“They made fun of me because I’m the son of a garbage collector — but at graduation, I said just one sentence… and everyone fell silent and cried.”
My name is Miguel, and I am the son of a garbage collector.
From as far back as I can remember, I knew our life was hard. While other children played with shiny new toys and ate burgers and fries, I sat quietly, waiting for the leftovers from the carinderia.
Every morning before sunrise, my mother would wake up. She carried a large sack on her back and walked to the market dumpsters, searching for whatever we could use or eat.
The scorching heat, the foul smell, the cuts on her hands from fish bones and broken bottles—she endured them all without complaint. And through it all, I was never, ever ashamed of her.
