ABSTRACT
I am the third oldest of eight children, raised on a dairy farm in central Oklahoma. I have run a gasoline service station for thirty-four years. I lived a quiet, unassuming life until April 19, 1995, when my daughter, Julie Marie, was killed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Julie was my only daughter. She was my pal, my sidekick, and my best friend. My wife understands that, that Julie was my best friend. We hung together, we fought together, we did everything together. Julie attended the public school system in Oklahoma City, K through 8. In the eighth grade, she met a young Mexican girl who was a foreign exchange student. The school was mostly white. Some of the children had been picking on the little Mexican girl because she couldn’t speak English quite the same as the rest of them. Julie befriended this little girl, and in March or April, it suddenly dawned on Julie that this little girl was speaking English, and she was speaking it fluently. Being a thirteen-year-old kid, Julie was intrigued by that. The following year, when she started at Bishop McGuinness High School, a Catholic school, she enrolled in German, Latin, and Spanish. She did the same thing in her sophomore year.
