Checko, The Mailman

Posted on by
Manuel Pacheco Jr and Me, his little letter carrier

The United States Postal Service has always been a part of my life. My dad was a mailman, a postman, a letter carrier before I was born. He retired after 30 years of service. Dad worked at the Jensen Drive station for much of his career, delivering mail to the Fifth Ward community. People on his routes knew him as “Checko.” We used to meet him on his routes sometimes and I would see people waving at him and greeting him with smiles. He lived in the community before and after he retired. There was no doubt in my mind, everyone in Fifth Ward knew “Checko.” When I was young, I would visit my dad on weekends and I felt a special pride when we would be riding through the neighborhood, windows rolled down and him throwing up his hands at what seemed like every person we came across. He would yell out the window “hey, hey, whatcha say” and of course when we’d stop at any convenience or grocery store, everyone greeted “Checko” and we would spend an extra 20 minutes at the checkout counter just talking. He was like a celebrity.

Before the big machines, the mail sorters, were a thing, I remember my dad getting up early to get to the station to sort mail. I remember him being nervous at the talk of the sorters coming to the station because he was worried about the machines replacing people. In the end, I think he came to appreciate the efficiency and realized he could get out on his routes earlier to beat the heat, but no matter the weather, my dad showed up. He took to heart the unofficial motto of the USPS, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”

Dad  seemed to stand taller and walk prouder when he put on his crisp clean uniform. He was proud of that standing eagle logo but he never really took to the “new”sonic logo, the one we see today. He still called it the “new” logo almost twenty years later even though it changed over in 1993.

He was so excited when he changed over from the mail jeep to the mail truck. I thought those trucks were so cool, even now, whenever I see a mail truck, just like when I see a cardinal, I think of my dad. I always wave at my letter carrier, actually, at every one of them, no matter in my neighborhood or not. I feel a sort of reverence to the USPS. If I can ship via USPS I will. Dad always gave a side-eye to the competition of that other company driving those brown trucks. Anytime dad knew someone was looking for a job, he would tell them to go downtown to take the civil service test and get into the USPS. He knew the benefits of working for USPS. We benefited from the stability of the federal job, watching the pride and loyalty he demonstrated for his work and his colleagues had a profound impact on me.

Dad moved to the Holcombe station in the Medical Center, a few years before he retired. He said his legs were getting tired and the heat was getting too much for him on the streets of his beloved Fifth Ward. He found himself no longer driving and waving at people, but instead, he was hitting up hospitals and high rises and getting to know a whole new group of colleagues and routes. No more dog bites or overheating, but he did miss the people. Nothing would stop my dad from meeting new people, so he would chat up all the fancy business owners in the Medical Center and made a whole new community.

My mom used to tell me about how important it is to keep work commitments and she would remind me how when for “some reason” (I didn’t ask questions) when my dad couldn’t drive, she would drive his route for him so he could keep his job and meet his work commitments. She would drive and he would get out and deliver the mail while I was laid inside one of the mail bins next to her. I was their little letter carrier. How could I not hold a special place in my heart for the USPS.

Before all the daily news reporting of the attempted dismantling of the USPS, I would smile when I saw mail trucks in person or on TV because they remind me of dad. Now, those same images bring a sadness, a heaviness because I can only imagine what my dad, a lifelong letter carrier would think about this assault on the USPS and the burden it’s placing on letter carriers. I am glad he is not here to see the attempts to use the USPS to suppress our voting rights, although I think he would have appreciated hearing all the voices who are speaking up to protect our beloved USPS.

In Memoriam

Posted on by

3 soldiers

Dear George,

We’ve never met. I wasn’t even born while you walked this Earth and yet I’m compelled to write you this letter, today, May 25, 2015 on Memorial Day.

Though you died on the battlefield of Vietnam and your body laid to rest somewhere, there was a piece of you that came home with my dad, PFC Manuel Pacheco Jr. in 1964. As the family story goes, after dad returned from service and after some time healing and recovering he spent his time trying to convince my mom to marry him. They prayed, hoped and thanks to medical technology, I came along years later.

