My mother, like most immigrants to the United States decades ago, worked in a factory doing a menial job. As a teenager, I sometimes visited her at Luxury Braids, a garment factory that made embroideries for clothes, shoes and other items. I remember the place humming with loud fans and the dust from the sisal flowing through the air. Most of the workers wore masks and gloves along the assembly line.
Each visit, I couldn’t wait to get out of the dank and dusty place to breathe some fresh air.
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