A Quote by Alex Padilla
As the proud son of immigrants from Mexico, I watched my parents work resiliently hard for 40 years, my father as a cook and my mother as a housekeeper, to give my sister, my brother, and I a better chance in life.
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My grandmother spent her whole life working as a maid, a cook and a babysitter, barely scraping by, but still working hard to give my mother, her only child, a chance in life, so that my mother could give my brother and me an even better one.
My mother was okay with me not playing it safe. She made an agreement with my father that I was going to be raised differently than my brother and sister were. My parents went through the whole sixties rebellion with my brother and sister. But I didn't feel like I had to rebel because I didn't have anyone telling me I couldn't do something. I never went into that parents-as-enemies stage.
My family background really only consists of my mother. She was a widow. My father died quite young; he must have been thirty-one. Then there was my twin brother and my sister. We had two aunts as well, my father's sisters. But the immediate family consisted of my mother, my brother, my sister, and me.
If I could give you one thought, it would be to lift someone up. Lift a stranger up--lift her up. I would ask you, mother and father, brother and sister, lovers, mother and daughter, father and son, lift someone. The very idea of lifting someone up will lift you, as well.
I'm a full-blooded Mexican. My mother was born in Zacatecas, Mexico, and my father - the son of Mexican immigrants - was born near Fresno, California.
My grandmother used to cook for eight every day - sitting down lunches and dinner, the way you do it in Italy, you sit down. And when my parents could afford their own place, I went with them but still my mother used to work but used to come back from work to cook lunch for my father, come back from work, cook dinner for my father and me.
My mother was one of seven girls whose parents went to bed hungry so their children wouldn't. My father lost his mother when he was nine. He left school and went to work for the next 70 years. They emigrated to America with little more than the hope of a better life.
My mother was one of seven girls whose parents went to bed hungry so their children wouldn’t. My father lost his mother when he was nine. He left school and went to work for the next 70 years. They emigrated to America with little more than the hope of a better life.
It was Joseph Smith who taught me how to prize the endearing relationships of father and mother, husband and wife; of brother and sister, son and daughter, mashed potatoes and gravy.
My parents were immigrants from Pakistan. My father has passed away now, but my father and mother were very proud of Britain, and they have always respected the country and always wanted to make a contribution.
My parents were incredibly strict. My father went through a stage where he'd line us up every Friday and cane our hands if we'd been naughty. And this was mainly to pull my brother into line. My brother is five years older and my sister's eight years older. He would use a little bamboo cane, which my brother saw most of.
My brother Kobi made my mother very proud when he was elected deputy mayor of Jerusalem. My sister made her proud when she got an advanced university degree, finishing cum laude, and I could not have given my mother a better present than having her come to the Knesset to witness my swearing-in as a minister.
I have always been grateful that my Russian mother and father came to this country to give me a better chance, and I have had a better chance.
My mother and father were farmers from very humble means, and when I was three years old they moved from the roca to the city to try to give us a better life. My father took a job at a winery and my mother worked as a seamstress.
With just an elementary school education, my father worked as a short order cook for forty years before retirement. He liked to boast that his kitchen 'never failed an inspection.' For the same forty years, my mother worked tirelessly as a housekeeper for a group of families in the affluent communities of Studio City and Sherman Oaks.
My father was the orphaned son of immigrants to the United States from Ireland. My father never knew his parents. His mother died - we're not sure - either at or shortly after his birth, and he and all of his siblings were placed in orphanages in the Boston area.
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