I'm four years old. I've yet to grow into the teeth that will one day take up a third of my face when I smile, just like my mom. I can understand that daddy grew up in Cuba, though I absolutely cannot listen to the story of him getting strip-searched in the airport on his way over to the U.S. without giggling. When I look in the mirror, all I see in the reflection is a very small person. But that's okay, because I know another small person: my abuela, a feisty Latina woman with box-dyed...


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