A Tribute to My Dad …
It took some time to earn an M.A. in English. Forty-five years, maybe — if you’ll accept that my education started as a dream, of my dad, well before I was born.
In my wallet I carry a black and white photograph of us. The snapshot, taken after a rain, captures a dreary day in Castanos, Coahuila, Mejico, 1952. As I stand on a table of rough wood, wearing a baggy diaper, my eldest…