Dad spoke your name often over the years and like many Vietnam vets, he didn’t share a whole lot of details about his time in the war, except the name of his friend, George. As time went on, I would try to ask my dad about his time in the service and he would only smile and say “I had a good friend named, George who I lost in the war.” After several failed attempts at trying to prompt my dad to open up, like buying him a Vietnam Vet t-shirt when I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall and hoping that would prompt him to talk, he just smiled, said thank you, folded it up, placed it in a drawer and I never saw it again. I didn’t ask any more questions and then after some years, he opened up a little here and there.

He would tell me that he was a young man, eager to serve his country and then faced with the reality of the fighting a war in the jungles of Vietnam, he would do all he could to get back home safely. He admitted he was a scared eighteen year old, but he did what he had to do. Ironically, on his way to be processed out, he was shot. He would tell me that he felt grateful to make it out only with a bullet hole. As mom tells it, it was much more than that and he endured surgeries and had complications that kept him in a long recovery period.

Dad would tell me that you died, right before his eyes. I didn’t ask any questions, I just let him talk. He didn’t say much more and never told me your last name. All I knew was that, you, George, remained in my dad’s heart.

I saw my dad at his best and I saw him at his worst. I can only imagine the fear, the pain, the sorrow, the grief he endured trying to make it through the war and then losing you, right before his eyes. He would tell me he was glad that veterans who come home now are honored and respected and are thanked for their sacrifice and their service, not like many of the Vietnam vets who were greeted with protest and hate. I know he shielded me from the painful sights and sounds of war, the memories that haunted him, but I was honored that he let me in a little now and then and each time, he’d mention your name, George.

For all that I don’t know about you George, I do know this, you were a companion to my dad in a time of uncertainty, your friendship must have meant a lot to my dad to continue to keep your name and memory alive all these years later. I could tell when my dad was flashing back to your memories together, he was calm and at peace and your memory didn’t haunt him the way other war memories did, or maybe it did and he came to terms with it.

I’m sure by now, you have met up with dad again. He went home to be with the Lord a few years ago and I imagine him finding his way to you.

I think about you every Memorial Day and give thanks to your service, your sacrifice and your friendship. Thank you for your service. When you see dad, tell him hello for me……..

With appreciation and gratitude,

Hope Suzanne Pacheco

Postcards to Heaven

Posted on by

Originally written in honor of dad’s birthday September 2012

dads grad

Manuel Pacheco Jr Class of 1961

heaven postcard2

Since dad died, I have had thoughts about random life moments that I wanted to share with him; jokes I wanted to tell; gossip I wanted to whisper and work drama I needed to vent. I would have these split-second urges to pick up the phone and call him. The urges to call started happening less and less as the reality of his death started to settle in our lives. I struggled with how to stay connected to dad.
I tried talking to him in the car, but then I’d start crying while driving. I didn’t like the odd looks I’d get from the other drivers when they realized I didn’t blue tooth ear piece. Awkward!
I tried writing him letters, but I couldn’t finish one. There were just so many things I wanted to say and I’d get the paper soaked with tears before I could finish. I took up writing about him, instead of, to him. The reflections have been healing for me, but, even that, was not enough to feel connected to dad.
I was still looking to find a way to share the random thoughts, the tender moments with the family, and the precious sight of beautiful things. When I’d find myself wishing dad could see what I saw or hear what I was hearing, I’d make a quick mental note, hoping he was “listening or watching.”
I guess I should have taken my own advice. When the kids would say they wished Papa could see them do something, we would tell them, “Papa can see you from heaven.” They would look up and search the heavens for signs of Papa. My Daniel, only two and a half, would search with such intensity. He has moved past the disappointment of not “seeing” Papa, although we have to be careful when we are talking about “going to see Papa at the VA cemetery.” Now, we say “we’re going to pray at Papa’s cemetery.”
We have embraced Papa’s spirit and the little signs he leaves for us; a beautiful Cardinal sunbathing in the backyard, a sudden strong breeze, a “papa song” seemingly coming on out of nowhere, or blinding sunlight at the exact moment we are wondering if Papa could see us now. I can feel his presence all around us. I feel like I’m getting his notes to me, but how do I get my notes to him.

