I am an Immigrant.
I am flawed like all others but I have evidence that my contributions to America outweigh my foibles. I take pride in my heritage and I weave its impression to the fabric of this nation. I purposely took a pledge of allegiance to this land and swore to defend its ideals. I believe people are created equal, I believe that it is hard to form a more perfect Union and I believe that better days are ahead of us.
I am an immigrant and I don
Rebar to the Head
The drop of blood landed with a plop on my bathroom sink. I was in a hurry and in a careless swipe of my razor blade I nicked at an old-old scar that protrudes slightly from the lower part of my mandible on the left side of my face. I don’t usually think much of this imperfection and it has been years since I’ve touched it but in a moment of pause I rewound the clock to a warm day in Xochimilco, Mexico when I was a young boy.
There on a plot of land I found myself not too far away from my parents playing on dirt as workers busied themselves around me, hauling bricks, making cement, drinking Coca-Colas and trying to stay away from my dad who was in no-nonsense managerial mode. Construction of our new family home was in full swing and the work crew were so motivated that they hardly noticed me wondering about the place on unsteady feet marveling at the speed and efficiency these men worked at. I tried to find a place to help. Sometimes I struggled to bring a man a shovel. Sometimes they would let me use a hammer. Mostly though I was asked to help entertain my baby sister who I resented for getting in the way of me having adventures.
During a break in duty I saw some gravel being delivered and I wanted to play with the rocks. I stood and without reservation bolted to opposite side of the year while brushing off my moppy hair from my eyes. In my haste I failed to notice some bricks left on the ground and in a moment I was under gravity’s control. From the ground an incomplete column of bricks stood and from the corners standing straight up a reddish shoot of metal was waiting to greet me. The piece of rebar that speared me just below my mouth pierced my flesh at a sharp angle and easily moved its way into whatever cavities are designed into the human skull. Whatever shrieks I gave brought attention to me quickly and past that I do not remember much.
Doctors called it a miracle. I call it luck. In either case, the morning’s drop of blood reminded me to stay steady on my feet and always look several yards forward as best you can.
Hunger Games
In an underground cave resting on the south building of the John F Kennedy library at Cal State LA there used to be a Computer Lab. On most evenings I would come up from that underground lair. I was 18 years old, I did not want to go home but had to, I still had a paltry allowance, I had eaten my mom’s egg sandwich first thing in the morning and now I had some choices to make. With my stomach badly grumbling I search about myself and in my pocket I found a few dollars that could either cover the two and a half mile RTD bus ride to Eastman Ave or they could buy me some nachos from the King Taco on campus.
Not feeling sorry for myself and with the cover of night as an asset I knew there was another option. Sometimes, packaged and wrapped food that wasn’t consumed was gently tossed in bins behind the cafeteria, or the lunch truck on the north side of campus. Sometimes, kids left half eaten tacos in the courtyard at Salazar Hall.
Foraging was hard the first time I did it but it got easier with time and usually I had enough to cover me until I got home to worrying my worrying parents.
Never once did I get food poisoning.
Building a Memory
My wife and son left the table.
They went to tend to our new baby-chicks and left my youngest and I sitting behind. My littlest-tyke always eats slowly and I was in no rush to get up from the still steaming cup of Tanzanian coffee before me and her company. I watched her picking at her hash browns. Picking up bits of potato and gleefully popping them into her mouth. In the background Marley
Sharp Dressed Man
My mom bought in bulk. Bulk bananas, bulk loaves of bread, bulk frijoles, bulk clothes…etc. Thanks to this I started college with a crisp set of white Hanes t-shirts and about four well creased pairs of tan Dickies and two Levi’s jeans.
With rare exceptions these wears were in my weekly rotation and I got no complaints. That is until the year I met a girl with an eye for patterns and thought it wise to introduce colour I to my life. In a few months
The Don Quixote Episode
Just recently I entered into an on line conversation about a contemporary issue with a complete stranger. I did this on my own volition.
