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Racism stories from England

I am Baseema.
I am seven years old and my name has a precious meaning.
It means smiling.
Now, there is smile and smile.
My father says that mine’s value is double.
Because I smiles before and even after having discovered the real sense of things.
For example, take this red door’s thing.
When I saw it the first time I smile, really.
What am I saying? I heartily laughed, as when you eat something good.
That is, when you eat something.
Big.
A red door? And we are the only ones to have it?
Why? I asked my mother while she mended.
My mother does nothing but mend the few rags we call clothes, where holes are ever much more than the rest. That is the story of our lives, but I am not complaining, because holes hide a priceless gift. You can fill them with anything you like or you can also wait for someone else to realize the dream for you and, in that case, be patient.

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