“Do you know how to do partition?” Omar asks me. “Partition? Why what happened?” I ask. My mind races through the possible battle scenes amongst the Lilliputians that had led to the ultimate decision to create boundary walls. “I want a partition in my hair,” he bends his head so I can clearly see the space that needs to be ‘partitioned.’ Then he points to his left side and hands me a comb. “I want it here.” “Oh, side parting. That’s easy.” I quickly run the comb through his hair. “Partition done?” Omar asks as I put down the comb. “Yes. Go look in the mirror.” A second later, I hear a voice that seems like a prelude to a tantrum. “You call this partition?” Omar shrieks. “No, I call this parting,” I say in a quiet voice. The idea is to set an example of polite conversation. Neither my impressive vocabulary nor my well-mannered conversing style impresses Omar. In fact, nothing registers. “The line in my hair is not straight, and my skin is not vi