I think my parents' lives are worthy of writing about. I don't think my life is particularly worthy of writing about.

In the United States, the immigrant experience occupies a very central place in American mythology. And sometimes, that place wavers between acceptance and rejection.

My identity is deeply intertwined with being a refugee because that's the first experience that I remember.

Refugees are threatening, not just to Americans, but also in many countries the world over. And it's partially because, unlike immigrants, refugees do not choose where they're going to go or why they're fleeing, and they are unwanted populations. They bring with them the stigma of disaster.

I think all immigrants and refugees are preoccupied with memories to one degree or another. But again, this question of how much to remember and how much to forget is really aggravated for those who have lost a tremendous amount.

No one wants for their child to become a refugee. It's an awful experience.

If you're a so-called minority writer, the temptation is to write for the majority... I refuse to do that.