text: I never questioned what my mother had told me. She didn't know who my father was. I only knew that somehow I would become something great, and he would know I was his son. My mother had come to America from Argentina when I was young. I was without my mother for a few years, living in my village with my aunt. The town was small but enough for a boy of five years old. I have fond, although very few memories of my family and I outside, all the time, considering we didn't have glass windows, just holes in the walls. One night, a snake was in my room, having climbed through our open windows, and no one was worried. A way of living, usual for us here in our bungalow and sleepy village. This way of living was how we all lived there in that part of Argentina. We had electricity but no running water. We would collect water from the streams nearby. I remember watching my grandmother catch our chickens to kill for dinner; I was always so hungry, especially for chicken, for our diet was consistently rice and beans. Poverty was why my mother went to America; to save me from this life. However, to leave Argentina meant I would never see my father, a father that I didn't even know his name. A man that I would one day grow up and look like, and yet the face would be mine but carry a resemblance to a stranger. I had visions and daydreams of what would happen if I met him. I wanted to be something great, I wanted to be somebody, make a name for myself so he couldn't ignore me or pretend he didn't know I existed. I wanted to become more than the boy from Argentina. I didn't feel like a piece of me was missing by not knowing my father. Not knowing him had given me the resolve to become a fantastic athlete, to pursue a better life, and not waste the gift of being in America. The ironies of my life would occasionally beset me. I can watch people complain about the modern conveniences in this world while many starve and live on pennies a day. While the only way I escaped a fate as tragic is my mother's persistent need to give life to her son, a life that is better than the one she knew. I supposed that was why I didn't ask more about my absent father. She had little emotion about him, so minimal feeling. I chalked the idea up to her, not knowing who my father was. I liked to imagine him as the kind of man I want to be. Present, persistent, and powerful. I tried to imagine that I could become somebody he could be proud of, whether he knew of me. I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother more. That is until I became a father. I had a son, and I didn't know what it meant to have your heart live outside your chest--this feeling of holding this child and knowing that I will be the role model in his life. I will be the one to show and give him a life that I hope is as good and better than mine. My mother could tell by the look in my eyes; I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a father. I had mentors who took me in and gave me advice throughout my life, and helped me along my journey. Yet, to be a father to this little personality in my arms, how could I do it and not have ever had a father? These questions lead me back to Argentina, as I stand at the edge of finally knowing my father. My wife had found him with my mother's help, and they thought it would help me. I embarked alone to where he was. A trip as a young boy, I had only dreamed about. Finally, as I stood there, all the questions In my mind carefully aligning themselves together, with everything I ever wanted to tell him piling up in mind. I find that all the questions and all the mystery would remain. As I read the epitaph on his headstone, it said, "I was somebody," and his name. A name I had only learned days ago. He had died young, only a few years older than I was at that moment. At that moment, I realized I was granted a gift by my mother to have not been told a single thing until that moment. I was given a chance to hope that my father was out there waiting for me. And he was, he was waiting for me on the other side of this life. I had a feeling he was there with me as I kneeled by his grave. I would never know him, and I would never know what his voice sounded like, or even what he looked like. I know his life will be carried on through my son and all those who come after my son. I am somebody, just as my father was somebody. He was an idea to me, someone to strive for and to make proud. While I was sad, I was hopeful. I had the opportunity to be in my son's life and be the dad I had wanted in my life. I had a rare and so beautiful gift that I would continue to live my life to make my father proud. I put my hand on the grass, as the warm Earth gave me strength. The only thing I had was this moment with him--this one moment with my father. I didn't say anything, and the silence was speaking more volumes than anything I could try and say. I knew he would wait for me on the other side, and he would live on in me. I finally stood up and took one last look at the inscription. "I am somebody"-yes, Dad, we are.