My first love is the person college allowed me to be. In elementary school in Spain, evening meant trading Castilian for Farsi, tossing around my mom’s saffron rice and stews over dinner as I ruminated over how coming from a technically Muslim household meant that the three kings would bring gifts every Christmas but didn’t qualify me for attending religion class with my Catholic peers. While other kids absorbed stories and sat around a table learning once a week, I stayed in homeroom and organized my teacher’s filing cabinets. In the U.S., I tore at my Spanish self for making an English language I had no acquaintance with sound less American. In the evenings, I hid from my family to pore over library books I didn’t understand to cease being the ESL girl who quietly enunciated the words of her picture book about families of bears while others delved into the fantasy worlds of their chapter books.