And yes, I probably smelled faintly like rain, diesel, and the inside of a city truck.
My daughter, Maribel, sat cross-legged with her fifth-grade class near the front row. She gave me a small nervous wave, like she was proud of me but also scared the room might not be kind.
I understood that feeling.
I had carried it with me most of my life.
Before me, a surgeon had spoken about saving lives.
A lawyer had talked about standing up in court.
A man in a clean blue suit told the kids about investments and “building wealth.” He had shiny shoes and a slideshow with gold coins on it.
Then the principal smiled politely and said, “Next we have Mrs. Ramona Voss, who works for our town sanitation department.”
Some parents clapped.
A few didn’t.
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