By Diana Campoamor

Today, on International Workers’ Day, when thousands of immigrants and workers across the nation are marching to make their voices heard, I’ve been reflecting back on my own immigrant experience.

I left Cuba as a girl of 11. I arrived in New Orleans, the only one in my public school class who couldn’t speak English. I remember sitting in class, overwhelmed by the flurry of English that I did not understand. But my teacher, Ms. Marie, held my eyes with hers.

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