Hoy es trece de septiembre de 1965.
It is now exactly one year since we first came to America from Cuba. I am writing this in English in an attempt to improve upon my English, which my teachers say es muy bien already, although it needs work. I do like the sound of my own language, though, and I still speak it at home with mi familia. I thought it would be good if I started this journal on the day we left Cuba, as a reminder of Fidel Castro and what I left behind.
I remember everything clearly now, but I may not be able to remember later, and that is why I write this. After all, I already miss the sights and smells of home. Though I live in the great city, Miami, where there are many immigrants like me, it is not home.
I remember the day
It is now exactly one year since we first came to America from Cuba. I am writing this in English in an attempt to improve upon my English, which my teachers say es muy bien already, although it needs work. I do like the sound of my own language, though, and I still speak it at home with mi familia. I thought it would be good if I started this journal on the day we left Cuba, as a reminder of Fidel Castro and what I left behind.
I remember everything clearly now, but I may not be able to remember later, and that is why I write this. After all, I already miss the sights and smells of home. Though I live in the great city, Miami, where there are many immigrants like me, it is not home.
I remember the day