I was floored. Under immense pressure, under the highest of expectations, Kamala outperformed, delivering way beyond what anyone anticipated. Her biography is what makes her relatable. It illustrates her values. And her story is the American story.

When she talked about her immigrant parents, I thought about mine. My dad was a cook and a taxicab driver. My mother worked as a waitress. My sister and I grew up squarely in the middle class, in a rented flat in the San Francisco working class neighborhood of North Beach (yes, back in the 1970s and ’80s it was working class). Our school, though a private parochial one, was also attended by students from around the neighborhood, also mostly kids of immigrants. Education was a top value in our immigrant families and they made sacrifices to pay for our schooling.

Because my mother and father worked so hard, my parents taught my sister and me the importance of dedication and self-determination. Money was always a worry in our household. It was an unspoken presence permeating all decisions. We definitely grew up with a scarcity mindset.

But our parents, especially my dad, taught us the art of the possible. There wasn’t a problem he was unwilling to figure out. He was a jack of all trades who knew how to cook anything, repair anything, and do anything. Though he died when my sister and I were teenagers, his curiosity remained in us, and we knew we could pursue any career we wanted.

With the unwavering support of our mother, we were the first ones in our extended family to go to college, coming out the other end to pursue white collar, professional careers. And creative ones at that. We became entrepreneurs, starting small businesses that created jobs.

Kamala Harris’s story and my story are not dissimilar. They’re echoes, variations on the American story of immigrants coming to seek a better life in the greatest country in the world. So that they may give a better life for their children and their children’s children.

The American story changes the further you get away from your original immigrant ancestors — yes, unless your ancestors are indigenous, we’re all descendants of immigrants. But it is still about opportunity; it is still about the art of the possible; it is still about freedom. It is about everyone having a chance.

Kamala ended her speech with “And together, let us write the next great chapter in the most extraordinary story ever told.” It resonated with me and made me emotional. Because she captured exactly what it means to me to be an American and to love this country where an unlikely journey like hers and mine could only happen here.

I can’t remember the last time I picked up a newspaper. At least ten years, maybe even twenty. But this morning, as I walked into my hotel restaurant for breakfast, they had one copy of today’s San Francisco Chronicle left. And I grabbed it.

I used to read the Chronicle all the time. Whether I bought it for a quarter from one of the hundreds of yellow and blue machines that dotted every corner in downtown San Francisco, from a newsstand sold by someone wearing fingerless gloves but whose fingertips were black with ink, or from somewhere within ten feet of my front door depending on the paperboy’s aim that morning.

I rarely read each story in every edition of the Chronicle. Instead, I had some favorite sections. I’d usually read the main stories in the A section and then US news. The B section was world news, which I often skipped. Usually, a few stories in the C section, Business, piqued my interest. And I always read through the Datebook, the paper’s entertainment and lifestyle area.

Reading a newspaper encourages discovery. In the Datebook section, I stumbled into the Comics & Puzzles spread. The signature green-tinted Sporting Green section is pictured behind.

Way before streaming, TV schedules were printed in newspapers and in TV Guide. I guess the Chronicle still does.

Physically, the newspaper is an ephemeral object. Its thin, crispy paper with perforated top and bottom edges dotted with small punched holes from the grabber, and ink that is kissed onto the paper with just enough resolution for the type and photos, but not enough to make them beautiful. There is no binding, no staples or glue to hold pages together—only folding. Each section is folded together, and the first section holds all the sections in a bundle. The newspaper is disposable; its only purpose is to convey the news, the content printed on its surface. It is not a keepsake. The paper stock yellows, and the ink fades relatively quickly, reflecting the freshness of the news within.

Reading a newspaper is an experience. Its sheer size is unwieldy and not exactly the best user experience. But there is something about spreading your arms wide to unfold it, hearing the crinkling of the paper, getting a whiff of the ink, and feeling the dryness of the stock between your fingers. This tactile experience engages more than just your eyes.

And maybe that is why I was hit with such a wave of nostalgia this morning when I picked up the Chronicle. I remembered Sunday mornings in a North Beach cafe, sipping a cappuccino and nibbling on a scone. Italian music was in the air mixed with the gurgles of the espresso machine and clanks of saucers and spoons. All while reading the newspaper for hours.