| I was born to two immigrants
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| Who knew why they were here
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| They were happy to pay taxes
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| For the schools and roads
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| Happy to be here
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| They took it seriously
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| The second job of citizenry
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| My mother went campaigning door to door
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| And holding to her hand was me
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| I was just a girl in a room full of women
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| Licking stamps and laughing
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| I remember the feeling of community brewing
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| Of democracy happening
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| But I suppose like anybody
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| I had to teach myself to see
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| All that stuff that got lost
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| On its way to church
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| All that stuff that got lost
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| On its way to school
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| All that stuff that got lost
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| On its way to the house of my family
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| All that stuff that was not lost on me
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| Teach myself to see each of us
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| Through the lens of forgiveness
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| Like we’re stuck with each other (god forbid!)
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| Teach myself to smile and stop and talk
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| To a whole other color kid
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| Teach myself to be new in an instant
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| Like the truth is accessible at any time
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| Teach myself it’s never really one or the other
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| There’s a paradox in every paradigm
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| I was just a girl in a room full of women
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| Licking stamps and laughing
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| I remember the feeling of community brewing |