Not all are Saints

“Come, thou Fount of every blessing,

    tune my heart to sing thy grace;

    streams of mercy, never ceasing,

    call for songs of loudest praise.

    Teach me some melodious sonnet,

    sung by flaming tongues above.

    Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,

    mount of thy redeeming love.”

-Robert Robinson

My voice gently sings from the bottom of my heart, on my church’s benches as I recalled how my striking past that has tormented me, yet taught me so much.

Being a hyperactive child does not gain you the liking of parents. Adults looking at you with an annoyed look, but who payed attention to that? My head being forced to turn their way for a scolding on what I had done wrong, or so they claimed. The sound of laughs, panting, shoes stomping the floor as they run; the uncomfortable feeling of sweat dripping, hair flowing everywhere with our movements, they all filled the air as myself and the other kids played games on Tuesday nights at church. Yet, one by one, kids were being prevented from playing with me and I watched as their mothers and fathers called and they walked away with frowns on their faces. My smile disappeared and my shoulders lowered in disappointment. I was said to be a bad influence, being scolded for something I never even did -oh those church days.

    While in Primary(the section kids from 3-12 years go in my church), girls would whisper as I passed by. One day Melany mentioned about how my house was hideous and horrible. Fury rushed through the depths of my soul, as I looked at my mom struggle to the point of shedding blood to pay for that ‘horrible’ house. Hate towards that girl grew within me. Who was she to talk that way? What was wrong with my place? I stayed away from her and her friends.

    Keeping my distance for many years, I became the outcast in Young Women(girls from 12-18 years). By saying something simple I would get a death glare and a harsh answer, I decided not to argue with it. I was not like them. They would speak of things that up to this day never stops surprising me.

    Trying to sleep in those camp tents with Sofia pulling my hair in an attempt to fight me while the others laughed in amusement. How could I bear it all? The loneliness would pierce a hole into my soul out which slowly dripped my heart. I lost the desire to attend. People would come over, tell me to attend that I was giving the girls pleasure by not attending. I started to attend once more believing I was strong enough, that I could even change them, I had no hate left within me, and for an unknown reason I just wanted to help them stop and choose the right for them to be okay. I would even attend dances, but as expected, in slow dances I sat alone as I saw them dance with one guy after another while my mind dozed off into thinking of them, “you are beautiful, enjoy it, dance, laugh.” The road home was a taste of bitterness, as they would talk and ask who I danced with while I looked out the window.  

    Eventually, I reached the point of leaning my head on the wall, staring at the door knob unable to

 turn it without the longing to give in to the pain that was dragging me down and cry. My limit was

reached. How can all these people who have ‘known me’ for so long see me and treat me worse than

they would ever treat their own dogs? Then I realized, not all are Saints.

Unwillngly part of me

“Everything is going to be alright,” she whispers to herself as she cradles her little arms around her, tasting the salty bitter tears run from her cheeks into her mouth. Daddy had a little too much to drink, screaming and crying momma prevented chaos, her brother blind by fury, and her sister Priscilla crying in the corner along side of her while everything passed. This foreshadowed how her life would be, was she ready for it?

Remembering makes her eyes water, her heart sink, her mouth open in an attempt to breathe, and her fits clutch as she gazes at the ceiling calling out for mercy. This is not an easy tale to tell. Her father, who for as long as she can remember has been an alcoholic. It resulted in a tremendous lack of money which her uneducated mother could not handle. Her brother, unable to help, easily became frustrated and attempted to fight her father.  Priscilla who she adored would cry for her father, which ended up leading her to do things to make her feel fulfilled in some sort of way even if it were wrong.

Years passed, yet nothing got better. Hope walked away as I believed I could calmly breathe again. Dad would disappear for weeks; she would scream when she believed there was a homeless in her house -which would turn out to be her father. Mom would wake her up at 3 A.M crying and begging for help. She had to sit there listening to everything, expected to withstand it all, until one day things changed for worse.

She had grown enough to finally get in the face of her father in attempt to protect her mother from another accident. Trembling, she would pump her fist to prevent the tears. Her father screaming in her face to move, she learned to stand her ground.

           Eventually, Priscilla got a boyfriend who was just like her father; it terrified her. Nevertheless

that boyfriend exploded one night when her sister was pregnant. She got in between them raising her

hands telling him to calm down. He screamed at her threatening that he would beat her; yet she didn’t

 move. She would protect Priscilla at all costs. He threw a punch but it landed in the fridge a foot

away from her. Holding her breath, her eyes wide with terror, she longed for someone to save her as

she gently pushed Priscilla away.

