During those first few days in Kansas, I had a sense that we had arrived in the “real” America. And I loved it. I admired the manicured lawns of our new middle-class town, and how the homes all smelled like the scent of banana bread baking in the oven. It was so different than Brownsville.

In the 1980s, when I was in the sixth grade, my family moved from Brownsville, Texas, to a small town in central Kansas. My father had enrolled in the local Bible college for a year-long sabbatical from his pastoral role at our church. We left our home in the Rio Grande Valley and drove 15 hours north to a place where the schools, streets, and people resembled a scene straight out of a John Hughes film.

In the 1980s, when I was in the sixth grade, my family moved from Brownsville, Texas, to a small town in central Kansas. My father had enrolled in the local Bible college for a year-long sabbatical from his pastoral role at our church. We left our home in the Rio Grande Valley and drove 15 hours north to a place where the schools, streets, and people resembled a scene straight out of a John Hughes film.

During those first few days in Kansas, I had a sense that we had arrived in the “real” America. And I loved it. I admired the manicured lawns of our new middle-class town, and how the homes all smelled like the scent of banana bread baking in the oven. It was so different than Brownsville.

It was also clear that we stood out. We were poor and lived in the basement unit of our apartment building.