The Chinese say that humans cannot leave their native land as trees cannot leave their native soil.When I was thirteen, I was uprooted, replanted, and I almost died.
             It was another normal summer day in Shanghai, China.I walked home with my friends, dressed in blue and white uniform, discussing the impossible final we had just taken.As I came home and entered the crowded, six-story apartment, I was surprised to see my mom standing in the hallway, the mother who had left me for America since I was one. She wanted me to come to America for the summer ¡ª Many Chinese dreamt about a life in America, but I didn¡¯t want to leave.I didn¡¯t want to leave my grandparents, who spoiled me all my life; I didn¡¯t want to leave my friends, whom I planned an exciting summer with, and I didn¡¯t want to leave Shanghai, a city whose air was always full of innocent simplicity, a city which I called home.But I finally gave in.I told myself it would only be two months as I walked through the terminal.Little did I know that I was leaving everything behind.
             Summer passed and things went wrong.My parents told me that I was a permanent resident and cannot go back home.I asked if they had lied to me, and they would consistently reply, ¡°if you think so.¡±I wore my big T-shirts and loose shorts to alien hallways of school, and my classmates gave me the assortment of classic odd stares.I looked at myself.In China I had hour-long conversations with my friends every night; now I come home and stared at the ceiling.I was the student body president, now I sit at the corner, being the invisible.I had hosted major school events and spoken in front of an audience of thousands; now I can¡¯t even communicate with my American-born sister.I held my tears, until that day when I had to read a short story called ¡°The Moustache.¡±As I sat in front of my computer dictionary, looking up almost every fifth word, spending more than six hours on t...