The first time I moved from Lithuania to America, I was 5 years old and couldn’t speak any English. On the first day of kindergarten, I was crying so much that my teacher picked me up and let me sit on her lap. Meanwhile, the rest of the kids sat on the carpet in front of me and watched me cry while she explained to them what was going on (in a language I didn’t understand). Our school was composed of three buildings, and the pick-up was at the “blue” building, but my classroom was at the “red” building, so they put a sign over my neck that said, “I don’t speak English and I’m going to the blue building,” and sent me away to follow a crowd of other kids. I’m still affected…