Adversity

El Sueo Americano
Contributing Authors M aria Guadalupe Pea Valadez is a native of San
Diego de Alejandria, Jalisco, Mexico, now a long
time Arkansan and the proud mother of two wonderful
children: Alex (18), Xochitl (5), and one on the way. She The sense of possibility, so necessary for success comes not
currently works for the Little Rock School District as the just from inside of us or from our parents
Secondary ESL/SIOP Instructional Specialist. Lupe has it comes from our time. From the particular opportunities
that our particular place in history presents us with.
been a commissioner on the Arkansas Martin Luther
Malcolm Gladwell
King, Jr. Commission, provides interpretation services
at the Salvation Armys annual Angel Tree Project, and

T
serves as a board member for the Central Arkansas Li-
brary System. hrough the blur of sleep I could hear
her gentle but firm command, Cl-

D
late y muvete, son tus hermanos en
aniel Moix has taught Computer Science since
Cristo! (be quiet and move, they are your
2003 at the Arkansas School for Mathematics, Sci-
brothers in Christ!).
ences & Arts; College of the Ouachitas; and Bryant High
Growing up in Escondido, California,
School. An Arkansas native currently living in Little
about an hour from Tijuana, Mxico, my
Rock, you can read more about his weight loss journey
parents home was a safe haven for many
at needlesspounds.com
people, especially those with children. With
six of their own, my parents had a soft spot
for anyone struggling to give their children

K ayla Stafford lives on a small farm with her husband

in north Arkansas in a town called Yellville. She is
a web designer, content writer, editor, technical writer,
dog cuddler, and self-proclaimed Harry Potter scholar.
She collects old things, especially Tiffany-style lamps. In
her free time, she can usually be found reading or an-
tiquing. However, her dogs like her to spend her spare
time wrestling over tennis balls and shredded ropes.
a chance at the American Dream. The ones
they sheltered were mostly battered and
abused women or those who had recently
crossed the border.
For the most part, I never saw these
visitors, as they generally came and left in
the dark of nightall they needed was a
warm bed and perhaps a meal before their
unnamed rescuers came for them. However,
my youthful heart did not completely un-

S heila Speer is earning her BA in Interdisciplinary

Studies at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock.

Maria Guadalupe Pea Valadez

 derstand, so when I did have to deal with their children,
I half-heartedly tried to argue that it was my bed and
that I did not want to move. Mi mami (my mom) Mar-
tha would have none of it!
Her words echo in my mind, an unrelenting call to
do what is right. To act, even when I do not have the
energy or when I have no idea what the outcome will be,
but to act for the sake of helping el prjimo (thy neigh-
bor).
While the story appears to begin in Escondido, Cal-
ifornia, in reality, it started in my native San Diego de
Alejandria, Jalisco, Mexico.
In November of 1981, I was born to Martha Pea
and Jesus Pea. A brother soon followed. As my parents
Adversity
Our oasis of living in Carlsbad only lasted four
years, when my mother took my brother and me back
to Mexico for one year. While in Mexico, I attended
kindergarten and was regarded as the top student. Once
again, my parents decided to return to California with
aspirations of becoming homeowners.
My parents dream of owning a home came true
when we finally moved to Escondido, California, but
this transition was not as pleasant for me as it was for
my parents. I went from being the top in my kindergar-
ten class in Mexico to being tested for special education
at this English speaking school. Eventually it dawned on
someone that my struggles were not cognitive or devel-
opmental, but linguistic. Mid-year I was switched from

evaluated their economic situation and the educational
prospects for their children, they made the decision that
many are forced to make. They said goodbye to a family
support network and set out para el norte (north). On
May 27, 1983, my 20-year-old mother and my dad hired
42
a coyote and crossed into the United States.
second grade into Mrs. Swiningtons first grade class. As
a first year teacher with no experience working with En-
glish learners, I know that she did what she could. Then
one day everything changed.
For some weeks after beginning school, none of
43
the adults knew that I had been keeping my own little

