I remember one time after the war, I was about 12. My father had a job in a factory across the way. And because he had lost his leg, he had a stump and a wooden artificial leg. And in the summer, and there's nothing quite as ferocious as in New York August. He would work on this assembly line eight hours a day and he was home that night. And I heard him weeping in the dark around one o'clock in the morning. And I knew that no matter what I ever did, I couldn't articulate it exactly. That I had an honor that pain, that you must honor that. And I think that's what the children of immigrants do, all of us. We know what they gave up. They gave up their countries. Some cases they gave up their languages. They worked at the Lausier's, rottenest jobs in order to put food on our tables. We have to honor that for the rest of our lives.