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Back in the living room, the quick-moving Ibrahim emptied a garbage bag full of donated clothing on the couch: a couple of weathered three-piece suits and some polyester pants and short-sleeved pastel shirts. Most of it looked to have come straight from the closet of an elderly man, one who wintered in Miami, no less. Watching young Maduk check the size of a rumpled shirt against his spidery shoulders, I was struck by an uncomfortable feeling, one I would have more than once during my time in Fargo. I fully understood that these boys were lucky, that there were thousands of Sudanese left behind in Kakuma -- and millions of refugees stuck in camps across the globe -- but still I could imagine, painfully, the small indignities and cultural stumbling blocks that lay ahead. As petty as this seems, the feel-good power of American charity was lost on me the second I imagined Maduk showing up for his first day of high school dressed in government-issue white canvas boat shoes and a shirt better suited for a retiree on a cruise ship.