    This girl still lives with problems, cops have been involved, has slept in the car, and has visited a

shelter. Yes, this girl is me. This is my family, an unwilling part of me.

Not a night mare nor a daydream

“I’m afraid. I don’t want to continue. Help me.”

Walking down the school, people looking at you that’s frightening already. Yet, what if each step contains a burning wave of laughter and a demolishing stab in what we call “self love.”

Growing up constantly being teased and laughed at. Never truly realizing what happened until the moment I had to hide bruises from the kicks that would mark my skin. Stronger boys made self defense useless. I cried uncontrollably believing ‘it’s nothing’. Those became my restless nights.

Time passed, yet things did not get better but worse. Walking to school in my drunk fathers company wasn’t a shock for me, till someone pointed it out. Unwelcomed, shame walked into my life. Torn apart by other’s awareness that my father was alcoholic. Memories of taking him to the hospital, of everyone on their knees crying, overwhelmed me. What was next?

Too soon, kids began to judge my appearance. They laughed at my outfits my mother would pick out for me, while throwing rocks at me, claiming how pathetic I looked. Teachers would send me to the corner because I laughed loud, looking at me with eyes that made me question if I was as horrible as they believed.

Middle school became bearable. Yet, once again I spoke too soon. By accident I hit one of the guys. I trembled, furiously when he grabbed something and threw it at me. Everyone, wide eyed looked at me as I tried not to cry.

Later on, sitting on my bed thinking about what girls said; how nobody wanted me, I would end up alone,  I needed to lose weight, and how annoying I was, it all became a habit. Tears, would stream down my eyes taking away the air with each and every one of them. Grabbing onto the bed sheets, I would plead in a whisper for help, just to be disappointed by the answer I would receive from my tears and my unheard scream. I was afraid.

Eventually blackmail arose, along came with it various of other issues. Depression was at my door, laughing at my misery, each day dragging me down onto the depths of hell. With every night on my room’s floor, depression would choke me, sadly it never came alone. Anxiety grabbed my hands, shaking them while rocking me in an attempt to burry my nails into my skin. Frightened and alone, what else could I do? My dreams of a future shattered into a blade that I so longed to cross along my skin.

          Pushed against the lockers, burning with the laughter I have always heard. I lost sight of the ray

of hope in front of me. ‘Ugly’ became my new name. This was not a nightmare nor a daydream, but

my way of life.

As is time were to stop

       Days flow by, time ticks, and the world keeps on moving. Yet, is it always like that?

Can time actually stop? It feels like that without his presence. That person who, without realizing it becomes the one you constantly think about, the one who makes you feel safe with a single glance, the person whose name you start and end your prayers in; yes, him.  

       I gasp for air, as I remember. Growing up with hardships I became that girl who would constantly seek affection. As a result I have constantly felt disappointment and despair. The moment I found myself deep down in the abyss, he arrived. That person became my hero, my shoulder, the one I loved the most. Tears shed as I recalled; his presence, his words, and affection.

       I would end up running to him, yet it did not always work like that. He would call when I most needed someone, show up at my door when I wanted to cry. All with astonishing, perfect timing. I would ask how he did it, and with a smile he would reply, “I felt that I needed to pass by and contact you.” His words would bring me a generous solace.

       My heart still longs for him. He, who taught me so many things. I love him. Time ticks, as I

desperately wait to see him again. Days take ages to pass by as I wonder if he will come back. If time

 passes a little, will I get to see him? The more that I think about his absence, I miss him so much, as

 if time stopped.

It's okay

        

                Dear Readers,

 

We all grow up believing we are a certain way. For example, the moment we first see a rainbow, the profound amazement it engulfed us with was far greater than what we could understand. Now, some of us don’t even notice when a rainbow is present. Remember that moment you would throw yourself on the floor when something would upset you while your mother rolled her eyes and walked away? Now, people go on day by day hiding their feelings, hoping somebody hears their unheard screams.

As you can see, the past and present are totally different things. The past shapes our present; while our present designs our future, causing a grave identity struggle. You may be reading this holding your breath, clenching your teeth, which all contains so many unheard stories. It’s okay. We all ‘mature’ one way or another; it could have been because of so much pain and sorrow you were forced to deal with, maybe you just woke up and realized what life really means, who knows? You may have read a story that impacted your life. Now don’t stop reading just yet; my point has not been stated.

As you may have read before, my life has been struggle. I can honestly say that I am okay. To the point where I can sit outside and gaze at the stars, remembering everything and not be drowned by my own tears. Everything that you believed hurt you so much, all of a sudden becomes bearable. You look back at all those people you could have sworn you loved realizing they were not even a sentence in your life, when you believed they were the end of your book. All the people you claimed you hated with the depths of your heart, you find all the hate irrelevant as your heart begins to grow. You even start to care for the little bird that passed by you down the street last night.