It wasn’t until Julia got her latest postcard from a friend of mine, Lynda Daniel, that I put it all together. Lynda has been sending Julia postcards from her and David Daniel’s trips around the world for several years now. Sharing the beautiful landmarks and scenery from Paris to Germany to New York to San Francisco, has been an adventure for our whole family. Dad loved checking the mail and reading those postcards. I guess it was the mail carrier in him, delivering each one with care to Julia.

The postcard pictures are beautiful! The notes are short, but descriptive and always leaving us feeling like we could see, feel, hear and smell everything first hand. Lynda’s postcards gave me an idea. What if I could send “postcards to heaven” that capture the random life moments and pictures of my life’s beautiful scenery, my family? Over the last year, they would have read something like this…..

Dear Dad—
Cheraty’s miracle was realized today. Little Lily was born. She is so beautiful. Take a look!
Miss You!

Dear Dad—
You would be so proud of David and his baseball team. Doesn’t he look so handsome in his baseball uniform? I promise, he is not wearing his baseball cap backwards.
Love you!

Dear Dad—
Julia is still at it. She is still singing in choir and working hard at her Algebra and Spanish. I promise, we are taking care of your baby. She misses you so much! Did you see how much taller she is than me now?
Thinking of you!

Dear Dad—
Did you see our little athlete? Olivia loved her time in soccer! She is so motivated. You would be so proud of her.
Missing You!

The more I practiced doing this, the more connected I felt to dad. I didn’t need to send long letters or talk to dad for hours on end, to feel connected to him. With my heart open, I receive his messages and I send postcards to heaven.

Dear Dad—
Happy Birthday! I miss you so…
Wish you were here!

This sustained me for a year while I continued to look for ways to remember dad. We had a gathering of family on the one year anniversary of his death. I shared the piece and got vintage postcards printed up for all of us to share our own “postcards to heaven” little messages of our lives. It was beautiful!

As Seen On TV

Posted on by

Dad found a reason to give gifts, year-round. If he had extra money in his pocket, he’d spend it on someone else, but during the holidays, he was extra generous. He would say that money was burning a hole in his pocket, so he had to spend it.

Sometimes he would gift people with cash, just to get by or to pay a bill. Sometimes he would gift people with a dozen fresh warm Shipley’s donuts or a dozen tamales and for a select few, a smoked Kentucky ham. Santa had nothing on “The Mailman.”

I don’t remember when dad started gifting me and the kids with the “As seen on TV” gifts, but it might have been around the time Julia and Olivia started commenting on those commercials when they watched TV together with Papa. They would say “ohhh, I love that” or “ohh, mom could use that.” Honestly, I didn’t think much of the products or gadgets, they seemed pretty chessy or too good to be true. For dad, he saw those ASOTV products as gifts.

He saved those ASOTV gifts for Christmas. I could not figure out where he was getting them until I went with him to a VA appointment and found a whole section at the gift shop. He told me I discovered his secret and I promised not to tell. He loved seeing the surprise on the girls faces and although chessy at first, I learned that the gift was not the product, but the love and the thought and the effort dad put into finding each one.

Even though we don’t get any more ASOTV gifts, I do still watch those informercials and although cheesy, I do think of dad and imagine him finding that just right gift in his secret isle at the VA gift shop.

Some of my favorite As Seen On TV gifts were my Snuggie, because dad always wanted me to be comfortable when I rest; Julia’s pajama jeans, which she wore ALL the time and Olivia’s chia-pets mostly because she just collected them. My all-time favorite, As Seen On TV gift, that I still use today, is the perfect brownie pan, you know the one that has perfect portion divider so every piece is a center piece. It doesn’t get any more perfect than that.

