up the menu and even considering food, we both instinctively reach for the white containers at the end of the table holding the sugar packets.

Around 2005, my house was constantly strewn with Polly Pockets and Legos. My sister and I liked Polly Pockets, my brother liked Legos, and the amount of time we all channeled into our respective activities was astronomical.

I didn’t see many rainbows in India. They hide in the monsoon rains, or are too frightened by the hot, stifling climate. Likewise, I was terrified of showing that side of myself in a homophobic country, especially to the host family I had grown to love.

Once there was a girl who looked within, found divine peace in her soul, and also had great legs. I am not this girl.

It was five o’clock in the morning, and an intruder was in my home. His vile gurgling sounds had crawled into my room and slinked under my covers, and his deafening beeps had yanked me from sleep.

For the longest time there were two people waking up in my bed each morning, and neither one of them knew who I was.

In class on the first day of freshman year, I discovered chewed wads of gum stuck underneath my desk. I found half-eaten chicken wings in toilets.

My town, being average in most respects, doesn’t make it into the news a lot. But when we do, we do it with gusto: one recent event that got us on TV was when a man drove a bulldozer through several neighbors’ houses.

Several years ago, my mother told me I listen to “white people music.” And I suppose that’s true—rock ’n’ roll tends to spring from the middle-class basements of young, white men.

A loud fart greeted me at the doorway of the ICU suite. Tim, a scrawny child of nine years, was sprawled across the bed, clutching a deflated Whoopee Cushion.