This change may not come easy to some as for others. Sadly enough, I had the struggle. I fell into the depths of my own soul. I wondered what my worth was. Why I was allowed to live for so long. I believed I was useless; how could I even finish school if I am not good at anything. I am sitting here at the kitchen table on a Saturday night, my fingers typing this down as music gently makes my heart pound while I fight back the tears. As I tell you that it is okay. It’s okay not knowing what you want to do. It’s okay to be afraid of what life has to offer. It’s okay to be excited. It’s okay. Just close your eyes and breathe, remember that you can do it and continue forward. I have faith in you.

           Fall in love, in true love. Don’t let it be that love you can move on from within a week. If they

break your heart, take the time you need to recover and love again. Care undoubtingly without regret.

Laugh at those corny jokes that used to annoy you so much. Smile with a gentle heart to those who

 give you the ‘death glare’. Cry when you want to, that it is not bad, and it does not make you weaker

 than those who refuse to cry. Don’t try to do things by yourself. Fall onto your knees,close your

eyes, press your hands together and pray with an enormous passion. Know your limits, be proud of

them, and live by using them to the fullest. There is so much more that I can tell you, but you will

find that out on your own. Our identity struggle is the thing I believe impacts our lives the most, the

one that breaks us apart completely, and yet constructs who we really are. You are you, and believe

me, that is completely okay.

Shattered Glass

Fights

Imagine a person who is with you almost all the time and is very much interested in fighting you. In fact, this person looks for every and any excuse to start conflict with you. Can you picture that person? For me it is the reality of having a younger brother who is love with mixed martial arts. We are constantly fighting, despite living on the second floor of an apartment building. My mother's request seem almost futile at this point; "Don't make a mess" no longer registers quite like it used to since we both started watching the MMA. 

Our battles were epic. Both of us know a good amount of Jiu Jitsu, and my brother knows some Muay Thai and Taekwondo from watching it. Even though he is younger, my brother is already freakishly my size at the tender age of fourteen. This creates a fighting atmosphere that is an intense amount of fun. We often spar in the living room because of the all the space to jump around.  However, when you are throwing each other around without a cage, no amount of space is enough. 

One fight will be remembered by not only the memories in our head, but also by the ones scarred on my brother's arm. It was the day before New Year’s Eve and my mom was out of town for business. This basically signaled a free for all fight without a single word being exchanged. We were going at it, kicking and punching and tackling. Then all of a sudden, I side-kicked my brother too hard and he went sprawling backwards off balance. As he fell he began reaching his arms back, aiming to grab hold of anything to slow his plunge. In doing so he rammed his elbow directly into the glass widow behind him. Once he got up the wounds were already dripping with blood. Not only did I have to clean up blood from the floor and my brother's arm, but I also had to figure out what to do with the broken window in our living room. It was not a good day to be left in charge.

Unrelatable

Death

I constantly think about the idea of death. What does it really mean? Does it just end my existence? Is that it, game over? Unfortunately I cannot answer these questions as no one has truly and fully died and come back to tell us about their grand adventure. I guess I could call it fortunate that I have not experienced a person who was very close to me dying. I cannot know that feeling, when a human being who once meant so much to me no longer exists. 

            My grandmother's life and mine overlapped for less than a year. I have no memory of her, only a dream-like photograph of her holding me as a baby. The picture seems so perfect for some reason. There we are, me sitting on her lap. She somehow got me to look at the camera, which is a daunting task from my mom's memory as I was notorious for not sitting still.  I wish I could have met her. My mom tells me she would never put me down after picking me up. She was the ideal grandmother and I really wish I could personify her more, but unfortunately I can't.

It is really difficult for me to understand why bad things happen to good people. At home I am showered with, "It's all in God's plan" and, "Just trust in God". The death and suffering of good people cannot be part of the plan of such a good guy right? Though this memory is very recent, it is a memory. One of my friends is not feeling so hot right now, she is in the hospital. This is definitely not a great time for her. She is smart and funny, I always have fun hanging out with her. This friend of mine is the kindest person I have had the pleasure of meeting. So why is she having to suffer through this horrible ordeal? I guess only when death hits me, can I feel its power. Until then, all I can conclude is that this world is not a just one, don't believe the hype.