I championed ethics, precedent, and a need for civility in how we dialog as a society. The stranger I willingly approached proceeded to visit my profile make inference about my person from some quickly gathered facts. He was even charitable enough to give me a “pass” because of the neighborhood I grew up in and where I attended High School. Education is drastically lacking in East Los Angeles in his estimate. I found all this mildly ironic and decided to exercise my Troll-Policy and cease to engage the person.
What dawned on me is the lack of discipline to argue arguments on their merit. It also emboldened me with quixotic sense of purpose to not devolve to personal attacks when I engage others. It is a personal policy…feel free to disagree.
On the Day After
While at the kitchen table working on her division homework my youngest paid no mind to the television broadcast on. TV is usually not on during this time at home but I figured that it was old news and she usually tunes them out. Her eye caught the loud and shocking explosion and I noticed that she put her pencil down for a moment and was transfixed on the screen. Then she snapped hear head my way and asked if what she was watching was real and if it was happening “right now.” Her brother, who had been emptying the dishwasher, quickly blurted out to her that what I was watching was 9/11 and not to worry. I paused the re-broadcast and rallied them by my side to talk for a few minutes about that day and what life was like after. When the discussion was done they went about their afternoon and I was proud that I’d assuaged fears.
Later in the eve after a round of riotous tickling had stopped and they were settling into bed, my youngest still breathing heavy, asked me if I was sure mom’s flight back home later in the week would be okay. Before I could answer my son blurted to her to not worry because “mommy always comes back safe.” I nodded to her in agreement, kissed them good-night and flicked off their lights.
I then stood outside their bedroom in the darkness…speechless.
Future Obituary – Pledge of Allegiance
Hugo Torres officially became a United State Citizen on June 22, 2016 at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium.
Mr. Torres became an American many years earlier at/about the age of 10 in Mrs. Ross Fourth Grade classroom at Malabar Elementary school. After having spent many months learning English as a second language a young Hugo Torres was handed a small sheet of paper with words first drafted in 1892 by Francis Bellamy. He was told that he would join the rest of the class the next day as they would raise their hands to their hearts in unison and expressed allegiance. Hugo took the sheet home, told his parents and then spent hours on his bed practicing, and practicing and practicing. In the course of that afternoon he had looked up many of the words that then he thought too obscure. Once he understood their weight and realized the responsibility they required he knew he was ready. The next morning, once the class settled down and Mrs. Ross asked the group to rise at attention, young Hugo Torres pledged “allegiance to the flag of the United State of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Young Hugo caught Mrs. Ross smiling at him as she asked everyone to sit.
Mr. Torres was an American in his heart from that morning until his passing last Tuesday afternoon.
Source: Mr. Torres’ Future Obituary.
My dad never
My dad never taught me how to fish but he showed me that grown men do cry. My dad couldn’t instruct me on how to drive but he drove me to the driving school. My father didn’t teach me English but I learned from him that words on paper can be powerful. My father didn’t have a lot of time for me after work but I saw in him the ability to will himself into performing one more shift. My old man was too tired for basketball but he made enough so I’d have shoes and a ball.
There are so many things Silvio didn’t, couldn’t, was unable to do when it came to me and I resented some of those at the time. Now near 40 and with kids of my own I’ve come to see the flip side of those things.
What will I miss
The retirement strategist shared with all the small business owners this morning some helpful data about days-sans-work and planning for them.
He lost me for a moment I’ll admit.
When he mentioned the statistical gap that says that it is likely that I will die several years before my partner does my mind began to wonder of what I’ll miss. One day her hands will turn really wrinkly and I may not get to massage them. Will it turn out that like my father I’ll miss hearing the coos of my first grandchild? It’ll be a shame not to unleash my inner curmudgeon at the Thanksgiving table and then take a nap right after. Then one day it could be that I’ll be just a picture on the wall and some people may tell tall fond tales of the handsome young guy I used to be.
I snapped back to real time just as the presentation ended. I’m thinking about this stuff a lot late. Could it be it’s because my 30s are coming to an end this year?