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Chicano/Latino Native American Cultural Center 25th anniversary celebration, December 14, 1996
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He said that she was the one who had introduced him to literature and made him think of the many possibilities that were waiting for him. He attributed his success to this single act of kindness, of someone's belief that he could succeed. Needless to say everyone around the table was speechless because someone so powerful and successful had overcome tremendous odds and was devoting his life to helping others through education. The following poem by Chicana writer Pat Mora articulates this powerful story. As I re-read this poem on order to prepare to read it today, I saw that this story embodies what each one of us has within ourselves, what each of us can be. Tomás Rivera They knew so much, his hands spoke of the journey from Crystal City to Iowa, Michigan, Minnesota, year after year dirt-dusted in fields and orchards, in bare, cold buildings, family laughter his favourite blanket. On slow days his hands gathered books at city dumps, saved like the memories of smiling hard at that first grade teacher and her noises in the other language
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He said that she was the one who had introduced him to literature and made him think of the many possibilities that were waiting for him. He attributed his success to this single act of kindness, of someone's belief that he could succeed. Needless to say everyone around the table was speechless because someone so powerful and successful had overcome tremendous odds and was devoting his life to helping others through education. The following poem by Chicana writer Pat Mora articulates this powerful story. As I re-read this poem on order to prepare to read it today, I saw that this story embodies what each one of us has within ourselves, what each of us can be. Tomás Rivera They knew so much, his hands spoke of the journey from Crystal City to Iowa, Michigan, Minnesota, year after year dirt-dusted in fields and orchards, in bare, cold buildings, family laughter his favourite blanket. On slow days his hands gathered books at city dumps, saved like the memories of smiling hard at that first grade teacher and her noises in the other language
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