Growing up in Corpus Christi, the lesson of what it means to be a Democrat wasn’t something I read in a textbook. I learned it from my mother. 

When sanitation workers protested, my mother didn’t just sympathize – she organized. She packed kids in the car with warm  tacos, drove to the protest and handed out breakfast to the workers. 

As she drove away, mom leaned her head out the window, raised her fist high, and shouted “¡Viva la huelga!” That relentless spirit defined our home. 

Years later, when we became young voters ourselves, my mother treated Election Day like a sacred family mobilization. She would call us repeatedly, checking in to ensure each of us had made our voices heard at the ballot box. 

For my family, voting was never a suggestion, it was an active, non-negotiable duty.