Both sides of my family escaped religious persecution and famine, and now I sit here, fed and without a God. Sinful and afraid of food. Angry that I am thankful for their immigration and boats and planes. Angry that my escape from persecution seems trivial by comparison. Angry that my persecution likely comes from their still-moving feet, still with the idea to birth their escape. Still thinking that I am the vessel of hope. Still with the notion that any amount of withholding my food will allow me to relive their lives and change it easily with my own hands in front of them. So they may see where they went wrong at 13 years old. To hold control now, to be the unfamiliar president of four walls.