What are you gonna do?
By: Kevin Madrigal
Tags: Nonprofit, Dads, Career Change

Sitting down across from my partner in crime for the last three years

I express my appreciation for how much of a blessing this experience has been.

I’ve been given the privilege to live out my values by starting a nonprofit.

An insane undertaking that I’ve loved, hated, cherished -

it has made me feel how wide the spectrum of human emotion can be.

But now, I find myself explaining that it’s time for me to leave.

He inevitably asks: “What are you gonna do when you leave?”

A question I’ve asked myself many times.

One story comes to mind

It plays like an old black and white reel film in my head, and I begin:

When I was in high school,

I remember my dad telling me about his childhood and growing up.

Antonio Madrigal was born in El Tulillo, Jalisco — a small town outside of Guadalajara where he attended school only up until the 3rd grade.

Not because he didn’t want to continue going to school — but because the school in his hometown only went up to the 3rd grade.

To continue with his education meant walking to the local periferico and catching a bus to the next barrio over.

A bus ride meant time.

Time that could be spent for work.

Work that would turn into money.

Money he’d have to decide

for a bus

or

for food to help with his family.

So naturally, like many other children of developing countries, he worked and gave the money to his family to help pay for the necessities.

I don’t know how to describe the next 15 or so years because he didn’t really tell me about them — but these were the years that my father worked.

Some kids continued to go to school, my father began to work the farm.

Some kids could be found playing soccer during the middle of the day in the streets, my father harvested corn, tobacco, watermelon, and bananas.

Some kids could be found going to a big city college, my father worked the cafeteria in a cigar company.

In his 20s he ended up as a cafeteria worker at Frito Lay where he was liked by many employees for his kind demeanor and genuine spirit.

One day, a higher up manager approached him and said

“Have you thought about applying to be a truck driver? I think you’d be a good one, and the pay is a lot better”

More money? Of course!

But there was a caveat — he had to pass an 8th grade level math test that proved he could calculate freight loads necessary for the job.

My dad was transparent — he said he didn’t know enough math and that he only ever went to the 3rd grade.

The manager did something I imagine was rare at the time.

He took a chance and said it wasn’t a problem.

There were practice tests and workbooks my dad could get to prepare for the test.

My dad said math was his favorite subject in elementary school. Through all of K-12 I performed best in math, and he would anecdotally tell me how I could attribute this to him, that I inherited his aptitude for math.

So, being the father whose catchphrase is “échale ganas”, he took it upon himself to diligently study.

A month of studying passed, and he took the exam.

He passed.

He moved up in Frito Lay, became a truck driver, and went down a career path that would eventually enable him to move to America to find work. He jumped around jobs in driving trucks, and cooking food, and eventually brought his Mexico born baby boy and wife over the border (another story for my brother to one day tell). And thus began the Madrigal-Galindo family in America.

When I was in college studying bioengineering and considering all the careers I could pursue, I reflected on this story and thought about my father’s skill in math.

One day, while visiting home to eat the food I missed out on in the dining halls, I asked him:

“Apa, que te había gustado estudiar para hacer?”

“Dad, what would you have liked to study to become?”

I expected some answer along the lines of

“I was good at math, so maybe a career as an engineer, technician, or architect”

Instead, he looked back at me puzzled for a moment.

He responded:

“Para decir te la verdad, no se. nunca pensé en una carera que me gustaría porque nunca llegue a ese punto en la escuela.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I was never able to think about what I could have become because I never got to that point in my education.”

My father, who was my role model in almost every way, who raised me to be the person I am today, who instilled in me his catchphrase motto.

That same father never had the chance to dream up what was possible.

And this brings me back to today.

When I’m asked “What are you going to do?”

I say this: I’ve been given the privilege and opportunity to dream up what is possible — something my father was never able to do, much less imagine.

I have no idea what I’m going to do.

But I owe it to myself, and to my father, to dream.