Throughout the crossing, they prayed that, I, their
18-month-old baby girl, and their two month old baby
boy would not cry out and alert the migra (immigra-
tion)or worse. The worse was that the crying would
have alerted gang members, who prowled the hills,
searched out immigrants to rob or simply, for enter-
tainment, to beat or rape. Their prayers worked, and
although at one point they thought their coyote had
abandoned them, after many hours of ya casi y Padre
Nuestros, (almost there and Our Fathers) we arrived in
Carlsbad, California.
We were blessed to settle in a dream locationthe
Carlsbad Race Track. My parents were the caretakers,
security, cleaning staff, and general overseers all rolled
into one. We lived in an ideal oasis, where los Ameri-
canos (the Americans) only came to race their cars on
the weekends and disappeared soon aftertaking their
funny sounding ingles (English) with them.
El Sueo Americano
secret. What they didnt know was that during recess I
would hide in the restroom for fear of los nios ameri-
canos (the American kids). All the other children spoke
so fast and looked at my soggy burritos or taquitos with
disgust. My seclusion only lasted a few weeks. One day
I missed my signal to re-emerge from the safety of the
stallthe bell.
Oh no! The little Mexican girl was missing!
A school-wide search ensued, and upon my discov-
ery, my life story took a turn for the better. Suddenly, I
was under constant adult supervision and, more impor-
tantly, constant instruction in the English language.
By 1998, I was a sophomore in high school and
considering my post high school choices: College?
Marriage? Work? My mom had become a US citizen
the year prior, and I knew that she immediately went to
work on getting my brother and me green cards. Well,
 all my pondering and my moms attempt at getting my
brother and me green cards quickly took a back seat
when my dad dropped a bombshell. At the end of the
school year we were moving to Arkansas.
QUE!? (What!?) Arkansas? Seriously!? Arkansas?
Where was that?!?
On the 4th of July of 1998 my parents, five siblings,
and I moved to Arkansas. As one of a handful of Lati-
no students at McClellan High School, I stood out and
became something of an oddity. I could speak Spanish
and English.
Driven by my 16-year-old determination to return
to and attend school in California, I worked hard and
was determined to earn enough scholarships to do so.
Adversity
Yet, as counselors guided me through scholarship and
college applications, I had a nagging concern . . . .
Todavia no tenia papeles (I was undocumented), and
the forms my mom had submitted for the green cards
had been lost in the transition between moving from
44
California to Arkansas. We were back to square one.
Technically speaking, I did have papers, but only a
work visa. This meant I could legally work in the United
States, but the bottom line was that I did not qualify for
any need-based scholarships. Filling out a FAFSA was
not an option, meaning I could be admitted to a univer-
sity but would only qualify for academic scholarships. It
felt like a hopeless situation. I had worked so hard. And
for what? For nothing. I would graduate as valedictorian
but might not have the funding to attend college.
My only glimmer of hope was an immigration law
of the early 1980s, which allowed for undocumented
immigrants to receive valid social security numbers.
I applied on my own and, shortly after, received my
number.
This number opened doors for me. I never had to lie
on an application. I wrote my social and moved on. Yet,
I was ever cautious never to apply for any scholarship
which asked for my immigrant status.
My life was a carefully structured lie by omission.
Finally in 2000, I graduated from high school and
was accepted to UALR and to the Donaghey Scholars
Program. I could not be more excited. However, I con-
stantly worried that someone would uncover my secret.
Arkansas State University (ASU) had already retracted
my scholarships and admission. Would UALR do the
same? I took no chances and immediately got to work
on re-applying for a green card.
After a long, exciting, and stressful year of keeping
my secret, I FINALLY received my green card and just
in time to start college. My green card acted as the gate-
way to my education, and a chance to put the thousands
of dollars in scholarships I had applied for and received
to work. Gracias a Dios! (Thank God) Receiving the
green card also meant that I would have to wait five
years to apply for citizenship. In the meantime, I stayed
focused on my work and accepted every opportunity
presented at UALR.
45
Two years into my undergraduate degree, I walked
El Sueo Americano
into a colleagues classroom. Several of her Latino stu-
dents elbowed one another, wondering if I was some-
ones mother. Finally, another student set them straight
by indicating that I was Ms. Peaa teacher. I still
remember the shocked look on their faces, the awe. I
could hear murmurs of doubt and suspicion.
Deberas sera maestra? (Is she really a teacher?)
Crees que habla espaol? (Do you think she speaks
Spanish?)
At this point, I approached them with a Si, si hablo
espaol. (Yes, I speak Spanish).
Shocked silence, followed by Y te dejaron ser maes-
tra! (And they let you be a teacher!).
My heart and mind were startled into stunned
silence. As dumbfounding as those questions and
statements may have seemed, my understanding of the
reality that people face regarding their citizenship status
made the questions and statements not farfetched. In
 response, I stammered an affirmation, indicating that
I had gone to college and was now a teacher and, most
importantly, they could be too.
That encounter with those students made me realize
the importance that my position as a teacher had on
Latinos and immigrant children. I decided to continue
teaching throughout undergraduate and into my grad-
uate years. Absorbed by my academic work, I forgot
about my five year wait to apply for citizenship and ap-
plied after eight years. I officially became a United States
citizen in September of 2008.
In my position as a Language Acquisition Specialist
with a masters degree in Curriculum/Program Ad-
ministration and Supervision, I encourage immigrant
Adversity
However, regardless of what political candidates
have to say about immigration, immigrant children
should be reminded of their endless possibilities. Above
all, they should be affirmed about their parents decision
to move to the United States for educational opportu-
nities for their children, for home ownership, or simply
to work, in hopes of a better life in one way or another.
All came in search of el sueo Americano (the American
Dream).

