As a first-generation Asian immigrant (移民) who had grown up in poverty, I knew I was
beyond1 to be admitted into Harvard. I loved books, but it never crossed my mind to become a(n)2 of any sort. I didn' t3 to have unrealistic dreams.
Still, something4 me. My deskmate had 5 our friendship recently. There wasn' t a dramatic fight or disagreement. He had 6 46 moved on to new friends. I felt an ache in my chest that7 night. I started doodling (涂鸦) on my notepad and then, suddenly, my hand started writing words. I' d written a poem about him. There on the page was the truth about how much it hurt to 8 him.
That tiny poem was a9 that rooted in my heart. I realized I could possibly become a writer and from that moment on, it was all I10 to do. So I changed my field of study to English. I11 my first short stories while I was still a student. I went on to write my first novel, Girl in Translation, which became an international12 and is taught in schools around the world.
That night, I learned that art isn' t a 13 . It' s at the core of what makes us human. Although I' d believed that immigrants couldn' t afford to be14 I understood then that we had always been the ultimate artists, 15 ourselves again and again as we try to adapt to a new landscape.
