Somewhere in a cardboard box in our basement lies a cassette tape of me at three years old being coaxed by my mother to sing into a tape recorder. “Canta,” she says.” I must be fascinated by the turning cassette reels, because I ignore her request and say, “Está andando.” “Si, está andando. Canta.” A few seconds pass during which I am either reaching for buttons or fiddling with the tape case, because my mother starts to get mildly frustrated.
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