children to continue their academic growth and their

journey towards citizenship. As I had my own trials and
errors in my application for various official documents,
every child will have their own journey figuring out
which immigrant laws will help them pursue higher ed-
46 47
ucation. The path to citizenship is not easy and neither

El Sueo Americano
is finding funding for higher education, but I remind
students of their opportunities and encourage them to
accept the particular opportunities presented to them.
Even though it took me years to become a citizen,
and there were times citizenship was never in sight,
immigrant children should be reminded that there is
a light at the end of the road. Having a role model like
myself makes their dreams more of a reality as opposed
to hearing the stereotypes that they constantly hear on
social and other media.
Too often, media and political parties depict immi-
grants as criminals and trouble makers. Donald Trump,
presidential candidate, is known for having recently Brad Sims
said, regarding Mexicans: Theyre bringing drugs.
Theyre bringing crime. Theyre rapists. And some, I
assume, are good. As a Mexican-born United States cit-
izen, I say that Donald Trumps estimate of some good
Mexican immigrants is subpar.
eedless Pound
I
ve been the poster boy for childhood
obesity practically since birth. I was 165
pounds in the third grade. I was 209
pounds in the fourth grade. One does not
simply sail through childhood as a big kid
without attracting the attention of bullies.
Mom, the kids pick on me. They call
me names.
Nowadays, this would prompt a phone
call to the school, a committee meeting,
some norming, and an angry Facebook
campaign in which everyone changed their
profile picture to something iconic.
The response from my mother, a woman
who had undergone gastric bypass in the
1970s, was, Yeah. They used to pick on me,
too. After a long drag on her cigarette, shed
look off into the distance and say, Sticks
and stones, Danny. Sticks and stones.
In the fifth grade, I moved to a new
home in a new school district. This meant
learning a whole new set of mean kids.One
particularly nasty boy, well call him Rod-
ney, relentlessly nagged, harassed, and
verbally exhausted me. One day at the teth-
erball pole, he said something that incensed
me.
Daniel Moix
I am not a violent person. I never have been, and
I never hope to be. But that day on the playground,
something came unglued, and Rodney took a direct
hit to the face. Minutes later, we were both sitting in the
principals office with our heads hung low. Rodney had
a tissue collecting the blood dripping from his nose. He
was the first to go into the principals office.
I heard some quiet conversation through the door,
some very loud paddling, some exclamations from
Rodney, and then . . . silence. Rodney left the principals
office with tears running down his face, reconstituting
the caked blood.
If this was what they did to the victims of violence
in this school district, I was going to be mutilated.
Very timidly, I entered when called into the princi-
pals office.
Tell me what happened.
I told the principal about the history with Rodney
and how something just snapped. I started apologiz-
49
ing, making excuses, and doing my best to talk my way
Needless Pounds
out of evisceration. The principal stopped me mid
sentence and instructed me to sit down. He then told
me about his childhood. He shared with me that he had
once been the victim of relentless teasing. He under-
stood. He then stood up with his paddle.
The handbook says the remedy for hitting someone
is that I have to paddle you. The handbook doesnt say
how hard.
He swatted me gently and sent me back to class. El-
ementary bullying was solved that day when the kids
saw what happened to Rodney.
As an older student, though, bullying was much
more subtle, and corporal punishment wasnt viable
in middle school and junior high. Cliques, exclusion,
and pranks replaced name-calling. Id rather have been
punched in the face than punched in the heart when
told that I couldnt sit at a particular table or join a par-
ticular study group.

