My father, my homeboy.
I look up to him.
At age 9, he lost his father.
And had to go to work to help support his two sisters, seven brothers and his mother. By eleventh grade he had to drop out to work fulltime and then some.
Two jobs.
One of his paychecks went to his mother; the other he kept for himself.
When he met my mother everything changed.
He dropped the gang life.
He worked harder.
Now he owns a ranch in Mexico and a few other properties.
His daily grind starts at 5 a.m. He’s home around 7 at night.
Some don’t understand how this former tough guy could have so much in life.
Every day when I wake I look at him and ask myself, “How can he not be exhausted?”
He gets mad when my teachers call and say that I talk too much in class.
He says, “Quieres trabajar dia y noche no es facil? esta oportnidad que? no? menso?”
“You want to work day and night? It’s not easy. Take this chance that you have. Don’t be dumb.”
I listen to my father, my homeboy.
Why would I not believe him?

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