Today's my grandmother's 95th (ish? Records from that far back are real hazy) birthday and she still went out to the polls to vote in Philly for a woman who could have been her granddaughter. There are millions of stories like this, of immigrants making their way in America.
She was married way too young to a man way way older than her, who died when she was in her forties and left her with six kids to feed, and yet, all of them went through college and set up their lives here, got married, created a community.
And the stigma of widowhood stuck with her, even as her kids one by one packed off to America, and eventually she found her way here too, raised me and my cousins, gave us an anchor and a culture and a moral duty to help our fellow people.
And even with crushing poverty (six kids on a tiny ass govt pension!) she succeeded, and we thrive even still. And she's living her life, drinking her chai, and went out to vote to make sure we would be taken care of when she was gone.
Here's to you, motiba. God bless you, and thank you. 
(it's also my mom's birthday, and she's the youngest of six by a lot, and yeah, imagine that birthday gift when you are 40 or whatever)
(this is my grandma)
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