Moving Forward Felipe Parodi

As the new student in my sixth grade English class, I was asked where I was from. "Where is your home?" a classmate inquired. As I opened my mouth to answer, I was struck by the sudden realization that there was no particular place that I was able to readily identify as my home, no place that I could confidently declare was where I belonged.

I was born in the anything but humble country of Argentina. To me, Argentina is central to my cultural identity, the land of my forefathers, the hub of the tumultuous journey I call my life. But I still do not consider it my home; I was only there for a minute fraction of my life.

When I was four, Argentina was in the early stages of its "Gran Depresion." The economy was diminishing, crime rates were increasing, and unemployment was rising. In my naiveté, I never imagined the atrocities would come near my family. I was wrong. One traumatizing day, we received word that there had been abductions a few miles from our home; one victim was a close family friend. My father, a respected veterinarian, decided it was the right time to apply for a student Visa to the United States to further his education, but more importantly, to keep us safe. Six months later, the Visa was approved. I left...