Growing up in a different country, in a different culture and being different are not all of the three best combinations in order to be considered normal. I was 9 living in Zimbabwe, Africa and I thought that there was nothing more important in the world then burying your nose in a good book. Sitting with Anne of Green Gables underneath the patio while everyone else was playing on the monkey bars and the playground was a typical break for me. When some of my friends came over to ask if I wanted to join them in their recent game of tag, I refused and then explained that I was in a really good section of the book and that I would come and join them as soon as I could. I sat down and continued to finish my chapter all the while the games were going on around me and I was completely oblivious to it all. Suddenly, I heard the taunts that were directed at me and looked up from my book. A group of kids were near me and were taunting me with how little I seemed to care about the outside world, and that if the world inside the book was so wonderful then maybe I should just live there. Being as blunt as I am I asked them why they were bothering with me and didn’t they have better things to do then torment me. My statement was met with replies of you are a weirdo and how I am better off with the friends in my book, because that at least will give me some friends. Thankfully, there is safety in having a strong family, and at that moment my sister and brother walked over and asked if everything was okay. I told them yes, that there was just some confusion and they were just leaving. I always have been comfortable in the world of my books and it gives me a sense of security, just like the comfort of my family.