I’m Miguel, the son of a garbage collector.
Ever since I was a child, I understood how difficult our life truly was.
While other kids played with brand-new toys and ate fast food, I waited for leftovers from small eateries.
Every morning, my mother woke before dawn.
With a heavy sack on her shoulder, she went to the market dump, searching for anything she could sell just to survive.
The heat, the foul smell, cuts from fish bones, and soaked cardboard boxes were all part of her daily routine.
And yet, I was never ashamed of her.
THE RIOT I NEVER FORGOT
I was only six years old when I was first insulted.
“You stink!”
“You came from the garbage dump, right?”
“Son of the garbage man! Hahaha!”
With every laugh, I felt myself sink deeper into humiliation.
When I got home, I cried in silence.
One night, my mother asked me:
“Son, why do you look so sad?”
I forced a smile and said:
“Nothing, Mom. I’m just tired.”
But inside, I was completely broken.
