on jane the virgin and immigrant girlwoman isms
when i was eight years old, my mother’s baby sister moved to toronto from batti, our hometown in ethiopia. i remember the day vividly; my dress was fluffy, sparkly, and salmon-pink. in the stroller i pushed was my little cousin, now almost a fully grown man, squirming and crying in regular intervals. my mother and siblings raced through the airport, roses in hand, ensuring that everything was on time.
my aunt, though, has a different recollection. she laughs as she tells me the first words of her then-youngest niece, only six years old at the time. the statement was two words long: NO ENGLISH? Â
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