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I stopped speaking to any of my classmates. I didn’t like them, and I knew they didn’t like me, because they looked down when I walked by their desks to my own in the back of our classroom, like they were waiting for a ghost to pass.
It was easier to believe that I had some control over what was happening to me, that I had a say in writing the story of my life, than confront the reality that I was following in the footsteps of millions of poor kids who are indoctrinated into the armed forces with promises of education and stability, that my story had been written long before me.
