Imagine a clay pot lifted to the sky and dropped. It breaks and bursts, shattering into countless pieces every which way. This is my experience as the first American-born child in a family of Khmer refugees. My family survived Cambodia's nightmarish genocide and a dangerous refugee camp, only to be fractured by different languages, educations and beliefs in inner-city Long Beach. Everything—from the books we read, the news we watched, the literature and movies we consumed—said that we were broken.