“Culture clash” implies a bold interplay of contrasting patterns; what we experienced could more accurately be described as a culture transplant. We were sewn into this new place and hoped it took. Almost everyone we met was an evangelical Christian who believed they would live eternally in a celestial paradise—and many felt obligated to let us know about it. My babysitter considered glossolalia to be a fun afternoon activity. The only kids’ activity at our apartment complex was an improvised Sunday school, whose organizers prayed with me that my parents would become Christians. A boy called me a “wetback” in the middle of class, and I thought seriously about changing my name. When we watched the Addams Family movies, I developed a strong kinship with pale, dour Wednesday Addams.

Midland was a town mostly populated by white Americans and Mexicans, and both groups largely kept to themselves. Besides us, there were at most a handful of non-Spanish-speaking immigrants in town. (We did not, however, know each other, only of each other. As in, my dad once mentioned that he thought he saw a Ghanaian at the grocery store.)

West Texans exhibit an easy dominance of their inhospitable natural environment, which is something I never did master. They are a group of people who are simply not messed with, whereas I constantly was. Much of the grass there is not grass, but rather “stickers” that will gouge holes in your skin. Once, my father saw a man shoot a rattlesnake in his front yard with a rifle, then pick it up by the neck and present it to his children with a smile. At a treacherous desert day camp, I was stung by so many fire ants that my feet no longer fit in my shoes. As I cried, the camp counselor scolded me for not being tough.

In fourth grade, I changed schools halfway through the year because my family moved across town. Unsurprisingly, I did not take well to the new environs. A short list of things I had issues with: Going outside on field day. (Due to allergies, which my teachers took as a sign of sneaky insubordination.) In science class, making “birth announcements” for a baby dinosaur of our choosing. (Birth announcements were not a custom in Russia.) Being in the same math group as the class pretty girl. (Obvious reasons.)

At the new school, lunch was eaten in shifts, like in a Dickensian workhouse. Before lunch, our class would file out of the room and line up outside the cafeteria. We would sit down on the concrete walkway and wait for the first wave of eaters to leave so we could take their still-warm seats.

My parents grew alarmed when they learned about this system. Not the staggered lunches—the part about the sitting on the concrete.

“You do this even in winter?” they asked.