Neon flickers and feather-clad girls pose to the sound of a clattering roulette wheel and rolling dice. The air chokes on cigarette smoke and the people hustle as they breathe in the city's colorful vibrancy. This is Las Vegas, Sin City, and this is where I'm from.

Coming from a place like this makes people have a lot of preconceived notions about you. “Wow, she's from Las Vegas, the land where the mayor exchanges bodyguards in suited black for showgirls in diamonds.” “Wow, she’s from Las Vegas, she must live in a casino and know how to count cards.” But there is so much more to Las Vegas than what meets the average tourist’s eye. Look closely, and a thriving, bustling, urban community rises out of the desert dust. Everything required for “normal” life is there: grocery stores, malls, movie theaters, pet stores, parks, and yes, even houses.

Zoom in and a small private school appears. The Meadows School, a campus with a West Coast aesthetic but an East Coast mindset. Founded by the mayor of Las Vegas, it is the school of Vegas’s rich and pampered. The children of big CEOs, A-list actors and famous athletes, walk down corridors strewn with Louis Vuitton backpacks full of MacBooks and iPhones. The parking lot is neatly lined with everything from Mercedes-Benz SUVs to sporty Ferraris.

Zoom in a little further, and a small, Taiwanese American girl emerges. I began my life at The Meadows in the fifth grade. The culture shock was unbelievable. I came from a middle-class family in a neighborhood that was too poor to give out candies on Halloween. I did not expect to be ridiculed for wearing the one jacket I had, the school jacket, on a free dress day. To me, flying first class was only fit for royalty, yet my peers told me that they “could not imagine riding in economy class.” And how could I dare to buy jeans from Target, or even worse, t-shirts from Walmart? The students at Meadows were the epitome of stereotypical Vegas life: rampant, unchecked, privileged consumerism at its finest.

Las Vegas is a city which isn’t afraid to support itself through any means, and I, frankly, was ashamed to be part of it. We were all entering that age where our inklings of knowledge about the adult world made us all fascinated with the intricacies of the human body. And Las Vegas was willing to provide us with every reference we needed: Fantasy, Chippendales, Thunder from Down Under, Peepshow, Puppetry of the Penis, all brazenly advertised along highways and down the facades of great buildings.

I spent sometimes resenting the fact that I lived in such a heinous city, and that I was now part of a school full of rich brats. Yet I came to realize that sitting alone during lunch and watching the 59 other kids in your class eat together meant that I was, for sure, the biggest loser in school. So I began to buy into the culture of The Meadows School. I asked my parents for new Converse, an Ed Hardy hoodie, an iPod, not because I truly wanted these objects but because everyone else had one. Because I thought that the root of bullying lay in my own hands, because I was a loser who didn’t know the lyrics to the top song of the week or who Robert Pattinson was.

The day finally came, in 8th grade, when I finally went to school in a brand new pair of high top Converse and an Ed Hardy sweatshirt. I received my 15 minutes of fame, and to be honest, I felt amazing and confident, like a new person: a cool person. And the next day? It was back to the regular school uniform with its hideous plaid skirt and back to me sitting by myself during lunch.

Upon entering high school, I decided that things would be different. I started off freshman year by joining the Varsity Quiz team, partially because I enjoyed the fast-paced adrenaline rush which came with flaunting the useless trivia which I had stored in my brain, and partially because hanging out with upperclassmen made me feel cool. These were people who had matured out of their middle school troubles. They had risen above caring about external validation from peers. These were people who never ridiculed me for my interests. They were, in short, role models.

As I spent more time thinking about myself and less about what others thought of me, I began to realize that I, too, had contributed to the hateful movement which constitutes middle school life. While others called me a “freak” for keeping a pet tarantula, I labeled my peers as “superficial” for wearing makeup to school. I realized our natural tendency, as human beings, to approach personalities and characters from a two-dimensional perspective.

We believe that we can "figure people out" based on our limited interactions, yet oftentimes fail to see how narrow our extrapolations truly are. And as we watch others do the same for us, we begin to simplify our definitions of ourselves. Vegas, as a city and as a community, is no different. The world sees an immoral cesspool and lewd vacation site. We, the residents of Las Vegas, breathe the sweaty air which surrounds us and begin to see ourselves as the soiled collateral of a frivolous economy which thrives on consumption.

Throughout my high school years, I frequently found myself hidden in the Varsity Quiz coach’s room during lunch practices, and distanced from the glittery, superficial Vegas life which I so fervently disapproved of. I rediscovered the childhood passions which I had left behind during middle school: bug collecting, fashion design, playing piano, and writing.

Suddenly, the bullying which had tormented me throughout middle school no longer seemed to matter. As I began to redefine my own personality, I also began to redefine the world around me. I came to realize that every tale of human life is colored by individual perceptions of the world. We bind ourselves to the assumption that we all perceive the same world. I had assumed that my middle school peers had seen me as the singular “loser” because I perceived myself to be the singular “loser.” Introspection allows us to align our perceptions of the world in relation to those of our peers.

By first taking the step to understand myself, I allowed myself to better understand other people. I began to listen. The boy who drove a Porsche to school came from a broken family. The girl who spent $900 on makeup that weekend did so because makeup was a creative outlet which relieved her academic stress.

And there were even people like me: children of teachers, first generation Americans, living life in the fast lane and thriving. Because The Meadows School and Las Vegas are more than tailored clothes and expensive cars. They are filled with real people with real stories. They showed me that there are seven billion different perceptions, seven billion different worlds which exist simultaneously on this planet. And every single one is worth listening to.

I used to wonder why autobiographical writing existed. Was it because we wanted to share the achievements which we saw as great, or the tragedies which tore us apart? Was it because we, as writers, thought that our own lives were more spectacular than those of others? Perhaps I will never know why others write about themselves, but I know why I do.

Growing up in Las Vegas has been a unique experience. Las Vegas raises children who think movie theaters belong inside casinos and that nearly nude billboards are nothing short of normal. When we leave home, the Vegas stigma masks our stories in stereotypes of gambling and prostitution. Yet I know that we are all more than that.

I’ve learned to love Las Vegas, not for how it is, but for what it is. Las Vegas is more than strobe lights and racy dancers; it’s about being unapologetic. Las Vegas embraces its identity and never stops to question criticism. I grew up in one of the most vibrant and controversial cities in the world. It brings together people from all over the world, and fosters an environment which pushes individuals to be truly individual. Ultimately, Las Vegas has taught me to love myself, to appreciate others for who they are, and to always question why other cities are afraid to put more colorful lights on their skyscrapers.