MY MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS were born in the former Yugoslavia, a nation bloodily dissolved in 1991. I was one year old. A decade later, on Easter, I brought potica, a babka-like Slovenian pastry my mother always made on holidays, to my Indianapolis elementary school. “Hey,” I said. “Here’s some Yugoslavian holiday bread,” because that’s what my family still called the former Republic at home. Of course I’d chosen to bestow these gifts—potica, my ignorance—on my geography class. My teacher guided me to the newly minted map across the room.
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