Story submitteD by: BERTA COLóN
VICTOR COlóN
Photo: Victor & Berta Colón
My dad was a factory worker. He spent over forty years getting up at the crack of dawn to work ten to twelve-hour shifts in the cold, windowless factories that fueled this country’s manufacturing industry. He didn’t finish high school and grew up on the farms of central Puerto Rico. Although you won’t find any of these feats under a dictionary’s definition of the word hero, he was mine.
As a Puerto Rican, his journey to the U.S. was easier than for most immigrants. As a ‘colonial citizen,’ he did not have to navigate the archaic and unjust bureaucracy of this country’s immigration laws. However, as a non-English speaking Latino foreigner, he experienced numerous aggressions simply for existing. He was ridiculed for his accent, lack of language, and perceived inferiority.
Despite that, he was a man with a joyous soul and a giving heart who always believed in family and better things to come. He worked without complaint so that I could achieve. He would patiently take me to school events, pick me up from part-time jobs, and even drive me to college visits when the idea of higher education was so foreign to him. He carried so much so that I could find my path and flourish. I am who I am because he was who he was. My hero.
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