The Color of Life

July 5, 2008

I was the eldest child in the family-eldest of ten. My father was a machine operator in a rice mill in the 1940’s and how we survived from day to day on his meager income was a miracle. My life of poverty was pathetic to the point of being funny. To get to school, I had to borrow wooden slippers from our neighbor. In school, I would give the quiz answer to a classmate just so he would give me a piece of paper so I could take the quiz myself. Finally, I told my parents that enough was enough. If one more baby were to be born into the family, I was going to run away.

But the light satire that was my life turned into heavy tragedy when my father died of asthma complications when I was nineteen. I quit school and went to California to find work. Considering I was an undergraduate, I was fortunate to be employed as a laboratory technician. But I wanted a better life and I knew I needed  to finish my degree. At first, I tried  attending night classes while working during the day. When that didn’t work out,  I subscribed to correspondence courses so I could study and still keep full-time job.