![]() ![]() In 1996, on the last night of summer camp in North Carolina, I stood on a concrete patio at sunset, slow-dancing with an older girl from Florida to “Champagne Supernova.” I was 14 and a portrait of awkwardness with my braces and thick glasses. I’d stare at the Interstate, blurry as we whizzed past, and daydream about one day visiting England, the country that had gifted us Noel and Liam Gallagher. My friend Ashley would blast Oasis during our drive, which took 50 minutes-the exact length of the band’s second album, (What’s the Story) Morning Glory. Once my friends could drive, I’d escape to Atlanta whenever I could. Mom, exhausted from taking care of my brother, who was left disabled after the war, would often disappear into a haze of despair the thick fog of it made it hard for any of us to breathe. He was constantly telling me I was white. My American father, a Vietnam War veteran, spent much of his time railing against immigrants-including my Vietnamese mother, who he’d met in Saigon. ![]() I grew up in Fayetteville, Georgia, a small town outside of Atlanta. ![]()
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