My Story; Beginnings
Tuesday. 2.6.07 8:28 pm
As with any story, there are more than one perspective to it.
This is from my mind's eyes.
You will see, think, feel, and know all that I've seen, thought, felt and known.
Any personal questions and comments may be sent to me in form of a message.
I also encourage you to listen to songs I have up. They will coincide with the time frame of the story.
And since I noticed that no one has asked for the password in three days, this entry will become passwordless. However, the following will probably be password protected. If interested in reading the rest, please ask for the password.
I appreciate it. Thank you.
To fully understand anything, you must always bear in mind the past:
I've always been a strong willed child. I knew right from wrong almost as if by instinct. This of course came from my parents.
Ever since I can remember my mom has always been there. I always felt a strong love within her. This love was not just directed towards me, but to everyone she knew and everything she did. It was as if this love had created a fire within her. Yet, despite this strong fire, her weakness still remained in a men. My mom had another son from a previous marriage. He was fourteen years old at the time of my birth. My mom was thirty-seven. My mom and dad had dated on and off.
The struggles they bore were borne from their vast differences. She was the joy and life of everyone. My mom was adored by not only her beauty, but by her character. She was known for her smile, her kidness, and her strength. Men of all sorts often tried to marry my mother. But my mom, being the free spirit she's always been, denied hundreds of wonderful men (one among them being a senator of Mexico). My dad, though, was not one many appreciated. He was rude, uncouth, and a coward. His mind was set on riches and on getting out of the hell whole he believed was Mexico. He also had a previous marriage and another child, twelve years my senior. His knowledge made up for his lack of wisdom. He was nothing more than a fool. A bitter fool with an anger problem. Everyone often warned my mom about him, including his own family. And despite my mom's confusion about it... they created me.
My mom had gone to the doctor. She had been having odd symptoms. The doctor told her it may have been early menopause. Although skeptical about it, my mom took the hormone pills the doctor had perscribed to her for a week or so. What else would it be? According to her previous doctors, it would be doubtful that she would be able to have another child again because of the complications she had giving birth to Arturo, my older brother. After that short time of pill taking, she decided to go see another doctor. The doctor came back with the results.
"You're menopause is actually a child. You're pregnant."
For the following months my mom was torn on what to do. My father was not a good man. He also was never around. Everyone knew that. But that wasn't the problem. Giving birth to me may very well cost my mom's life. She signed up at the abortion clinic. She never showed up.
The day came. And it came early. Nearly a month early. A risky situation had just become increasingly more dangerous. She often tells me and others about this dream she had while I was being born. She says this was a metaphor of how God saved us that day. In this dream she had come upon some quick-sand-like mud where she sank deeper and deeper in. She cried out for help and no one came. She held tight to a white purse beside her. Just as the mud reached her chin a white light came from above and a hand reached out and pulled her from the mud. The white purse mentained it's pure color despite having been engulfed by the mud. We both nearly died.
This would not be the last time we came this close to death.
She named me 'Aldo'. She said I was so small that the name had to fit me.
My father to this day asks me why I was named 'Aldo'. I often wonder what he would have liked to name me had he been there.
For the following seve years I grew up with my mom, my half-brother Arturo, and my grandmother in a very nice house in Chihuahua, Chihuahua, Mexico. My father lived in his own apartment and I would go visit him from time to time. I didn't much like visiting him. I didn't even connect the fact that he was my father for a good while. I just thought he was some man.
