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My immigration to the USA ”Grandma, why do I look different from the other kids at school? They bully me with my big curly hair and darker skin.” Adriana grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. A tear fell from her chin down on her pretty little white nightgown as she puled me down under her carpet. “They keep calling me an afro-weirdo.” I claimed my hand and stroke her long black hair as I said: “Well, as you know, me and your grandfather isn’t born around here.” I looked out the window and glanced over the nightlife of Boston.
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