Abstract
This is a pseudo-testimonial story that narrates the experience of crossing the immigration customs desk at an airport in the United States, where we live and work as foreign-born citizens. While we wait for the officers to scrutinize our passports, a collage of fragments of Central America’s past history comes to mind; the intertwining of images of the past into the present space gives the opportunity to reflect upon the US-Latin American relation and about women and writing. Writing appears as a paradoxical contestatory response vis-á-vis marginalization and exile.
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