The stories my mom tells and the few memories I have of this place were all filled with mischief. My older brother was too old to play with me. It was a treat to go play with my cousins. Everyone had things to do. Except for my grandmother. We were close, though no where near as close as Arturo and her were. My brother Arturo had nearly been brought up by her. My mom, sadly enough, was never really there for him. My mom had been caught up in the woman's movement in Mexico and excercised her right by working her ass off. But nevertheless, me and my grandmother spent many days arguing and "having fun". Already in her seventies by this point there was hardly much she would do but watch soap operas and do "Hail Maries". And since I had nothing else to do, I joined her. Nearly every day consisted of me watching soap operas, praying, and reciting the "Hail Maries" with my grandmother. I often think that this is quite odd for a child of that age. However, I also often think that this may have had a bigger impact in my life than I would have ever guessed. I also remember the times when I'd rebell against the homework I'd recieve when I started first grade. There was nothing more hardcore than the homework in Mexico. Pardon me, but you Americans know nothing of homework. My grandmother was a strict believer in responsibilities come first. She often instilled this into all her grandchildren. My brother and cousins from my mom's side often tell me that I had it easy, that I was lucky for being born last out of all of them. Yet, somehow, as I sat tied to the kitchen chair with enough room to move my arm to finish my homework with my dinner sitting there far enough from me in wait for my homework to be completed, it was kind of hard for me to believe that I had it easier. My mom also tells the story about the time that my mom left me, again, in the care of my grandmother. I was barely crawling at the time. My grandmother recieved visistors and in order to keep me away from any dangerous areas she blocked off the stair case (made from marble. this is Mexico, remember?) with a few chairs. She then let me wander around. At one point she didn't see me anywhere. They began to panic. It was that day that I figured out how to climb stairs and how to move chairs. They found me in my room upstairs playing with my toys.
Those were good times.
Most of them anyway, except for one.
When I was three I had a pet baby duck. It believed I was it's mom. It would follow me everywhere. It was my only companion. I still remember all of this. Nearly everyone laughs about it now, with relative good reason, however traumatizing it was. My mom was taking a shower. I had the baby duck on the bed and I was just watching it walk around. I then realized that it probably wanted to fly. And I was it's mother wasn't I? At least in the duck's eyes. I then grabbed my stuffed monkey and wrapped it's tail around the neck of the duck and tied a knot. I then lifted it into the air with my childhood innoscence in tact. My naivety soon slipped as I noticed the duck had slowed down it's flapping. I laid it down on the bed and took of the noose. Had it grown tired from trying to fly? I'll wake it up then. I moved it's head from side to side. It wasn't moving. Why wasn't it moving? I screamed at my mom. She said she was still taking a shower that she would be out in a second. I kept screaming for her to come out. Tears flowing down my eyes. I didn't know what it was, but something felt horribly horribly wrong. My mom came out. She told me it had died. Died? I didn't know what that was. Well, I did now. I don't remember this, but according to my mom my grandmother kept making fun of me by calling me 'muderer' for a good while after that.
We never got another pet after that in Mexico.
I wasn't always at home, though. While In daycare I had made a friend. A "girlfriend". The daycare workers would tell of how even as toddlers we would hold hands. We were each other's everything. She was very pretty. The parents once told my mom that she cried for a year after I moved to the United States.
I also made a couple guy friends.
It was great.
For the first time, I didn't feel like I was alone...
Saturday. 2.3.07 1:57 pm
My dad says over the phone to my mom, "How is it that all these things keep happening to him? This stuff never happens to us."
Things at work are going better, if you can say that. I think my supervisor, Cristina, is feeling a little better now that she told our main honcho what's been going on. There's a douche of a supervisor that never does ANYTHING and puts all the work on Cristina. Not only that, but now he's blaming her for something that has basically nothing to do with her. In any case, she got pissed, with good reason, and told our main honcho boss lady (i don't know what her correct title is) about it.
But then again, the other tutor that worked with me put in her two weeks notice. That gives the First Generation program two weeks to find another tutor. It's already been rough tutoring like 8 kids with just two tutors. It may come down to just ME tutoring all these kids.
"...so, that's what's happening." I spoke into the phone.
Silence came from Helena's end of the phone.
"I'm guessing that your silence means that you're wondering how it happens all the time that I'm left to deal with large amounts of responsibility all by myself, right?"
"...well YEAH." Helena exclaims.
I walked up to my Jeep after work. I was in a rush. Had to go pick up the youth to go babysit at church. We've already recieved tounge lashings from the pastor and his wife for either being late or for the one time we didn't go because I didn't have enough money for gas. So, I had to get this kids and go. I didn't care if they "reprimanded" me, but I didn't like it when they did it to the youth. The youth actually cared.
So, I get in my Jeep, get it started, put in reverse, drive out of my parking spot... and... something's feeling odd. I put in drive and go back to my parking spot. I turn off the engine. I sit there for a second. You're kidding me. I felt inclined to the back left side. I get out. Yup. Flat tire.
How am I going to get the kids to church? Who do I need to call first? The youth? The pastor? My mom? (she has chemo on fridays) ...God?
"Do you know how he got the flat?" my dad asks my mom.
"No, he said he just found it like that."
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