Guadalajara, Mexico—Home to the second largest metropolitan center in the country, Las Chivas, Tequila and last but not least, mariachi, is the place where I was conceived and given birth to by a suppositious absent father and a 15 year old teenager.
The marriage inevitably failed and my mother—who had married to simply to get away from a small house with six brothers and sisters and an alcoholic dad, got fed up with my father’s abuse, stole money from him and bought a bust ticket to Tijuana, taking me (6 months old) along for the ride.
Once in Tijuana, Motorola employed her at a television assembly line. My mother left me in what she described was a prison for kids, where I stayed five days of the week and acquired the lifelong nickname of el topo or “the mole.” To this day no one has explained why and who gave me the name. But my aunt who soon followed my mom to Tijuana and often picked me up from the hellhole, loved it and branded me for life.
It was as ‘el topo’ that I returned to Guadalajara three years later. Mom yielded to my grandfather’s requests for her return from that decrepit place that was and still is Tijuana.
There are very few memories in my thought-hoard, but I do remember my grandfather teaching me to swim in Manzanillo (one beautiful beach) and often going to outside colorful rustic towns where he still had family, riding on the backs of giant pigs, falling off a donkey, visiting balneareos (hot springs).
I enjoyed grandpa’s company for two years; he died of a stroke in ’91. Unfortunately, I got to see the man fainting and people around trying to pick him up. I was not allowed to see him at his wake because I had a scab in my hand (superstitious bull).
Inevitably, everything changed drastically, my uncle (an ever furious mechanic) made the miniature patio his workplace; my other uncle, who was four years older than me, picked on me constantly and broke the sad news about Santa Clause; and my aunt, who was four years younger than my mom, began sending me on errands and forced me to do chores around the scorpion infested house.
A few months after grandpa’s death I began attending elementary school which was four blocks away: Alfred E. Nobel. The curriculum was not at all different from an American school. Later I would come to find out it was better, with the exception of abusive teachers —and was home to the only two computers I ever saw before traveling to the US (someone stole them, they made a hole in the ceiling and took everything).
“El topo” was well known in the school for being a troublemaker who did surprisingly well in school. This was due to my mom’s rigid rules when it came to school, even though I barely ever saw the lady; she still kept up with the teacher’s notes and would not hesitate to use corporal punishment.
It wasn’t long before mom introduced me to her boyfriend and his family. He amiably took on the responsibility of fatherhood and his family took me in as one of their own. I would go on to make the Cuellar’s house my second home.
The Cuellar’s owned a small corner store. In the back was a large terrace whose bare adobe walls were topped with broken glass and a centered giant guava tree provided solace from the sun to dozens of wandering chickens, a handful of colorful and easily irritable roosters.
Every so often, my new grandfather would take me to the various palenques to showcase, bet on, and fight his roosters. It usually turned out to be daylong bloodbaths in which the cocks were fitted with blades on their talons and pitted to death. The losers were quickly retrieved, cooked and served a few hours later. Depending on the health of the top cock, he would either get cooked or live to see (if they had eyes left) another day and be bred. In many occasions headless chicken would be seen frantically running and flapping their wings as if to escape from the grasp of death.
This leads perfectly into ‘93, when Mexico reduced the amount of zeros in the currency: 1000 pesos turned into 1 (shiny) peso. I remember my grandpa telling me everything would get better now. I, of course, did not have the cognitive abilities to know what he was talking about; the food served was always great and homemade—generally just beans, rice, fresh baked tortillas and a small amount of meat served along with fresh tomato and jalapeno sauce. Mmmm…!
Also in ’93 my mother gave birth to my brother. As a result of this, I had free rein to be the last one of my friends to be home. And as things got “better,” my stepfather could not find a job. Two of his brothers had previously made the jump to the US in the mid 80’s, it was a natural jump.
Late in ’95 he headed north; my mother followed two months later.
Both of them left with hopes of returning for both my brother and me. They had high hopes, lots of people had “made it;” it was their turn to ride the American dream to its full potential.
During their hiatus, Mortal Kombat and Killer Instinct arcades were my best friends. I would hang around establishments with arcades just to watch others play; until regrettably getting kicked out of the arcades for reaching over the counter to get coins.
Coin scarcity forced me to make a choice between staying home with the grandparents (I did not go to school while my folks were away), or find a job—which I did for a few months.
It was simple, get up every morning, get a red dolly with a crooked wheel, and go around to small business’ to pick up their garbage and take it to a dump behind el mercado. I made enough money to go to the arcades and buy myself a small pizza every once in a while.
The ten months my mom was gone for were wonderful—I had none of the usual yelling and ass whopping sessions—then for better or worse, she came back. In protest, I decided not to go to the airport, and instead I played Congo’s Caper at a friend’s house.
Coming to America
Two weeks later, I would go on to leave the country—the prevailing thought was for some reason the Statue of Liberty. Crossing the border was as easy as Rush Limbaugh’s drug pr. The coyote paired me and my brother with an older lady who would pass off as our grandma. Our instructions were simple, “say ‘US citizen’ and that’s it.”
