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In my earliest memories, I am spinning. My eyes are glued to a sea of stormy skies and beneath my feet the packed earth smells of the coming rain. I am in Mexico. I am surrounded by laughter, and I bathe happily in the warmth of my family's bubbling Spanish speech. I am home. Then, life goes on fast-forward. My father had been in the United States for the first eight years of my life, visiting only a couple times per year, before deciding it was time that our family should be reunited. I remember my mother asking me if I wanted to go the US. I remember, more importantly, only thinking how exciting it would be to have a family that was always together. Months later, our suitcases were packed,...