Ay Mijita

Posted on by

selena

I was watching the Selena movie a couple of weeks ago and I swear every time I watch it, I see something new or have some kind of realization. This time, I was watching it around the anniversary of dad’s death, October 24, 2011. I commemorate that day differently every year and honestly, this year has been so hectic and I have so much going on, the day came and went and I didn’t do anything special or in memory of dad. I was actually shuttling my son from specialist to specialist trying to keep him out of the ER and healthy enough to get to school. Maybe that counts, dad would do anything to make sure I got to school.
So, back to my Selena movie moment. There’s a scene when Selena returns home to talk to her dad about secretly getting married to Chris and he wants to be mad at her but he can’t. That reminded me of my dad, there were a few times where I made him so mad but he couldn’t stay mad at me, but more than just that, when Selena’s dad called her “mijita” with such exasperated love, I just busted out crying. I haven’t let myself get to that space where I am missing him so much, but that moment of vulnerability and tenderness between a daughter and father opened the flood gates.
There are a lot of things I miss about dad. His hugs, his laugh, his cooking, his random gifts (mostly from Fiesta) but the thing I am missing most lately is hearing him calling me, “mijita.” Most of the time there was an “ay” preceding “mijita” because that was just me, always getting into something or being hard on myself, deserving of an “ay mijita.”
I miss the gruffness in his voice and the way he would drag out the length of the words depending on severity of the situation, like, if I was telling him something that he perceived as dangerous, like me driving from Austin to Houston at night, he would say “ay, mijita,” real quick and in a high pitch tone like he was stepping on something hot or cold or if I was sharing a heartbreak of love or not getting a scholarship or program, it was a low and slow tone, “aaayyyyy.miijiita.”
Following every “ay, mijita” moment was a big hug waiting for me. I miss those so much. Just knowing that no matter how much I messed up or how much I was hurting there was an “ay, mijita” waiting for me and a big bear hug to help me feel better.
I still talk to dad in those moments when I need him the most and I can hear his “ay mijitas” with their variations and I imagine his big bear hugs.

Box of Cards

Posted on by

I’ve been thinking about a dad a lot these last few days. His birthday is tomorrow, September 16th and I find myself getting emotional during this time since he’s been gone. I started to think about all the celebrations we had for Father’s Day and birthdays. Those were not celebrations to be missed. No matter what was going on or where we all were in life, we all seemed to find the time to show up.

It didn’t matter if we were at a restaurant, in the backyard of someone’s house, or just sitting at his kitchen table in his apartment. He didn’t want anything fancy, just us coming together. Gatherings for dad were about celebrating him being the dad and grandpa we needed him to be, not about decorations or presents. Don’t get me wrong, there were presents of all kinds, “best dad” t-shirts, #1 Grandpa hats, coffee mugs, shoes, nice dress shirts and the occasional 6 pack of beer. He would sit back and unwrap his gifts and read every card. I do miss card shopping for Dad. I would take my time to find the right cards from me and the kids. I knew he read them all. He treasured each one, maybe more than his gifts.

A couple of years ago, I was going through some of dads things and came across a shoe box full of cards. As soon as I finished reading one card, I couldn’t stop crying.  I closed the box up and put it away for another day. I wasn’t ready.

Today, I decided to try looking through the box of cards again. I figured since I wasn’t going to be card shopping for dad, maybe I could read the carefully chosen cards for dad.

I emptied the box out and spread the cards out on the floor of his old room. I cried like a baby, then of course I sorted and organized  and then I read every card and every hand written note he saved. They were well taken care of, all looked brand-new. It was not a surprise, but I found several of his voter registration cards mixed in the box. There were also graduation invitations that he cherished and did his best to attend, even when it was hard to get around. Education came first to dad, always and he would be there to celebrate if he could.


Dad also had several “Thank You” cards for his generosity and friendship. Our former neighbors Sandy and John became friends with my dad and were always finding ways to thank him for being a good neighbor. That was dad. He would find a way to be helpful and kind to anyone. He started a neighborly tradition that whoever woke up first and picked up their newspaper from the driveway, they would take pick up their neighbors paper from their driveway and put it on their doorstep to save them steps. The funny thing was that dad was an early riser and Ms. Sandy and Mr. John were late sleepers so it was always my dad delivering their paper just like the mailman he used to be.
But the card I came across that really just epitomized dad’s pampering of people in his life was from a long-time family friend and his banker, Renee. He knew how to take care of the people who provided good service to him.


