Today I was pleasantly surprised, as I got a call from two children who wanted to see how I was. I met them six years ago, while in Houston and they are both American children, but their parents are not. Morally, it should not make a different who your parents are; legally, it makes all the difference and these children are the offspring of illegal immigrants. When I met them, they did not speak English and they did not laugh spontaneously; they were American, but they were not American.
A few times, I took them to Starbucks and had them order their own food in English; we danced to Adele's album 21, until they knew all the lyrics, even though they did not understand what they meant. I cooked for them and tried to teach them to eat more vegetables and fruit. They painted with my art supplies and we laughed spontaneously.
I did all of this for them, but I also did it for myself because I believed that I could make a difference. It is not over; they are still children and the future is still theirs to be shaped and built. I am happy that they remember having spent good times with me; but, above all, I am happy that they have learned English and that their English is way better than my pretend Spanish.
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