I am from the dirt beneath my feet, from the peaceful neighborhood in Columbia. Born from the union of two immigrants and gifted a bad hand.
I am from the smells of freshly made tortillas, always seemingly ready once I return from slaying the beast known as school.
I am from the written word of God, originally fiercely zealous but now as zealous as a wet noodle. Tall as the redwoods, from the lands out west, as stout and handsome as Elvis Presley.
I am from the woodwork and craft objects from the depths of the cerulean abyss known as the mind.
From disappointment and hyperactive to productive and the pride of the family.
I am molded from the clay of my experiences, guided by them and strengthened by my resolve.
I’m from the far off land of Honduras, where the banana grows freely, where corruption rules, where drugs pollute the streets openly and without opposition.
From the hardships of working on a plantation, the blood and sweat of toiling in the fields for the long hours of the day to the toil in front of a computer monitor, recumbent in my fancy chair, complaining about eye strain.
I am American, I am Me, Myself, and I.
I am Mario Cardoza.