On a bitterly cold New York winter night, back in 1971. I was born to immigrant parents at the local free clinic. Life was nice. We had a large extended immigrant family that included immigrant friends. The endless stream of traffic through our house was relentless to a painfully shy young girl. Somehow, we all stuck together and survived conflicts, personal battles and miscommunication that sometimes resulted in weeks of silence with other family members. Only to later be erased by the all too necessary banding together in crisis or for celebrations. The biggest complication was who would host the next afternoon coffee. I was the oldest daughter and first born American on my Greek side and second American born on the Colombian side. Little did I know that the next 45 years would be a journey of both discovering myself and who my people really comprised. In the process I found and lost myself so many times the count is forever absent. But not the lessons learned.