My connection with Hispanics, especially Mexicans, goes back to when I was a kid in San Jose, CA. I grew up with a whole lot of Chicanos. The first job I ever had was when I was 16. I had to board a bus at 5 in the morning each day to go and pick strawberries in Salinas. That was really back-breaking work and airplanes sprayed DDT on us. This was in the days of Caesar Chavez. We had to walk a LONG way to use an outhouse. That first week I couldn't stand up because my back hurt so much. I was like one of the youngest there and the only "gringa", so they all used to nurture me and bring me home-made tacos for lunch. I started learning Spanish when I was in third grade, so we could all communicate well. I picked strawberries every summer for at least two years. Then, shortly after, my mother decided that, as I was not my stepfather's child, I should go and live somewhere else. One of my best friend's families took me in and they taught me the Mexican way of life, mass every Sunday, and constant love and support for each other. My mother had never told me that she loved me, not even once. That beautiful family saved my life and helped mold me into the person I am today. Later on, I worked my way through college at the US Post Office, in San Jose, where the nurturing and taco snacks continued. My best friend at that time was, you guessed it, Mexican. She called me every night and encouraged me to keep on going. She was the one who taught me how to drive. During that time, besides the post office, I also worked at the cannery and only slept two-hours a night and went to school all day. Life was tough. She was, unfortunately, burnt to death in an explosion on her first day as a dental assistant. In a gesture of gratitude for all the influence of Hispanic people on my survival, I volunteered for the Peace Corps and specifically requested to serve in a Spanish-speaking culture. That's not what happened, but then that's another story.....