We Didn’t Think We Would Live in El Paso Permanently. It Became Home.
On a blisteringly hot mid-July day nearly thirty years ago, as my parents walked down the jet bridge at the El Paso International Airport, they heard the faint notes of a mariachi tune playing in the distance. After rounding the corner of the walkway and stepping into the terminal, the two stumbled upon the source of the music: fifteen of my mother’s friends and colleagues had gathered, some with instruments, to welcome my African father to the United States—a country he had never visited but had agreed to call home after marrying my American mother abroad. With a freshly pressed permanent resident stamp in his passport, my father readily embraced a new title that day. It was one that my mother had taken on just…View Original Post
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Source: Texas Monthly