My father arrived in New York City from Buenos Aires, Argentina, in the 80s. Every night, he reads the Argentinian newspapers online, the bright computer screen illuminating his tired face, eyes fixed on a world he no longer calls home. During the Guerra sucia, or “the dirty war” in Argentina, people were forced to be silent, to take their opinions and ideas and stuff them deep into their pockets. My father now tells me stories of his youth, his face mapping out memories. My father, mi papi, is always there for me, encouraging me to share my voice, to tell others how I feel, to never be silent when there is something that my heart wants to say. Sometimes I try to coax stories out of him that he does not want to tell, stories of arrests, of mothers looking tirelessly for stolen children, of friends who were taken and were never seen again, los “decaparecidos.” Now, when my father has something to say, he lets the world know, his hard worked hands pushing through the surface of his childhood of forced silence, flourishing in the freedom that the past had denied them.