When my siblings and I moved from the slummy parts of Lewiston, here in Maine to a middle-class trailer park in Exeter, New Hampshire, it was the early 1990’s and we didn’t realize at the time how tough things would be for us when we arrived. We were excited and at the same time terrified to be leaving our home of all those years. We knew the streets, we knew the people. New Hampshire sounded so fancy to my ears when I said it out loud. I would often say it with an English accent, or at least as much of one as I could muster. “Nyew Hamp-sheer,” I would say, holding up a cup of imaginary tea and slurping it loudly. As the…