I looked at popular kids who werent skinny. I
analyzed them. I noticed that each and every one was
humorous, happy, and full of laughs. At that time, I
did not comprehend correlation or causation. It didnt
really dawn on me thatbecausethey were popular they
were happy and full of laughs. I deduced that because
they were boisterous, they were popular.
So, I set out to reinvent myself as the clown.
I was quite good at beating bullies to the punchline
of many put-downs. I owned being big and made it a
part of my personalitymy brand. I leveraged my size
whenever possible in humorous ways. For the most
part, that worked for me. Even when I grew up to be a
teacher, I referred to my last name as a unit of size.
Adversity
The watertight doors on the USS Razorback are
less than one Moix wide. Ill stay out here while you go
down and tour the exhibit.
It hurt less when the person doing the name-calling
was me.
50
And then, one day, the truth hit me. I was both the
victim and the perpetrator.
In words attributed to Ayn Rand, The question isnt
who is going to let me its who is going to stop me. Its
the bullies asking, Whos going to stop me? and those
being bullied asking, Whos going to let me? The day I
realized this, I switched from asking to telling.
In the past two years Ive lost 250 pounds. What
Ive lost in weight Ive gained in strength. When I see
name-calling and bullying among my students, I stop it.
When I hear it, I intervene.
Whether its about size, fashion, perceived sexuality,
or anything else, I stop it and in full swing. Moreover,
no longer victim or perpetrator, Im very careful about
what I say about myself, both aloud and in my head.
of a Closet Nerd
The Liberation
A
s I draw nearer to home, I
arch my back in the drivers
seat of my little car to stretch
out the stiffness. Ive been driving
for almost three hours so I can be
home from college for the week-
end. Ive got the audiobook of Jane
Austens Pride and Prejudice blar-
ing through my speakers. I like the
round trip from college and back; its
a six-hour drive during which I can
finish books for pleasure in a break
from my required reading assign-
ments.
I stop the CD as the chapter
draws to a close and turn the radio
to a local country station. For some
reason, I dont want my neighbors to
hear me listening to an audiobook
in the car. I sigh, throw dirty clothes
and old shoes back over this part
of myself, and shut the closet door,
where I hide my nerd when I am in
my hometown.
I was born and raised in a tiny,
politically- and religiously-con-
servative town in north Arkansas.
There wasnt much to do there: on
Kayla Noel Stafford
 weeknights (except Wednesdays) the town would come
out to watch the Bobcats play a game of basketball (we
dont have football), and on Saturday night we drove
about 30 minutes to the closest movie theater. Everyone
was in church Wednesday night and bright and early on
Sunday morning. It was (and still is) the typical every-
body-knows-everybody town. The popular kids were
celebrated in the community for being on the basketball
team, for being teachers kids, or for having rich parents.
I was known in town for being the cashier at the
local grocery store. In high school, while my classmates
were going out to drink beer and bum cigarettes at par-
ties, I spent my nights at home with my family playing
board games and reading books until two or three in the
Adversity
morning. I was considered smart because I turned in
my homework on time and studied for tests. However,
no one but my family knew the full extent of my private
academic endeavors. I was a closet nerd.
My friends were smart and ambitious, but their idea
52
of a good weekend was a night out getting dinner and
seeing the latest Nicholas Sparks movie. I wanted to
grab takeout and have a Lord of the Rings marathon. In
our senior year, they spent half-days at a local vocational
school studying nursing. I spent those same half-days
at a small community college studying writing, his-
tory, and biology. I liked learning new things about
philosophy and technology, reading late into the night,
and writing for fun. My friends didnt, so we spent the
weekends doing what they wanted to do, like hanging
out on the lake until the night wind blew us indoors. I
would then come home and stay up late doing what I
wanted to do, usually reading, until the early hours of
the morning.
I felt awkward and out of place.
My family always told me I would find my niche
in college, and college couldnt get to me fast enough.
Graduation slowly approached, and as soon as I tossed
my cap I was out the door. I didnt even take the
post-ceremony, tear-stricken pictures with my friends
and classmates. I had been accepted into a scholars pro-
gram at a small university and was ready to get started.
My family was rightwithin the first week, I had
become close friends with several people in the schol-
arship program. I bonded exceptionally tightly with
four girls who lived together on campus. The first time
I walked into their apartment, I was floored. There were
Harry Potter vinyl decorations on the walls, a TARDIS
on the bookshelf, Disney magnets on the fridge, Mar-
vel drinking glasses sitting on Star Wars coasters, and
a heated debate about BBCs Sherlock going on in the
background.
I had found my people, and for the first time I pulled
my nerd out of the closet and fully into the open.
In many ways, I have taken on more of the stereo-
typical qualities of a nerd since being in college. For
instance, I have grown increasingly introverted. In
53
junior high and high school, I was head cheerleader
The Liberation Of A Closet Nerd
and an All-American Cheer and Dance award recipient,
the cheerleading equivalent of being chosen for the All
State team in basketball or football. Now, I dont think
I could be paid to get out in front of a crowd and cheer
or stunt like I did back then. I would be mortified. I also
find myself reading books I didnt have the opportunity
to read in high school. Ive been able to finish Sir Author
Conan Doyles most famous works, George Orwells
Brad Sims

