Passion, a word often spoken with a trajectory that can travel down various avenues. These trajectories of passion can stem from any direction: down, left, right, and even up from a little strawberry plant. My name is Daniel Panuco Cibrian, and both my parents are from Mexico. Ever since I was young, my parents emphasized school, making me go to summer school even though my grades showed I did not need to go. My parents worked seasonally but worked each season so often they were never home. My parents have both been working non-stop since an early age. My father started work at the age of eight, and my mother at the age of twelve. My father was always a great man, one who never complained about his hardships, even when he was taken away from school, not learning how to read or write. Forced by her father to quit school and work, my mother supported her twelve siblings. My father exemplified perseverance by teaching himself to read, write, do arithmetic, manage finances, and function independently, despite lacking guidance and coming from a family where his parents also lacked formal education. My introduction to demanding work came at sixteen, picking strawberries "en la fresa." My first day was a brutal combination of heat, pain, and copious tears. I begged him to go home, but my father refused, saying I had made a commitment, and he did not want me to embarrass him, urging me with "entonces ponte las pilas mijo" to persevere. I had to stick it out. The work consisted of ten-plus-hour days, standing in the scorching sun, plucking blossoming flowers off the blooming strawberry plants, and nursing the plants until ready for harvest---it hardly ever consisted of picking strawberries. I remember looking around the endless strawberry plants, observing working young adults, elderly grandmas, and grandpas, and even individuals that were disabled. Despite any pain or desire to return home, these individuals never complained. Instead, they expressed gratitude for the gift of a new day and the opportunity to wake up again with their family in good health. Passion, sprouting through the pores of every individual on that scorching field, with the love of their family, the overwhelming feeling of need to give their family a life they never had, amongst the many sentiments. My father always told me his dream was to be an architect, but God led him another way, and his dreams now are for his children to have opportunity, to have what he didn’t. Both my mother and father, fifty-four and fifty-five, are still working with an unwavering work ethic. Their work ethic inspires me, even on difficult days, and they embody the nurturing spirit of Mexican culture. Now, on the precipice of indifference in a country with clashing moralities, disparities, and hatred; passion will always be present. To me, being a first-generation Mexican American college graduate is the very definition of years of passion---a foundation laid out by generations of hard work, resilience, and hardship. A first-generation Mexican American college graduate propagates the leaflet of life for the next generation, stabilizing a future founded on hope, and of course passion, even if it starts with a little strawberry plant in a random scorching field in California.

A prosperous day in the future entails curiosity founded on change. I come from a Hispanic family that is originally from one of the hearts of Mexico. My father, who has worked since third grade, is my greatest inspiration. He motivates me to strive for goodness and instills in me an unparalleled work ethic. My day-to-day life is to be like my father. He tells me, “Mijo, por favor, échale ganas a la escuela para que puedas cuidarme bien cuando sea viejito," (Son, please, work hard in school so when we're older you can take care of us). His words constantly follow me in my day-to-day life, now more than ever. I am a certified medical assistant at a local clinic here in my hometown. I originally started this job directly out of high school. I sought this job, viewing it as a good-earning job fresh out of high school, and furthermore, I never upheld the strongest grade point average. This career led me to a joyful path I never could have imagined. I remember vividly a moment in my journey that impacted my life tenfold. I credit my ambition and curiosity to this moment, and my deep-rooted love of medicine. It was two to three months into my medical assistant experience, still learning basic tasks and procedures, but in the summer, months were occasionally short-staffed. Our intake process, at least for medical assistants, is simple, consisting of vitals, medication review, social determinants of health, etc. I do not remember the day specifically, but it was near the end of summer. I was put with the palliative care physician, and this is not normally done by a medical assistant as the initial half of the intake process (rooming) for palliative care is done by a registered nurse. In palliative care, the patients usually were incredibly sick, occasionally terminally ill, near or at the verge of death. As I was rooming my first patient, an elderly female patient, I could see the agonizing pain in her eyes, her crying, hoping it would end, but angry that it was ending like this. Her mood was so volatile, all I felt I could do was cry. I wanted to cure her, stop her pain, let her breathe, let her relax, let her have a moment of relief. I was eighteen years old—I still remember her face, the agony, the helplessness; I wanted to do something, but I could not. I realized, however, I cannot make change for her, nor for others, but what I can do is help inspire and help facilitate change. As a medical assistant, my drive for change and inspiration feels hindered. A prosperous day is curiosity founded on inspiration. I want to pursue a medical doctorate paired with a doctorate in philosophy to help the helpless, and as my father says, “échale ganas, mijo...,” work hard.