I come from a background of divorce and grit. My young mother, with dreams bigger than her reality, married a much older man. He was an airline pilot in Cuba, his third marriage, and I’d be the last of his many kids. He was 64 when I was born, my mother in her early thirties. The man was tired, worn out. They divorced when I was three, in New Jersey. Immigrants, scraping by with hard work and blue-collar jobs. My father took whatever work he could find, mostly driving trucks. The communists in Cuba had torpedoed any real chances for future success in the United States. My two brothers and I ended up on public assistance. Then my mother started dating another man, and that’s when the real chaos began. Drugs and alcohol stormed into our lives, ushering in years of domestic violence, drama, and constant moving. New schools, new roach-infested apartments every six months. One day, a neighbor had a garage sale. We couldn’t afford much, but my eyes lit up when I saw a trunk full of draw...
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And I remember your passion for Art, and your patience with a class that not many took seriously. I remember when you began to play classical music during class...Beethoven's Sonata No. 14 (Moonlight Sonata), my favorite classical piece came on and I knew then that I would never ever forget you or your class.
I remember your art. You bring out the beauty in the most mundane of days, and as the years go by, I always come back to your artwork to remind myself that art is everywhere and that is beauty. So, thank you. Thank you for your work.