1984, and J. R. R. Tolkiens The Hobbit. Ive been able to
read what I missed out on in high school.
I dont fit in with my high school friends anymore.
They are all getting married, becoming mothers, and
working as nurses in hospitals and nursing homes. I
spend my nights in my apartment arguing with my
roommate about Jane Austen plotlines and discussing
our desire to be nineteenth century women of fortune
in England. At home, I get embarrassed to mention I
caught the ABC Harry Potter marathon . . . again. At
school, I feel comfortable going to see midnight pre-
miers dressed up as characters from the films premier-
ing. I find it hard to hang out with old friends because
our interests are so different now, and we have much less
Adversity
in common than we did years ago. Sometimes I am still
shy about my nerdy characteristics.
When I start to feel this shyness, I am ashamed of
myself.
I know that if these people from high school, my old
54
friends, mock me because we have different interests,
then we have changed too much to get along anymore.
The nerd has been out of the closet for too long now,
and its hard to lock her away again. She and I want to
spend our nights having conversations about favorite
books with our roommate, debating the next episode of
Sherlock over lunches with our friends, and discussing
politics between classes with our fellow nerdy scholars,
who appreciate and enjoy those conversations as much
as we do.
I have learned that part of growing up is accepting
that being the nerd I am makes me happy. With the
help of some wonderfully brilliant people, I am learn-
ing to be proud of who I amthe girl with glasses who,
for pure amusement, rereads Harry Potter late into the
night to analyze literary themes. Letting my nerd out of
the closet has made me realize that she fits me well.
We Stood as One
M
y daily routine was pretty well set
in stone. My alarm clock went off
at 6:00 AM, as it did every week-
day morning. I heard the coffee pot perking,
the dark roasted liquid drip, drip, dripping.
I rolled back the snug warmth and the cozy
contentment of the comforter, and sat on
the edge of my bed to stretch. I leaned over
and gave my husband a little shove.
Its time to get up.
After I finally worked up the will-pow-
er to climb out of the bed, I headed to the
bathroom for my shower to wash away the
drowsiness. I turned on both the hot and
cold water faucets as far as they would go,
yawning as big as the ocean. When the
water finally reached the ideal temperature I
hopped into the little closet to let the stream
of warm wetness flow over me. I was think-
ing of all the things I had to do: get the boys
to school, answer e-mails, put something
out for dinner, put some finishing touches
on the mini-cheesecakes I had made for
a catering job, clean the house, do a load
of laundry, pick up the boys from school,
make sure they got their homework done,
make dinner, and on and on and on.
Sheila Speer
 After my ablutions, I donned my apparel for the day.
I roused my boys so they could get ready for school.
While the boys were dressing, my husband took his
leave and headed for work. I set about making French
toast for my kids breakfast. The aroma wafted up the
stairs, enticing the children to make haste. The boys ate
breakfast as I assembled peanut butter and jelly sand-
wiches for their lunches.
By this time everyone was ready to go. We all three
jumped into my GMC Jimmy, and I turned on the radio
to the morning show. My kids and I sang along to the
popular songs. I took my youngest son to his elementa-
ry school. I turned the Jimmy toward the other side of
town to the middle school, where I left my eldest son.
Adversity
Then, I drove back home, listening to the song Hanging
by a Moment by Lifehouse, wishing I could just crawl
back into my bed.
After I finally made it back home from fighting
traffic, it was almost 8:00 a.m. I had sat down at my
56
computer to check my email when the telephone rang.
I didnt recognize the phone number, but I answered
anyway. It was my husband.
Do not turn on the television. I am okay,
Of course, as soon as he said those words a thousand
different things raced through my mind, and I wanted
to turn on the television that instant.
I wonder why he is calling me from that telephone
number? It was not a number from the Pentagon where
he worked.
I sensed that he was walking, and walking at a very
brisk pace because he was breathless. Thinking back, I
realize that this breathlessness was not just from walk-
