“Disclulpa joven, nos puedes ayudar?” The man said in Spanish, which translates to, "Excuse me, young man, can you help us?" The timber and clarity of his Spanish informed me he knew no other language. I knew because I had once been an immigrant in the United States. I entered the United States as an illegal immigrant. I still remember learning English from Sesame Street, being in Spanish-English class, and being treated as a second-class citizen even by those who happened to be Hispanic, though had the luck of being born In the United States. So, when I turned 18, I joined the Army in an attempt to flee my disruptive parents and earn my education and citizenship. I exited the Army with the GI Bill and my papers. Unfortunately, I also had undiagnosed and untreated PTSD, a substance abuse disorder, and blown eardrums from an explosion in a fire-fight. I had a hard time transitioning because of my conditions. When I met the family, I was going back to school from Los Angeles to Berkeley to finish my education after dropping out. I was attempting to put the finishing touches on my transformation into someone that belonged. But, unfortunately, I was sick from years of alcohol abuse, PTSD, and depression. I was on the five freeway, 3 hours into a 7-hour drive. I had to stop because, as I mentioned, I was sick from alcohol withdrawal. So, I stopped at a rest area, somewhere in the mountains, right before California's agricultural Imperial Valley. It was a solitary place with a water reservoir for the California aqueduct and farmlands as far as I could see. I parked next to an old van because the parking lot was small. A Spanish-speaking man approached me and told me this van had broken down. His wife and two kids were in the van fanning themselves. One boy, about the age I was when I first entered the United States, was exploring the rocks; as his daddy talked to me, the boy looked up and met me eye to eye. They were broken down without water, and the father explained that the few people who had stopped in the four hours they had been stuck would not know English or feign not knowing. He needed me to translate for the tow truck person. And I did. I had no water to give them. I left after I translated—but I knew I would go back to get them water. As I mentioned, it is a desolate farmscape where only agriculture exists where I found myself with this mission, and I was in pain—physically and mentally. Regardless, I drove myself the fifty minutes out to the nearest gas station and fifty minutes back to the stranded family with water and a bit of food. This was three years ago. I left and never saw them again. I left and have not told anyone this story until writing this down for the Jameela Jamil X I Weigh scholarship—had I not researched Ms. Jameel's background and found her to be a humanitarian of immigrant roots as I am. I want to say that seeing myself reflected in time in that boy's eyes inspired me to stop drinking in an attempt to cover up my trauma, but it did not. Instead, I shed my addiction two years later and write this now one year sober—with the clarity of mind and onrush of emotion that comes with sober reflection. I hope that boy saw who I was right then. Thank you for listening.