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  • I can remember the last time I saw my uncle Tavo. My father and I had drove him and his family to the Tijuana border, so that they could board their plane and return back to their home, in Sinaloa Mexico. We hugged and said goodbye. It was our last goodbye. We found out about his death a day later, on my birthday.

    This was the gift he brought me from Mexico. The keychain has the name of the university he worked for, the same one my mother graduated from, the same one my father dropped out of. My parents tell me many stories about that place, like the one about my father who would sit-in the financial aid officer’s office demanding that more money be allocated to student scholarships, or how my mom’s brother rents out homes to students for free, as long as they get good grades, to those who couldn’t afford to live near campus. My family’s history goes wherever I go.

    It’s a small reminder of the sacrifices and pain my family has undergone. Some of it has been earned, some of it has been inherited, and some of it has been unfair, like my uncle, leaving this planet too soon.
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