ing fast. There were a lot of background voices and
activity.
What happened? What is going on? Why cant I
turn on the television?
There was some kind of explosion at the Pentagon!
Everyone is being evacuated. I am all right, though, just
a little shaken up.
The whole building shook with the explosion, and
the windows shattered in our office. I told my airmen to
remain calm, and stay where they were.
I walked out into the hallway, and people were
yelling for everyone to get out of the building. I am on
my way home.
How are you calling me? I asked.
Im using someones cell phone.
I told him to be careful and that I loved him, and
then we hung up. I had already switched on the televi-
sion and tuned it to the local NBC affiliate. The news
station was showing a tower of the World Trade Center
smoking and on fire. I saw an airplane rip through the
other tower. Debris was flying and flames began to leap.
Then the news station was in chaos.
My mind could not comprehend what my eyes were
57
seeing. It was like I was watching a movie, and what I
We Stood As One
saw was not real. I thought, How could this be happen-
ing?
Gradually, it became real and started to sink into my
baffled brain. The newscaster was speaking of terrorism
while the cameras were focused on the burning twin
towers. Then, the news announcer tells the world that
the Pentagon had been hit by an airplane as well.
I thought my heart would explode. I didnt think
it could withstand another blow. About that time my
telephone started ringing. My husband was calling to
tell that it might be a while before he got home because
he was stuck in traffic. I had never been so relieved to
know that he was stuck in traffic. I told him what had
truly happened at the Pentagon and told him of the twin
towers too. Neither of us had any more words, so we
hung up.
 We hung up. I paced and watched the news on
the T.V. and cried and paced some more. My husband
finally arrived at home. As we embraced, we were both
shaking violently. All we could think of was our chil-
dren. We got into the Jimmy and drove to the middle
school. We did not want the boys to hear about these
events at school and be left to wonder if their daddy was
alive or dead. My husband went into the school to check
my oldest son out for the day. When he returned he
told me that the schools were keeping all the events that
had occurred from the students. My son was confused,
and started asking questions as soon as the door to the
Jimmy closed.
At the elementary school, my husband went in and
Adversity
ing of love was a tremendous relief and comfort on this
mournful day.
The ferocious explosions rocked the heartstrings of
those who witnessed them personally and for everyone
around the world, for good reason. September 11, 2001
was a sad day that changed many lives forever. That day
will forever be ingrained in US history. Anyone alive on
that catastrophic morning can probably tell you exactly
what they were doing when they heard the sorrowful
news of those tragic events. We were sad and heart-
broken for the people involved and for our country as
a whole. We lent a hand where we could. We donated
blood, and we donated money. We were support for our
fellow Americans. We stood as one.

retrieved our youngest son without incident. He was

confused as well. My husband explained calmly and
patiently, yet again, the story of what had happened. The
children were not sure what to think or how to react, so
they sat quietly in the back seat for the drive back home.
58 59
When we turned onto our street, we saw cars lining

We Stood As One
both sides. My husband pushed the garage door button,
and people started pouring out of our house. They were
friends from all over the area who had come to make
sure that my husband had not been injured or killed
when the Pentagon was struck. They had gotten into our
house because, in our haste to get to our kids, we forgot
to lock the door.
The rest of the day we all sat around the television
trying to understand what had happened, how this
could happen, and why someone would do something
like this. The telephone never stopped ringing. If I was
not on the telephone speaking to friends and family all
over the country, then my husband was on it reassur-
ing friends and family that he was still alive and well.
We heard from people we had not even thought about
in years. How they found us, how they got our phone
number was a mystery. All I know is that the out-pour-

Chuck anderson
taken in nyc a few months after 9/11