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August 13, 2011
I was raised in the rice patties of south Arkansas, under the clouds of mosquitoes and the pale, pale blue sky. I knew the color of my blood and everybody else's from the smears against our arms where we had slapped, slapped, slapped at our bug bites. I knew the texture of mud between my toes, the hot blanket of humidity against my skin, the burn of asphalt when I fell off my bike. In that tired and burdened town, I knew everything.

All that knowledge I'd stored in those rice fields disappeared the day we moved away.