“Texas? That’s basically my middle name. Typically when people look at me, the first thing they assume usually isn’t Texas. I get it; I’m Asian American. Texas is blond hair and blue eyes. But when I moved to California with “y’all” and “bless your heart” on the tip of my tongue, it was obvious that I was not born and raised in the beautiful Mediterranean San Marcos. When I first learned we would be moving from Texas to California, I was furious. I broke down on my plane ride to California. My mom said it was ridiculous for me to be crying. Texas was only two states away, and she had moved from a country 2,000 miles away to the US. My heart sunk, because she just did not understand. She ran away from a country that persecuted her family. I ran away from bluebonnets and catching fireflies in old pickle jars. Once my freshman year of high school started, I easily started making friends with a lot of people. One was a girl who came from Mexico with her mom and had a beautiful smile with dimples. Another was a boy who came from the Philippines and loves K-Pop videos. I started to realize how different everyone was in California, yet they still manage to get along. It isn’t like Texas, where everyone I knew had the same ideals, the same Alamo, the same mornings where we would pledge our allegiance to the Texas flag. It was easy for everyone to be likable when they were similar, but it’s more difficult when everyone’s different. It’s much harder, sure, but it’s definitely worthwhile.”