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A week before the election, during Día de los Muertos, I went camping. I smelled fresh air. I huddled around a campfire with migrants from Iraq, El Salvador and Honduras. We painted our faces & strolled through the cemetery at night, between flowers and candles and balloons.

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I was putting up tents when a five-year-old girl said to me, “I’m not from here. That’s why I don’t speak like you do.” I said, “I’m not from here either.” I told her I’m from the US. She told me, “that’s where we want to go,” and said, “did you have to go to the migration camp, too, when you got to Mexico?”

What could I have said?

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