“The day someone quits school he is condemning himself to a future of poverty.”

-Jaime Escalante

As far back as I can remember my dad always worked in a factory. Everyday he would return home with a smile on his face and his lunch box swinging from his hand. Sitting on the porch, he would converse with our family about new events that had occurred and then retire to a shower. I never really thought much about his efforts since they became routine. He would leave the house for work before I would wake up and we would sometimes not see each other until the weekend…

I do remember visiting his job once as a small child. Beyond some mangled chain-link gates and overgrown cactuses, I recall standing by his red 1977 Chevy Malibu station wagon as he entered the factory to pick up his check. As I waited, I heard the noises of clattering machines and of a foreman yelling at a worker, noises that still fill my head. When my dad returned, he was joined by a co-worker who wanted us to see his van. When he opened the back door, I saw a display of Mexican candies, fruits, nuts and potato chips. I was given a bag of peanuts with a pat on my head as the joyous man told me, “Work hard in school so you can take care of your dad some day.” For some reason, I still remember that.

Returning from my second year of college, I could see the costs manual labor has. Above my dad’s dresser is a bottle of Visine: Advanced Relief, Clear Eyes: Extra relief and another that is prescription strength. Beside his bed are two knee braces and a roll of bandage tape. In the adjacent bathroom are two bottles of rubbing alcohol—one almost empty—and a bottle of Tylenol: Arthritis Pain in the trash can. All of this is in sight of a plaque that commemorates 10 years of my dad’s labor.

There is nothing that I can say to him about the sacrifice he has made, and is making, for the family. I know that I do not yet have his strength or endurance that has allowed him to continue for so long but I hope to learn.

Days before I returned to start my third year of college, I remember waking up at 4:54 a.m. I could not see anything but I heard our front door close. Gazing upon the darkened ceiling, I waited … a hood squeaked open … I waited … a car door slammed shut … I waited ... the ignition started … the engine growled … the car began to warm up … at 5:02 a.m., an old Chevy could be heard leaving….

Gracias Apá … gracias…