Childhood can feel like an entire lifetime; whole worlds lived, then left behind or carried forward in memory. Some of us grow up grounded in one place, shaped by the familiar rhythms of a single town. Others move between cultures, learning early that fairness isn’t a given but a shifting line drawn by those in power.

I witnessed this imbalance firsthand as a child in Germany in the 1980s. The U.S. military had bases worldwide, yet no foreign bases existed on American soil. Today, I make that connection to U.S. citizens who can drive or fly three hours to a beach in Mexico without question, while a Mexican citizen faces many barriers to setting foot in this country. These asymmetries did not track then; now I know they’re wrong.

I grew up understanding that movement was a privilege, not a right. As a military child, my life felt temporary by design. In Germany, I wandered cobblestone streets with new friends, tasting gelato in flavors unfamiliar to my American tongue: cherry, pistachio, the deepest chocolate I’d known. I traded in American candies from suitcases stuffed with Nerds, Jawbreakers, Now and Laters. In the exchange of sweets, I learned an early lesson: popularity was a form of currency, a quiet demonstration of power. A well-placed trade could buy inclusion, smooth over conflicts, or solidify a social standing. These early lessons in negotiation reflected the larger systems of power I would understand more along the way.

Returning to the U.S. deepened my sense of living in between. While I had changed, the people I returned to had not. I processed this through a recurring dream: I stood on one side of a great glass wall, watching my family and friends go on with their lives, separated by something invisible yet impenetrable. I understood that my time in Germany had a beginning and an end. I understood that I would return home, but the dream was helping me face the fact that I would now be different.  

The world was shifting in ways that even children could feel. In 1986, Muammar Gaddafi’s bombings sent ripples of fear through military families. I went to school with armed guards. Chernobyl cast an invisible shadow over Europe, making playground sand feel dangerous. These distant crises were personal reminders that stability was an illusion. And yet, in between global tensions, life carried on in very normal ways.  

There was an adventure; a ski trip to the Austrian Alps, where overcrowding led to a stay in a co-ed dorm with older Swedish teenagers who were both kind and unembarrassed by their nudity. There was independence; being stranded in the Fußgänger zone, miles from home, hailing a cab alone for the first time at 11 years old so I could make it back before dinner. And there was confirmation of responsibility, not punishment, when I confessed to my mom because I was overwhelmed by exhilaration.  

These experiences shaped me before I had the words to articulate them. They taught me that freedom is exhilarating and precarious, that independence, once granted, cannot be taken back, and that the fairness children instinctively expect does not govern our world.  

Those who have moved through multiple worlds tend to see things differently. Those who have remained in one place often struggle to understand why someone like me questions the structures that seem “normal.” It is not a matter of intelligence or ideology but of a different experience.  

I have felt this play out in the growing divide between old friends and family. It is not a matter of love or history but of perspective. Those who have traveled, adapted, and lived among different cultures often develop a broader sense of justice. We see the cracks in the system, the places where fairness falters. We ask questions that those who never had to leave might not think to ask. 

Why does the United States have the power to station its military in Germany while Germany cannot do the same in the U.S.?  

Why can an American cross into Mexico freely while a Mexican citizen must navigate a maze of bureaucracy?  

Why does power dictate movement when movement should be a basic human right?  

These are not rhetorical questions but foundational questions for a world that must change.  

For all the distance these questions have created, I do not believe in permanent division. I believe in bridges. Understanding is not always easy, but it is always possible. Even in the dystopian worlds of fiction I love, people find ways to work things out. If humans can work it out in imagined futures, why not right now? This is why I keep asking, keep investigating, keep using every tool at my disposal, including ChatGPT, to articulate my thoughts, refine my questions, and dig deeper into the structures shaping our world. Curiosity is a bridge, spanning time, experience, and perspective.  

We are all shaped by the worlds we have known. Some of us have moved through many; others have remained in one. The ability to bridge these experiences lies in curiosity, listening, and refusing to let physical or ideological borders dictate understanding. Because in this world where power still dictates movement and fairness remains an elusive idea, sharing our experiences through talking is necessary to move forward together. If we can speak to one another with shared curiosity, perhaps we can begin to redraw the lines, not as walls between us, but as roads that lead to places where we can meet up and share a good conversation.