There were also cards wishing him a speedy recovery, thinking of you and welcome home that just kept the tears coming.

pic 1

How cute were the “Grandpa” cards and poster?! The kids really enjoyed picking out cards for him because they knew he enjoyed getting them.

There were so many Father’s Day and Birthday cards that were chosen just for him. It was overwhelming and beautiful all at the same time. Dad made us all feel special. He was the dad we each needed him to be, even if it wasn’t exactly at the time we needed him, he showed up anyway and then he stayed put. Dad became my anchor when I felt like I was floating away, my confidant when I felt alone in the world, my cheerleader when I doubted myself, my shoulder to cry on when my heart hurt and my example to parent with unconditional love.

I could feel all the love, admiration and appreciation jump right off of those cards and into my heart.  I wondered if that’s what dad felt and if that’s why he kept all these cards

Sacred Space

Posted on by

coffee cup

Dad made coffee every day. He had a collection of coffee mugs—mostly Father’s day type mugs “Best Dad” “I Love My Grandpa”, but he had his favorite, the BIG Starbucks mug that seemed to hold half a pot of coffee. I remember I would find that half-full mug everywhere around the house. He always offered me a cup, and I usually turned it down as I rushed out of the house and made my way through the Starbucks drive-thru. On the occasions I did take him up on his offer, we would sit at the table and talk about life. I didn’t realize those would be the moments I would miss the most. It was the little moments that matter the most; that I miss the most and I wish I could have back again.
Now a days, I find myself standing in that same spot every morning and on most weekends making a second cup of coffee and then misplacing it somewhere around the house while I’m cleaning. I can’t help but smile and think of dad when I find my half-full mug in the most random places.
My morning coffee routine didn’t really start out as a coffee addiction, although I can’t seem to start a day without it, but after dad died I decided to keep his morning routine going.  I found that space to be calming it’s what I call dad’s sacred space, right there in my kitchen where he stood every morning. In that space he would inhale the hopes of the day and exhale away the mistakes and regrets of yesterday, it was a space where he prepared not just a cup of coffee, but where prepared himself for the day ahead and where he would invite me in. Dad’s routine was just a mundane routine when my life was so busy and fast and the little things were not important enough to notice or accept his invitation often enough.
What I have learned to embrace and cherish is that sweet spot of time and space when the house is quiet and the kids are asleep and all you can hear is the percolating sound of the coffee. I stand there in that sacred space, and I swear I feel daddy. I’ll close my eyes and I can feel his hand on my shoulder or just his presence in the room. I’ll inhale the hopes of the day and exhale the mistakes and regrets of yesterday and I’ll take a minute to be thankful for all the little things, the little moments I was too busy to notice before, right there in our sacred space.

sacred-space

Dad’s Coffee Pot

Posted on by

sacred-space

Dad’s coffee counter

 

Dad loved his coffee pot. It had some fancy filter, but for one reason or another, the spring would pop off the filter and he would take out his tools, jiggle stuff around and fix it. I didn’t really pay too much attention, but I would offer to buy him another pot, which of course, he would refuse and would say something like ‘Aye mijita, it’s still good, you just need to fix it every now and then’.

When dad was in the hospital, he drank his coffee, but would quietly say he couldn’t wait to get back to his coffee at home, probably because he could put as much cream and sugar as he wanted without the watchful eyes of the nurses. When we finally made it home, he went straight to the kitchen and made his coffee. I remember thinking, I should have paid more attention to how he made his coffee, but he made it clear he didn’t need any help and would be making his own coffee. At that point, he was still strong and walking around and could do things for himself. It was hard for us to reconcile the fact that he was dying, but as he would say “I’m not dead yet.” He tried to cut the tension with some humor, so as hard as it was for me to swallow that humor, I laughed out loud, but cried inside.

