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When it rains and then it its cloudy, humid, and muddy, when the sun sets and the ladies next door sweep their front stoops, when I go running and there is dog poop and crumpled paper bags in the road, the crumbly asphalt road, crunchy under my feet, when it begins to get dark and the breeze begins to be cool, still humid, still sweaty, cool, when colors lean into these old buildings, lean over the street, softly muddy from the rain—when it all converges, parts of my neighborhood feel like Nicaragua, like Latin America, a continent generalized, and I remember: it’s all part of the Americas, we all are.

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