By Yesenia Cuello / Beacon Media

Puedes leer esta historia en español aquí .

I was 14 the first time I worked in a tobacco field alongside my family.

We entered a field we couldn’t see the end of. We slit holes in black trash bags to wear over our clothes, keeping us dry from the dew. The spray from the tractors across the road made our noses itch and our eyes water. We ignored what we were told was “vitamins for the plants” being sprayed.

The tobacco stood taller than most of us, making it impossible to see between the rows as the sun caused the air to wave and the humidity to climb, heavy and suffocating.

When we finally stopped sweating, and the air felt cool against the back of our necks, even as our vision blurred, we assumed the worst had passed. We didn’t know then that our da

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