My career as an author began with an index card and the encouragement of a teacher.

During an icebreaking activity for my master's degree in library sciences in 2008, associate professor of information science Yvonne Chandler passed out an index card to everyone in the summer institute class. She had us all jot down four things about us that most people know on each corner. In the center, she wanted us to write something that hardly anybody knew about us.

Then she read a few cards to see if we could identify who the card belonged to. After a few failed guesses, she would ask the individual whose card it was to stand up.

It was the little-known clue about me that got her attention: "I am the oldest sibling in my family, but I'm not the firstborn."

Immediately, everyone started to look around in hopes of being the first to identify this individual. I did the same to make it seem like it was not me. After four or five incorrect guesses, Chandler asked the individual to stand up. There I was, standing up reluctantly with a bit of obvious jitters. Chandler asked me to explain how I was the oldest but not the firstborn.

I proceeded with my very personal response. It was something that I hadn't shared with many people, so divulging this to more than 100 strangers had me feeling vulnerable.

I described how my parents had my older brother, Heriberto, in 1969. Since he was born premature, his heart hadn't fully developed, and he had straddled the line between life and death.

Months after Heriberto's birth, my father was drafted for the Vietnam War. Heriberto only lived to be 10 months old before his heart gave out. My father needed to come home immediately to bury his only child. For a moment, my father wished he had been killed in war to not have to receive the news he had hoped he would never hear; it was too late, he was alive, and his newborn son was not. A few days later, back home in McAllen, he and my mom buried the brother that I never had the privilege of meeting. I was born the following year.

After divulging this to my classmates and Chandler, I realized I had tears running down my cheek that I hadn't noticed. I felt my face turn warm with embarrassment.

It was then that I realized that I was unconsciously looking down at my feet during most of my sharing, so I didn't really see others' reactions. Before I looked up, all I could hear was the faint, echoing chorus of sniffles from all directions of the room.

Aside from that, everything else was silent.

Chandler eventually broke the silence after taking off her glasses to wipe her eyes with a resounding, "Oh, child! I don't think I've ever cried during one of my courses before. I'm so sorry!"

Just before dismissing us for lunch, Chandler thanked me for sharing such a personal and heartfelt story with people I didn't know, and jokingly stated, "Jaime, you should write a book about that. I know I would buy it!"

At that time, I was a high school English teacher who loved reading and writing, so I figured this was something I should try. I just had to jot it down and gather more information through many profound conversations with my parents.

It wasn't until a few years later, while attending a Texas Library Association conference during Chandler's tenure as TLA president, that I got the chance to thank her.

I'll never forget her glowing smile when she said, "Oh yeah, I remember you and your story. You made me cry in front of everybody. I should have failed you for that!" I gave her a copy of Through You because she was on the run to a meeting. I don't know if she ever got to read it, but I do know that she gave me the encouragement I needed to get it written. That's more than enough for me.

Jaime Perez ('09 M.S.), a librarian for Valley View ISD, has written three books: Through You, A Risky Yet Worthwhile Endeavor and The Vacant Space. Chandler passed away in 2020.