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The summer just before I turned twelve my family moved from Orange County, California to Raleigh, North Carolina. My parents wanted us to see America, so we drove a winding, unfocused route, going north to meet my penpal in South Dakota and then back south to catch up with my dad's college roommate on his farm in Texas.
Everyone gets to the point where they find out the world is bigger than whatever is around them, and that summer was mine. I'd grown up with grapefruit and avocado trees in my back yard and six-foot-high concrete walls between every house. When people ask where I'm from I say "North Carolina" without hesitation, because it's where I grew up, where I had my first kiss and learned to drive and went to the prom. The California I remember is sometimes hazy, even though I go back often. My asthma was actually intolerance of California air, which disappeared when we left. The kids I grew up with haven't seen me since I changed my name. The current tenant of our old house on Redwood Street doesn't harvest the grapefruit.
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