Brooklyn

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On May 13th, 2015, as I made my way through the sea of people flooding the too narrow aisles, I thought to myself “It will be okay.”
Having found my seat, next to the window, I looked out of it but my family was beyond the reach of my eyes. I thought to myself, “It will be okay.”
As I wandered the vastness of an airport I’d never been to before, surrounded by a language not my own, trying to make my way to the exit and the promise of a better life, I thought to myself “It will be okay.”

Months later, lying in bed, tears still warm upon my cheeks, I tried with all my might to stop myself from calling my mom and telling her how I missed her and my sisters and my dad and my dogs and my room and my friend and every insignificant and great thing that is my home. I didn’t when I remembered that it was going to be okay.

And it has been. I may have not fallen in love or gotten married, but I go to work each day, head held up high, smile upon my face; I go to school and I am not ashamed of who I am nor where I come from.
I want to make my home proud. And build one here.

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