My parents were children of the Depression—people shaped by scarcity, faith, and grit. Both finished high school, but higher education wasn’t an option for them. My father worked blue-collar his entire life, and my mother raised six kids with more strength and perseverance than most CEOs I’ve met. We lived in a poor part of town, on a dirt road, in a neighborhood nicknamed Tortilla Flats. The kids I grew up with weren’t exactly the polished, private-school type. We were rough, loud, and scrappy.
But my parents stood firm on four pillars: Church, Family, Education, and Hard Work. Those weren’t just ideals—they were non-negotiables. They wanted more for their children than life had given them, and education—of every kind—was the path.
So in our house, everyone had to learn a musical instrument. Partly because the public school offered it for free, but mostly because my parents believed that music developed discipline and strengthened both sides of the brain. In their eyes, if something could help their kids grow, you did it—no excuses.
Of course, being the youngest of six meant I didn’t get a choice. I got the hand-me-down instrument. And what was left was… my sister’s clarinet. A girl’s instrument, according to every kid on my block. No exceptions. No negotiations. This was my instrument.
And the neighborhood kids? They were relentless. I was teased, mocked, called every name in the book—“girl,” “fag,” “sissy”—the kind of cruel stuff kids without guidance think is funny.
But here’s the part I didn’t understand until I got older:
That clarinet—awkward, embarrassing, and borrowed from my sister—was one of the first signs of how deeply my parents loved me.
They weren’t trying to embarrass me. They weren’t trying to make me different. They were trying to give me access to something bigger than our dirt road—something creative, disciplined, and enriching. They were giving me a chance they themselves never had.
And the truth is, that clarinet taught me more about resilience than any tough-guy thing I did later in life. It taught me to stand in who I was, even when other people didn’t understand it. It taught me that the world’s labels mean nothing compared to the intentions of people who love you. And it taught me that my parents—despite having so little—poured everything they had into giving their children a better life.
Today, I don’t think about the teasing. I think about my mom and dad doing the very best they could with what they had. I think about their belief in education, discipline, and the development of something deeper inside each of us. And I think about that clarinet—not as a hand-me-down, but as a symbol of the investment my parents made in their children.
In the end, that old clarinet wasn’t just an instrument.
It was love disguised as a lesson.
It was my parents saying, “You’re worth more than where you came from—and we’re going to make sure you know it.”
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”
—Zechariah 4:10