A few days later, we were in the kitchen together. He was making us coffee and I was sitting at the kitchen table. I was home on leave supposedly taking care of dad, but there he was in the kitchen, taking care of me. That fancy coffee pot filter popped off again. I fully expected him to just take out his tools and fix it, but he just stood there looking at the broken coffee pot. He finally picked it up and brought it to the table. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. I felt my face getting red and as he started to talk to me, I could tell he was trying to show me how to fix it, but I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear him. I told him I didn’t want to know and he looked at me said, “Mijita, I need you to learn how to fix the coffee pot now.” So, we sat there at the table and he showed me how to fix that damn spring. He made me do it twice before he gave the thumbs up. He walked me through how to make his coffee to his exact taste. We both held back tears. We didn’t acknowledge anything verbally in that moment, we just did what we had to do, he taught me, I learned and we had our coffee and talked about life. That was our father daughter dance, don’t ask me, don’t tell me, just show me. There were many things that we didn’t acknowledge verbally, but our actions of love, acceptance, and forgiveness spoke louder than words.

I remember the first time that dang coffee pot broke after he died. I stood there, in that same spot where dad stood every day and where I stood every day after that and I found the strength to fix that spring through tears and sobs. I was so proud of myself for fixing that coffee pot. I knew he was proud of me and I could feel his presence there with me.

 

To-Do List (Part 1)

Posted on by

 

Dad always made “To-Do” lists. They were usually scribbled on envelopes of unopened mail. Over the years I watched him make lists, mostly of names of people he agreed to help that month and a plan for moving money around to get it done. He would say he was “robbing Peter to pay Paul.” I’m not really sure where that phrase originates from, but I caught myself saying it to Olivia the other day and she asked me “what does that even mean?” I told her I wasn’t sure, but I could guess it was about redistributing money for the good of others. I wasn’t even aware I said it, it just came out.

When dad decided to forgo treatment and transition to hospice care, he started jotting down notes while he was in the hospital. He would scribble in a notebook since he didn’t have any envelopes. At first the notebook was filled with instructions he wrote down from doctors but then that trailed off at some point. Most of what he wrote down after that was how he would be “robbing Peter to pay Paul.” Sometimes the numbers brought him comfort, sometimes anxiety, either way, there was always a list of names and a plan.

When he transitioned home, he asked me to give him a ride to “take care of some business.” He hated to ask for rides, but he was no longer able to drive. He said he knew when he was driving home after the doctor gave him his cancer diagnosis and he parked his truck, that he knew it was his last time behind the wheel.

On one of our trips, we started off with Bavarian-filled donuts and some coffee at Shipley’s Donuts. For the next few hours, we drove around Houston to take care of his business with people he had known for years. At his request, I sat with him in a few of the meetings and listened as he explained why he hadn’t been around in a while and what he needed from them at this point. I think he wanted me to “watch and learn” but what I watched were the faces of the people as they tried to hide their sadness. What I learned was how much people cared about my dad as each interaction ended with him signing some papers and hugs, lots of hugs. After we left each place, he seemed to mentally check off a box in his head, moving him closer to some grand plan.

We made a couple of more trips out to eat breakfast, his favorite meal of the day, at restaurants like I-Hop and 59 Diner. As always, he flirted with the waitresses, complimented the food and left pretty big tips. We made plans to go to Denny’s the following week, but his health rapidly declined and we were not able to make it.

Shortly after dad died, I found his last “To Do” list. It included some of the places we stopped at to take care of business, a list of some final things he wanted to get done and good deeds he planned to carry out before time ran out.

In my next post, I’ll share more about the good deeds he had planned.

Breakfast at 59 Diner
Donuts and Coffee at Shipley’s

 

