My Dad gazed forlornly out the airplane window, watching the long expanses of open rice fields slowly fade away and change from distinct images into a greenish brown blur. He blinked away the images still too sharp in his mind, the bomb pits so numerous they clustered together to create single ravines, faces of friends lost in the war, the taught cold face of his wife, Phuong, now abandoned in her home country. He squeezed my hand tightly, willing his conscious back to reality. My cold hand awoke with a tingle and reflexive jerk; I shifted in my seat and repositioned my head on his lap, falling back into a peaceful state of unconsciousness. I was two, my Dad was thirty. He was a single parent, now faced with the daunting task of raising a two year old on his own. Parental instinct told him he had to escape my abusive mother. His journalist income was barely enough to cover the bills. All of his savings had been depleted on the complicated arrangements necessary to secure a safe and secretive exit out of Vietnam. We were headed to California with only several dollars to our name and no plan for survival.

The next six years shaped the backbone of my personality. We were homeless, at least by the true definition of the word. We spent several years living in a packing crate, an abandoned rusted box that had seen better years hauling freight for the local train company. The next several were in a leen-too, a wooden structure my Dad built in an effort to upgrade our living quarters. I lacked every luxury my children enjoy today. Our only spending money came from our monthly welfare check, barely enough to cover food. We hitchhiked the two-hour drive to the welfare office each month, an activity I came to love. I didn't think we were homeless. When I think of homeless people, I think of those without even a roof above their heads. I think of the uneducated. I think of those with mental disorders. While many of these biases are inaccurate and unfair, we had everything a child needs to thrive. We spent most days at the local library. I learned to read earlier than many of the children I see today in top private schools. I learned the value of money and to work hard earlier than most children are even asked to do chores. I invented creative ways to make money, challenging children in town to running races with a one-dollar bet. No one could beat me. I ate well and ate everything put on my plate, knowing it was all we had. Most of all,

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