860 N. Virgil Avenue is a cracked, opaque olive building with plants encircled by a tainted black gate. This is where I have grown up. The house that defines me is mainly a product of the contribution of my parents and their role in raising me. The house that shelters me provides me with a small peaceful room where I am able to build reading skills. It provides me with a brown wooden table where I am able to do my homework and have dinner with my brother and sister. It reminds me to always shake people’s hand when greeting them. The house that preserves me has a couch that can be used for us to crack jokes while we watch television on Sunday mornings. The wooden framed family portrait in my parents’ room smiling at me gives me a sense of warmth to hone in on.
My parents work 11 hour days but they still manage to “guiarme por buen camino (lead me down the right path”). When they get home, all they have on their mind is getting their sleep. But, it never goes that way. They eat their dinner and ask how our day went. Then, they thank me for having been responsible in watching over my brother and sister that day. We then clean up the brown wooden table and occupy it with books and white sheets of paper written on with lead pencils. On days when I have piles of homework, my parents commit to staying awake with me until it’s finished. Without words they show us how important education is in our family. I am reminded of the physical sacrifices my parents make at work everyday and capitalize on their teachings and values. When I see people who are struggling, I am a presence among them, like my parents do for me. When stepping out of the school doors, everyone that I encounter is seen with the respect and dignity I have