Adrian Florido

Two days before the presidential election, a remarkable media narrative was taking shape. Latinos, huge numbers of them, were turning out to vote early, and they were doing it in crucial swing states.

It looked like the election, in which many Latinos had felt attacked by the Republican candidate, Donald Trump, was going to end with the most poetic justice. Latinos were going to deliver Trump's candidacy its final death blow.

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Politicians and the media talk a lot about the Latino vote. So what happens in a city that is mostly Latino with multiple Latino candidates running for mayor?

SANDRA RUIZ: Well, I have a lot of support from the Dominicans.

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When it comes to immigration in this country, there's a lot of talk about good immigrants versus bad ones.

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Florida Sen. Marco Rubio got booed off a stage in Orlando on Sunday, by a crowd that was overwhelmingly Latino.

It happened at Calle Orange, a street festival in downtown Orlando geared toward the city's large Puerto Rican community. The icy reception was an indication of the challenges that Rubio, a Republican of Cuban heritage, has faced in locking down support from Latinos in Florida as the state's Latino electorate has begun to shift to the left.

After Mexican vocalist Juan Gabriel died last weekend, tributes flooded in from across the Americas. Gabriel was arguably Mexico's most beloved living singer. He composed upwards of 1,500 songs, recorded music in practically every Mexican genre and beyond, and had an improbable rags-to-riches story.

If you've been on social media today, you've probably noticed there's a lot of talk about taco trucks. Confused? It started like this. Marco Gutierrez, a Mexican immigrant and the founder of a group called Latinos for Trump, went on MSNBC Thursday night and said something had to be done about Mexican immigration to the U.S.

"My culture is a very dominant culture. And it's imposing, and it's causing problems. If you don't do something about it, you're going to have taco trucks on every corner," Gutierrez said.

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Across the nation, people of faith attended services Sunday morning searching for guidance from their religious leaders following the week's violence. In suburban Minneapolis, where school cafeteria supervisor Philando Castile was killed by Officer Geronimo Yanez on Wednesday night, worshippers said the burden felt especially heavy.

At the Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church in Minneapolis, Ethel Rhines, a 50-year-resident of the city, said that after the difficult week, she had come to church in search of "an uplift."

In the days since police officer Jeronimo Yanez shot and killed 32-year-old school cafeteria supervisor Philando Castile, thousands of people have taken to the streets to protest across the Twin Cities region. They've camped out in front of the governor's mansion, visited the site where Castile was killed, and marched and blocked traffic, demanding an end to police violence against black men and women.

Below, three area residents talk about what Castile's killing has meant to them.

Adeniyi Alabi

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Around a candle-lit altar honoring one of the victims of the mass shooting in Orlando, Anthony Laureano and his friends hold hands, mourn in two languages, and say a prayer:

"Estamos aqui ... We're here together ... Porque no somos diferentes ... Because we're not different."

Nearby, Francheska Garcia holds a collage of photos of her friend Jonathan Camuy. "What I'm going to remember is his smile," Garcia says. "He was Puerto Rican. Because usually our parents live over there and we're the rebel ones who move here, to make it on our own."

After the massacre at Orlando's Pulse nightclub, Ismael Medina and his wife Leticia Padro spent all of Sunday calling their nephew's cell phone. But 28-year-old Angel Candelario Padro didn't answer.

They eventually got a call from a friend of their nephew's in Orlando. Candelario had been at Pulse and been shot, she told them, though his whereabouts or condition were still unknown.

Medina, his wife, and their two sons packed their bags and took the next flight to Orlando.

This story is part of an occasional Code Switch series we're calling "The Obama Effect." The series explores how conversations about race and identity have evolved over the course of the Obama presidency. You can read more about the series here.

With a series we're calling The Obama Effect, the Code Switch team is digging into all sorts of questions about how President Obama's tenure has — or hasn't — shaped how we all perceive our own racial and ethnic identities.

Last month, we told you that the Code Switch team is embarking on a big reporting project we're calling The Obama Effect. The series, coinciding with the final year of Barack Obama's administration, will explore the ways that his presidency has (or hasn't) altered how Americans talk and think about race, ethnicity and identity.

When Melissa Adams and her sister were growing up in Lynwood, near Compton, Calif., their black father and Mexican mother taught them to be proud of all aspects of their identity: They were black, and they were Mexican.

After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the U.S. War Relocation Authority made a decision it would soon regret. It hired famed photographer Dorothea Lange to take pictures as 110,000 Japanese and Japanese-Americans were removed from their homes on the West Coast and interned at remote military-style camps throughout the interior.

The agency had hoped Lange's photos would depict the process as orderly and humane.

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Not long ago, Kathleen Franz was sifting through the archives at the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History. Franz is a curator there, and she was working on an exhibit about the history of American advertising.

Millennials of color — even highly educated ones — are finding it hard to get ahead and build wealth. But why?

In the current issue of Washington Monthly, reporter Mel Jones dives into why the racial wealth gap persists for a generation of young black and brown Americans who've had educational and work opportunities rivaling those of their white peers.

After a turbulent week spurred by racial tensions at the University of Missouri, students are reflecting and thinking about what changes they hope for next on campus.

After anonymous threats targeting black students at the University of Missouri were posted online Tuesday evening, saying things like, "I'm going to shoot any black people tomorrow, so be ready," the fear on campus grew quickly.

Some black students were so scared that they left their dorms to stay with friends off campus. Others didn't go that far, but did stay inside and away from windows.

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Martin Luther King Jr. had been dead 11 days.

His assassination fresh on her mind, Harriet Glickman, a teacher raising three kids in suburban Los Angeles, sat down at her typewriter.

"Dear Mr. Schulz," she wrote, "since the death of Martin Luther King, I've been asking myself what I can do to help change those conditions in our society which led to the assassination and which contribute to the vast sea of misunderstanding, hate, fear and violence."

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