#CollegePrepPapa

Posted on by

Graduation and Father’s day collided for me this year. As much as I was happy and proud of Julia on graduation day, it felt so incomplete without dad, her Papa, sitting there with us to witness and celebrate our baby girl. I know he is with us in spirit and in our hearts, and yet it still doesn’t stop me wishing he were here with us to take that proud graduation picture. You know the one, with the him all dressed up and nicely trimmed beard and hair. I envisioned that picture of him and Julia since the day she was born.  If you follow me on Facebook, you know I post about being a mom ALL the time and especially my adventures being #CollegePrepMom. Here’s the thing, my dad taught me how to be a mom. My dad taught me how to be a wife and a sister and a friend. He was #CollegePrepDad and became #CollegePrepPapa before I knew how to be #CollegePrepMom.
I can imagine him trying to figure out what #CollegePrepDad and #CollegePrepPapa means. I imagine his saying ‘Ay mijita, what is all that # stuff??’
So here I am, an emotional mess trying to deal with all these changes and wishing I had my dad with me to help me know what to do next. Dad had been with me every step of the way with Julia. He was there when she was born and then moved in when she was a baby. He used to come in our room at night and roll her bassinet out of the room and put it next to his so he could take care of both of his babies. He fed her and dressed her and took for a walks and rides in that old red wagon. Everyone in our neighborhood knew the old man and the baby girl in red wagon. He was there to meet her at the bus stop after school and take her to swim and gymnastics classes when we couldn’t. He was there at her plays and choir programs. He was there for open houses and grandparents luncheons. He was her biggest customer for all her school fundraisers and Girl Scout cookie sales. He was there when the dreaded “tweens” hit and was the only one she would talk to or let hug her. He was there when she would run to her room and slam the door and he was the only one she allowed in to comfort her. As much as I tried, she wouldn’t let me in. In the days leading up to his death he told me, “don’t give up mijita, you gotta keep going back to her room and finding a way.” He would tell me I was too hard on her and to give her time to grow out of this phase, to be patient and forgiving and to always let her know she will be loved. The tweens years passed and so did dad when Julia turned 13. I was lost without him, but I kept going back until she let me in to her room and to her life. As always, dad had the best advice and I know things will be fine and if not, well I have three more kids to practice on and hopefully I’ll get it right with one of them. I’ve had a great role model with my very own #CollegePrepDad and #CollegePrepPapa.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Su Voto es su Voz, Your Vote is your Voice

Posted on by

img_3758

Voting with one of Dad’s favorite hats

‘Vote mijita, no matter what, vote! Su Voto es su Voz, always remember that, your vote is your voice.’ I remember my dad first introducing this message to me when I was in elementary school. He tried to instill in me at an early age the importance of voting. I remember listening to his stories of struggle and injustice, but they were just that, stories. I couldn’t connect to the meaning just yet, but like a good daughter, I listened and promised him when it was my turn to vote, I would vote.

Over the years I watched my dad cast his vote for every election he was eligible to vote in, from School Board, to County Commissioner, to City Council and Presidential elections. As my dad got older his health made it difficult for him to get to the polls, but he always managed to “find a ride.” My dad set an expectation and modeled being a responsible, educated, and active participant in the democratic process. He would tell me things like, ‘If you didn’t vote, don’t complain about the fools in office, Su Voto es su Voz, always remember Your vote is your Voice.’

I would encounter these words again and again throughout my high school and college career. The National Hispanic Institute, a high school leadership program, helped me put these words into action through debates, youth government programs and teaching us to be educated about our political system, the history of Latino politics and the responsibility of voting. I began to feel these words come to life.
Throughout college, I not only studied social work, but I also studied Chicano politics and immersed myself in political activism. I remember learning about Willie Velasquez and the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project’s moto- Su Voto es su Voz,Your Vote is your Voice. I embraced Willie’s and my dad’s words with a new passion. I could hear these words in my head each time I picked up a sign to protest or march in the streets of Austin, Chicago and Washington D.C. After every event I’d call my dad and he would say something like ‘Great you did all that, but did you vote?’ He and I didn’t always agree on the role of political activism, but I respected point of view and admired his commitment to voting.

He would encourage anyone about to reach voting age to register to vote. He never told anyone who to support or not support, he just told them to vote. I remember showing him my first voter registration card and how happy it made him. His face, at that moment is etched in my memory. Even now, each time I cast my vote, I think of my dad and all the people before me who fought and died for the right to vote, those who endured poll tests and poll taxes, threats and intimidation, suppression and oppression just so I could have the right to vote.

I don’t write this to tell you who to support or not support, but I write this to encourage you to participate in the democratic process, just like my dad encouraged me, Su Voto es su Voz,Your Vote is your Voice!