My life story has never been held exceptionally sacred in social circles. Growing up, I was perpetually the new kid on the block, which gave neighbors, friends, fellow church members, and the local hairdresser liberty to discuss the ins-and-outs of our Chace household. We consistently embodied the latest circus come to town. Six kids and more pets, what's not to talk about? How did they always move? How is that legal--to have so many kids? Why did their parents drag them around the country? Should someone call CPS? Their house can't possibly be big enough. Was this ethical? I would never do that to my family.

Those, and more, acted as the soundtrack to my world while our life became the backdrop for more and more political conversations as I grew older. Even my friends reminded me I was different, and my parents' choices were different. Having six kids in the south was only slightly unheard of; six kids in California--we were an anomaly. So people talked.

For the most part, I let them. I knew you couldn't change anyone's mind, especially in matters of family opinion. Those biases run deeper than birth, and it's fairly useless to defend your parents' decisions against their own parents' decisions. Believe me, I've tried once or twice only to be shot down by the ever popular, my family is better than yours argument. By high school, I stopped altogether.

Six years at the same church, and we were still "the new kids". I hoped that we would have settled into some sort of rhythm after my dad switched from Big Army to National Guard, but somethings never change. Thus was my status of New Girl, but unlike Jess, I didn't get the chance to settle in and be one of the guys. Like her, I was quirky, awkward, and for the most part, I was okay with that. Unlike her, I held onto the knowledge that, in 2 years, we would move.

But California, that God-forsaken state, was our resting ground, and I didn't know how to handle that. People pressured me to be excited. They asked me how it felt to "finally settle down". Ironic, asking the new girl if she's settled down. They couldn't decide if I fit or not. On the one hand, I ran with the same group of friends for six years; on the other, they had been friends since kindergarten and were weary of outsiders. So I stayed in limbo, half inside / half outside their precious group.

I'd moved enough to know this is the station in life for military children. Just close enough to see a wonderful world of friendship you'll never experience yourself. Civilians are too cautious to open themselves freely if they know you're going to leave. The world knew I was going to leave. And yet, six years later, here I was, stuck in California.

Stuck became a more permanent situation my senior year for two reasons. First, because I chose a school in said state; second, because my world was just short of ripping at the scenes. It's funny how living in a homeless shelter makes your station in life seem permanent. If I thought people talked about my family previously, I was wrong. For the last month of my senior year, my family and I were housing vulnerable and spent a few weeks living at a shelter. Men in suits took me into interrogation rooms and asked me questions about my home life. My family's dirty laundry aired out in front of the CID, civilian judicial officials, and our church.

Everyone and their mother had an opinion. None of them asked questions; none of them listened. They just lectured. All to the same point. "You really should be writing your father more." "He's a war hero; he deserves your respect." "Your mother is wrong. You need to talk to your dad."

I remember punching a wall one day. I wish I could say I cracked the cement bricks, but I only succeeded in bruising my hand. Everyone told me to talk to my father, but I couldn't. Nor did I want to. As victim witness, any interactions with other parties were a liability, so I was under a sort of gag order. As a person, I wanted my life sorted out before I started picking up fractured pieces. But no one truly cared, they only said what would make them feel better--justified even.

Thus, my story became others’ to tell--and others to warp. It was then I picked up the pen. I couldn't stop my story from being misquoted, but I sure as hell could put it on the books told correctly. Slowly, I've learned to air my dirty laundry. Stay respectful, but to craft a voice. Experiences are meant to be shared. I didn't choose who I first shared my life with. When the CID ask questions, you answer them. But I get to choose who I end sharing it with.

The pen is powerful. Words, more than weapons, have changed the course of history. And while my journey might not shatter the political economy, I have a chance to set a record straight. And I'm going to take it. I write for perspective, and I write for truth. I can't change my past, but I can wield it as a weapon to effect change for future generations and to encourage others to pick up their pen and also fight for truth.