Surprisingly it worked. The first blue eyed, blond haired person I had ever met actually fell for my lie (Even today I ask myself “what if he had asked for my papers?”).
There could not have been a more stark contrast than that particular border crossing: on one side there was a dusty desert city, sheet-metal-roofed adobe and brick homes with hundreds of thousands sappy foreign faces. While on the other side (San Diego), well, the first store I saw was a Burger King sitting on a small mound with perfectly manicured green grass and tall trees around it. The taste of the air itself was of a different nature, cleaner and most of the folks were white.
After a brief stay at my uncle’s house in LA, where I celebrated my 10th birthday and received more gifts than I had in the whole previous year, we set out via plane to NY. As the plane began its decent, the land gave way to millions of moving lights as well as to the bright tall buildings seen only in movies and news in Mexico. The trip home was even more spectacular; we rode on the White Stone Bridge and like a fly continued to stare at the bright lights.
The astonishment was not to last too long. Two days after my arrival I found myself at a red bricked school (Jefferson Elementary) in New Rochelle, NY. First order of business was inoculations; I—like a maniac—had to be strapped down by a couple of people for that to happen.
Next, I was tossed in a fifth grade classroom with only three other Spanish speakers. For a while, they would become my guides, they too had only been in the US for less than a year. Logically, I gravitated towards the other Spanish speakers and the only thing I did know, and knew well, was math. For that reason, the teacher came to like me, and during lunch she would help me with my ESL work.
When I found out that I would be passed to next grade (with good grades), I was so excited. So in one of the graduation practices, which took place in the auditorium, I told my buddies in Spanish “Pase! Y con buenos grados.” The girl sitting in front of me, Hope (whom I befriended a few years later) turned around, and with an angry gesture told us “why don’t you go back to Mexico?” Being a smart ass myself, I responded in broken English, “Why don’t you go back to Africa?” The argument ended right there and then. We then proceeded to practice R. Kelly’s “I Believe I can Fly” while holding each others hands (which was part of the show).
Unfortunately, the next three grades I spent 70% of the time learning and convening with other Spanish speakers in Spanish. I was inducted into a bilingual program whose classroom was located in the basement, next to the special ed. class. The effects of which was segregation from the rest of the student population, constant bullying, and an English deficiency right when I needed it most.
At home, the relationship with my mom remained the same as the one we had in Mexico. She continued to give priority to my younger brother, despite the progress I had made in school, so I grew evermore resentful. My stepfather, whose efforts provided the means for a brighter future was, much like a survivor contestant, driven out of the house.
My middle school years were marked by an increase in testosterone and an intense dislike for my mother and brother. I became a cocoon, shielding everything other than Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Korn and most of what K-Rock played back then. The time I spent listening to music was really the only enjoyable time of those days.
By the seventh grade, my mother had met another gentleman who would go on to be my stepfather. He had three kids, and for a while, his older kid and I fought in and outside of school—don’t remember why, probably carrying the torch for both our mothers, they were doing the same thing.
In quite the turn of events, when my mother decided to follow my stepfather to Bridgeport, I ended up being welcomed at my stepbrother’s home. He and I, for a while became inseparable friends; until unfortunately the Board of Ed found out I was not living with my parent and forced me out of a very diverse (mutually segregated) High School in May 2001.
So I transferred to Warren Harding High School in BPT. The experience was unlike any other I had ever experience. I suddenly found myself being considered a bright student; a change from being an average student in New Ro High. The situation there was and still is dire. Students were out of control; I experienced everything from students punching teachers to teachers chasing students down. There were a few unavoidable conflicts I had over stares, a girl
I found solace in smart senior students whom I often hung out and tried to imitate. I was the first sophomore to take AP Bio along with seniors, I often found myself being played the jokes the rest of the student body played on these “smarty pants.” I must admit, I met a handful of true friends and teachers that truly cared for students.
At home, my mother never changed, she never acknowledged any of my accomplishments and treated me much like you would an indentured servant—I can not blame her, all the while she’s been taking orders from yuppies, she had to let it out somehow. Still, I had to move out, and I did at 16.
The following five years were years of self discovery. After graduating from Harding, my life lost its meaning and purpose. After a six month hiatus from education, I attended HCC for three consecutive semesters on my own reconnaissance.
Music (again) and the greatest girlfriend served as anchors, although they were certainly dragged by a ship overloaded with opposing emotions, I must admit: without them, the tide would have led me astray. Instead, a reinvigorated self arose from the limbo I found my self in and finally experienced true unconditional love.
Today, I would like to think that I have grown much. Which is no coincidence at all, for I have opened myself to many viewpoints that help me frame responses to many situations, which in the past, I would have reacted either violently or by give up on tasks. Not perfect, but better.
It took getting lost in this maze called life to finally figure out where I would like to go. The random nature of life itself may divert from green pastures to desolate lands; it can become an utter contradiction.
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