Eleven years ago, on a dusty, isolated dirt road in Cherokee, North Carolina, my little, five year old body was forced into the back of my aunt's black mini van. In my tiny hands, I held a box roughley the size of a lunch pail. My melencholy green eyes looked through a mess of my own fingerprints and out the window, and though I did my absolute best to hide it, my bottom lip seemed to grow heavy and drop to form a sad little pout. I was feeling one of the most commonly felt emotions a five year old knew- disappointment.
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