When my daddy came to America from Mexico, he was a political refugee. It was during the Mexican Revolution with Pancho Villa and Zapata. It was 1913, he was five-years-old, and his father never met them in Texas like he had planned. He had to drop out of school at the age of 10 to sweep saloon floors to put food on the table to support his mother and brothers and sisters. He was called a wetback and beaner, but it didnt matter because he didnt speak English and couldnt understand them. When he was still a little boy he saw a woman shaking her head in pity at him and heard her say, Poor little thing, he doesnt stand a chance. When he learned what that meant, he said it made him feel humiliated so he worked harder on his English. 22 years later, my daddy was still a Mexican citizen when he was drafted as a linguist into WWII, in the OSS. He was one of the first commissioned officers of what we call the CIA. In those years, he used Gods gift of singing to learn 8 languages. Fluently. And used them to defend our country. It doesnt get more American than that. My daddy was always proud of the country that gave him birth, and prouder still of the country that gave him life. God Bless The USA.
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 21:50:51 +0000
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