She had lived with her landless family on a farm in a neighboring village.
Her weathered Father was a campesino, with wrinkles on his face for all of the times he had walked down long rows of beans in the hot sun to hoe away weeds.
There was a kindness in his eyes that welled up from the deep feelings he felt as he worked to keep his family alive.
His hands and feet were calloused and gnarled for they had been blistered and broken and used as tools all of his life.
He had worked from the time he had toddled beside his papí and the workers of the plantation of his childhood until now, in the time of the middle of his life, when the same land, the land of the wealthy owners, had bent his back to make it appear as if he were continually genuflecting to God, or to the wealthy, or to the land itself.
He was not a political person.
She had observed his life, however, for she was a gifted girl who saw deeply into the lives of people and knew, simply knew, the inner workings of their minds and hearts and the true meanings of their words and actions.
In that observation, she saw the life of her papí speak eloquently,
"I am a human being.
No person is better than another.
My family has a right to food, shelter, clothing, school, and medicine.
We are human beings.”
Those words grew with her.
They were watered by the laughter she laughed with friends she was playing with in her village.
They were watered by the tears she cried as she laid in bed each night hungry from only one meal from the day.
Those words grew into action.
Those words grew into love.
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