to thee ... Land...of... Pro-mise," Deland reads. We have worked all the way back to him. I think about the long lines of wagon trains and the people who rode or walked all that way across the country. And the seasick masses of immigrants who were drawn to the beacon of the Statue of Liberty from all the way across the ocean. That's how all my ancestors got here, as far back as the pilgrims on the Mayflower. For three hundred years, my genes have stretched across the Atlantic Ocean. Then it hits me. This song is about white people. I scan the room and count—just me, Mr. Nute, and Franklin, who is sitting over there slouched down with his book propped up in front of his face and his eyes closed. What about everybody else? Benson catches me looking around. "What are you doing?" he whispers. Mr. Nute is way up front, his boots crossed on his desk. So I lean toward the aisle. "Where'd you come from?" "Huh?" "Before now. Where are you from?" Benson shakes his head.
