As my official bio reads, I was made in Cuba, assembled in Spain, and imported to the United States — meaning my mother, seven months pregnant, and the rest of my family arrived as exiles from Cuba to Madrid, where I was born. Less than two months later, we emigrated once more and settled in New York City, then eventually in Miami, where I was raised and educated. Although technically we lived in the United States, the Cuban community was culturally insular in Miami during the 1970s, bonded together by the trauma of exile. What’s more, it seemed that practically everyone was Cuban: my teachers, my classmates, the mechanic, the bus driver. I didn’t grow up feeling different or treated as a minority. The few kids who got picked on in my grade school were the ones with freckles and funny last names like Dawson and O’Neil.
BLANCO, R. Disponível em: http://edition.cnn.com. Acesso em: 9 dez. 2017 (adaptado).
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