Sofia’s report on palm trees wasn’t going well. Her parents were due home at any moment, and her cousins from Lawrence Avenue had shown up earlier than she expected. She liked her cousins, but she knew they were intimidating to look at, with their white tank tops, low-slung, ripped jeans, and folded bandannas that flopped over one eye. Imitation hoodlums. Their family carried scars of a recent past, expected more of their children because they’d come from so much less. She and her cousins hadn’t learned about the Cambodian genocide from their families or their textbooks; they carried it in their blood, from the genetic pain passed down to them, the aberration of a generation’s madness. She wore the uniform of this new world, too, just like her cousins, only hers was a short skirt and letter vest, roll-top white socks and pom-poms. She jumped, she cheered, she tumbled, while her cousins leered and loitered and lingered from gritty Chicago streets. Deep in their hearts, they—all four of them—carried the weight of history and expectation.
What do You think about What We've Lost Is Nothing?
