My father, Jose Camarena, was the eldest of seven siblings. When my grandfather couldn’t make ends meet, he was expected to share his parents’ financial burdens.

At the unsullied age of six, he began to sell chiclets (gum) in the precarious streets of Mexico City. Words cannot describe the sadness that fills my heart to think of such desolation, even today.

Fifteen years later he met my mother, Silvia, a nurse who volunteered in Mexico City’s ER. She spent her life helping raise her siblings, going to church, and helping people less fortunate than herself. I truly believe she was his angel. She taught him how to read, write, but most importantly, she taught him that family was love. Family was dinner together, it was celebrating birthday parties, it was shared memories.

They married in 1977.

In 1978, they illegally immigrated to Chicago. Neither of them spoke English, but my father managed to find a job. While in Chicago, my mother went into labor with my eldest sister. A Caucasian woman helped my mother to the hospital. Despite the language barrier, both women welcomed my sister into the world. It is clear that acts of compassion don’t need subtitles. My mother honored the woman’s kindness by naming my eldest sister after her. Lizbeth.