Ingrid Rojas Contreras searches for the forgotten magic in immigrant stories
For all thirteen years as an immigrant I have collected answers to this question: When you traveled over what special item did you bring? A poetry book. A dress. A father’s bow tie. I used to ask this more when I lived in Chicago, where I often found myself in the wee hours of the night waiting for the owl bus, huddling with strangers under the shelter of one heat lamp. I remember a young Mexican bartender who told me a flag and a...
