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  • I was mixing cement on the ground. It was ghetto. I was building a house with two Nicaraguan Refugees in Costa Rica.

    One smiled down at me from his ladder, telling me he had 9 children, with 3 different women. He was proud, but it was mostly small talk. He asked me how many kids I planned to have.

    I told him I didn't have plans for any yet.

    He came down from his ladder, looked me in the eye and explained, simply, because my spanish wasn't great: A tree bears fruit. A tree that fails to bear fruit is cut down and used for firewood.

    He put his hand on my shoulder briefly to emphasize the importance of what he had just said.
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