Those were once my father’s eyes. My mother’s. This World Refugee Day, when I come across photos and stories of refugees on Facebook and Twitter, that’s what I want to remember. Their story is my story—America’s story. For my family, the story of refugees escaping the destruction of war is still very personal. Though I grew up in a comfortable, middle-class neighborhood in Washington, D.C., my parents began their lives in resettlement camps of occupied Europe, displaced from their native Latvia.
