Chapter 5: The Language of Love

Chapter 5: The Language of Love

Theme: Hurting Someone Unintentionally—and Making It Right

When I was young, I thought my dad wasn’t very smart.

It hurts to even write that sentence now, but that’s where the story has to start—because that’s what I believed. When he got angry or frustrated with me, especially after I was disrespectful to him or my mom, he would stumble through his words. His English would tangle. His frustration would rise. And I would pounce.

I was the youngest of three boys. I had a sharp tongue and a sharper temper. And when my dad’s English got choppy, I would mock him. I would imitate his broken speech. I would make fun of him.

What I didn’t understand back then was that English wasn’t his first language.

Spanish was.

He was born in Puerto Colombia, a vibrant port town shaped by struggle, grit, and resilience. His mother—my abuelita, Anuella—was from Poland. And her story? It’s the kind they don’t put in history books, but should.

During the war, her town was overtaken by the Russians. Her father—the mayor—was seen as a threat. The Russians imprisoned him, and he eventually died of malnutrition in captivity.

With her world collapsing, Anuella fled Poland with her husband. Their original destination was somewhere in Europe. But while traveling by ship across the ocean, their vessel encountered Nazi forces.

It wasn’t safe to continue.

So the ship detoured—eventually landing in the port of Colombia. They waited on the boat for a long time, unsure of their future. Eventually, they chose to stay in Colombia, where safety and survival were more certain than turning back.

Later, her husband returned to Poland to see if there was anything left—anyone left.

He never came back.

Eventually, she learned that he had passed away. He had remarried and had children in Poland. Rather than respond with bitterness, Anuella—who had opened a bakery to survive—chose generosity. She would send money to his widow and their children, even though they were strangers. That was the kind of woman she was.

In time, she met Dr. Castillo, a respected lawyer in Colombia. He was part of a culture where men were expected to support the children they fathered. He had seventeen children with seven different women—but my dad was the only child he had with Anuella.

And he cared for them.

Dr. Castillo bought her a hotel, giving her and her son a means to survive and grow.

Because of that support, my dad had a path forward.

At the age of thirteen, my abuelita sent him to New York, near Buffalo, to live with Uncle Herman, hoping he would receive a better education and more opportunity. But Uncle Herman wasn’t able to take care of him. So my dad enrolled at St. Francis Prep, an elite all-boys Catholic school.

And he didn’t just survive—he excelled.

After passing all his freshman classes, my dad did something most people wouldn’t dream of: he asked to repeat the year. Not because he had failed. But because he wanted to improve his English—perfect it. He was determined to master the language that would shape the rest of his life.

At 19 and a half, he graduated high school and enrolled at Buffalo State. There, he befriended the head of international affairs and was invited to lead a group of exchange students to Costa Rica. That trip became a defining experience. After returning, he pursued and earned his master’s degree at the University of Pittsburgh.

Then came another bold move.

He reached out to a university in Colombia and was invited to come teach there as a professor.

At that time, he was married to Mary Katherine Hickey, the woman he had met in New York—my mom.

She, too, had gone to Catholic school. But her early life was marked by pain and trauma that no child should endure.

When she was just five years old, she watched her mother die—right there at the kitchen table in their home. The loss shattered her family. Her father, overwhelmed and unable to care for two young girls on his own, remarried.

And the woman he married?

She had two daughters of her own—who she treated like princesses.

But my mom and her little sister, Elizabeth, were treated like outsiders. Stepchildren who deserved nothing but the worst. Abuse. Neglect. Isolation. Their childhood was filled with unfairness, emotional pain, and silent survival.

And yet…

She never became bitter.

She taught me about forgiveness. About kindness when it’s undeserved. About resilience without revenge. She chose to give love in a world that didn’t always return it.

She was, and is, my hero.

Together, my parents moved to Colombia and had two sons: Orlando Segundo Kuznicki Castillo and Gabriel Carlos Kuznicki Castillo.

But just six months into their new life, tragedy threatened again.

Mary became ill with hepatitis, and baby Gabe began experiencing serious breathing issues. Doctors warned: if they didn’t return to the U.S., Gabe could suffer permanent damage.

So they came home—to Texas.

And that’s where I was born.

And where I began judging a man I didn’t yet understand.

(The Elephant): This isn’t a story about language. It’s a story about blind pride—and the painful awakening that often comes too late.

Even as he poured himself into me—teaching me soccer, basketball, and baseball—I mocked him. I saw him through the lens of an impatient child: as someone less than me. I mistook his pauses for weakness. His quietness for ignorance.

But my dad was brilliant.

He built the second story on our house with his own hands.

He taught me discipline. Persistence. Mental toughness.

He planted the seeds that would one day grow into my love for psychology, focus, consistency, mindset, and performance.

He taught me everything—and I gave him mockery in return.

(Hourglass): But when I grew up and looked back—really looked—I saw a different man. I saw the father who, even when we had very little, made me feel like we had everything.

Like when we left church and went to the local Safeway, and he would lift me up and slide me through the back door of the dumpster so I could retrieve the day-old donuts and milk.

Sweet treats after Sunday service.

A memory of joy disguised as poverty.

I thought we were rich.

And in many ways, we were.

(Breadcrumbs): Those moments sat quietly in my memory for years. I didn’t realize their weight until much later. The Mag Creator. The prayers. The desire to serve, speak, and uplift—it all traces back to him. And to her. It all traces back to Papa—and Mama.

(Crystal Ball): Today, my dad and I are closer than we’ve ever been. I no longer judge his pauses. I treasure them. I no longer overlook my mother’s quiet strength. I carry it with me.

Though my mom, Mary Katherine Hickey Castillo, has passed on, she lives in everything I try to be. Her forgiveness, her grace, her resilience—they echo in the way I father, coach, love, and lead.

So to you, Papa Francisco Kuznicki Castillo—

And to you, Mom, Mary Katherine Hickey Castillo—

Thank you.

I love you.

I’m sorry I hurt you.

And I’m so grateful for the love you gave,

and the legacy you left in me:

Love. Forgiveness. Strength.