The first time I moved from Lithuania to America, I was 5 years old and didn’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 observed me crying while she described to them what was going on (in a language I didn’t understand). Our school was made up of three connected buildings, and the pick-up was at the “blue” building, but my classroom was at the “red” building, so they put a sign on a string around 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 traumatized…