My father has a picture of his childhood home back in Santa Cruz, Bolivia hanging up in our hallway. The faded picture shows a small home with no windows or doors. He said he put it there as a reminder to always express gratuity for our life here in America. My father came to America to pursue his passion of soccer. He played in the Dallas Cup and received a full soccer scholarship to The University of Pan American (UTPA), also known today as The University of the Rio Grande Valley (UTRGV). He was the first in his family to go to college and receive his bachelor’s. My father’s passion for soccer got passed down to me, his second eldest out of 5 girls. He was my soccer coach all throughout adolescence and during high school. He purposely transferred jobs as a high school soccer coach and Spanish teacher just so he could teach me. I currently go to college now and play at the next level. My father came to America at 18 years old not knowing any English. He defeated all the odds against him and became a teacher to help those in need. I am currently studying to become an English major in college, and part of it is greatly influenced through my father’s dedication for all of his daughters to be fluent in this country’s language. My father struggled greatly in college, because he didn’t understand what the material said. He told me he never wanted any of his daughters to go through the struggles he went through. He wanted a better life for us. My father raised my sisters and I all by himself. He was the one who gave us money so we could buy books at the book fair back in elementary school. He was the one who listened to little me rant for hours on the most recent book I had just read. He was the one who pushed all of us to be avid readers and writers. My father always told me he wished he could write a book about his life. One day I would love to help him write and publish his biography. That is why I am an English major. I want to be able to transfer his thoughts from his brain to ink on paper. I want to be able to articulate how he grew up without a Dad in Bolivia and somehow turned out to be the best father ever, without any role model to look up to for answers. My father was there for me throughout all of my soccer games (even though he was the coach). He was there for me when I got diagnosed with the same mental illness as my absent mother. He was there. He never abandoned us. Family is blood. That’s what he always tells us. My Bolivian blood is what keeps me strong. It is what influences me to share my fathers experiences with the world. My father is Mario Ribera. International Bolivian soccer player, Teacher, Coach, and my number one supporter.