White Elephant

Game

‘Twas the night before Christmas in a young family household. We were invited to a nice house party from a friend of my mother. It was the first social gathering we had been invited to in New Waverly. Surprisingly there were s lot of kids my age, many I had seen in church or from playing basketball. The party really got started with the introduction of the White Elephant game.

I had never heard of this misleading game until that night. At first, in my head I was oddly thinking, "Okay where's this animal at". My mom seemed to instinctively move with the beat and hand our present over to the middle table as all the other people followed. All I could do was watch, frozen with confusion as kids took turns picking from the pile of presents. All of a sudden, one kid points to a gift in another kid's hands. And then that kid willingly and with a smile handed it over! You can not comprehend my level of confusion at this point. I just witnessed a fellow Pokemon trainer hand over a beautiful, jumbo pack Pokemon cards to a kid who simply gestured at it. 

I turned to my mom for an explanation. She understood right away why I was questioning whether this was a dream or not- to be dramatic. She quietly demystified White Elephant for me. As soon as the concept registered I felt a revival of consciousness, only comparable to finally understanding a complex math concept. Quickly i rejoined the inner circle of kids awaiting their turn. There was the classic Pokemon Red game for the Game-boy Color still in circulation with only one steal left on it. I was definitely eyeballing it, after all what more is there to life than catching them all. I strategically positioned myself behind the kid who had an intense fascination with Legos, knowing he would steal a Lego set. It was my turn and no hesitation was made in stealing that game. No remorse, I was a ruthless kid. White Elephant was a game of planning and luck, only the chosen would come out with a quality gift. Flash forward to last year I won a $15 iTunes gift card, White Elephant is good to me and on that fateful night I found my favorite Christmas game.

Lost Dogs

Pet

Growing up, my brother and I disagreed on almost every topic, it was simply our nature. However, there were rare times we would come together in unity: to beg for a pet. Cassandra, affectionately and as the result of an early speech impediment called "Ca-ja-ba", was my first dog. She was a huge, black, mixed breed puppy that very quickly got big enough to bully me daily. Soon afterward we inherited a golden retriever mixed with something unique, possibly a wiener dog. It looked like a normal golden retriever, just a lot stubbier. Those mutts kept my brother and I running around every day after school. It was a great time to be young and rambunctious. 

The tide changed when my mom announced that we were moving to New Waverly in the middle of Texas, specifically a small rural village of 900 people. Immediately I cried, "What about the puppies?", and my brother followed with the same concern. My mom decided it would be best to reply, “Let’s not worry about them right now, they will be fine". For some reason we accepted this as legitimate answer to our question. Looking back of course, with my current propensity to question the logic behind everything, I would have not have been satisfied. On my last day of school, I arrived home and the backyard was empty. No excited barking to greet me. No new holes dug. No Cassandra. No Jayjay. My brother told me a man came and picked them up earlier. The next few days of packing were not very pleasant. No school, no friend... no puppies, it was not a great time to be young and rambunctious. 

Adventure hidden in among a forest

Tree-house

New Waverly, Texas is located smack in the middle of a huge forest and state park. This forest is unlike most depicted in movies and books. The forest around my home was filled with extremely tall trees packed so tightly together you could not see more than 20 feet into it. The tops of the trees strained your neck; they seemed to be about as tall as the sky. I lived in a circle of trailer homes completely surrounded by this thick ocean of trees. My friend Michael lived right next to me and was my investigation partner. Every day after school you could find our backpacks on the edge of tree line and know where we were. We explored every part of the dense forest, discovering many unique things about nature that still interest me today. 

The state park is a strict no-shooting zone and the wildlife is very aware of this. As a result, animals such as deer and feral hogs are not afraid of humans. In fact, one Saturday morning my brother and I were eating breakfast with Michael when all of a sudden we see three deer emerge from the thick underbrush. They notice us immediately but aren't phased by our presence. Then, they just waltz out in the open and munch on some grass. Another time, We were pushing through some bushes and entered a new clearing. At first we were calm and wanted to explore. Next thing I hear is Michael yelling, "Run!". I jolt upright and turn towards him. He was in a full sprint coming at me, and behind was a huge boar leaping at him. It looked like a pig, but bigger, faster, and way scarier. It resembled an angry Pumba from the Lion King. Without an invitation I darted ahead of Michael, springing back into the bushes and continuing until my lungs were dead. Michael came up behind me and with a hand resting on my shoulder he whimpered, “I guess pigs are that slow". We both let out a sigh of relief and laughed. He explained to me how he saw little baby boars on the other side of the clearing and wanted to get a closer look. Then the mother rolled out of the brush and went full attack mode on him. That was the first time either of us saw wild boar in the forest. It was crazy to think they were less than a few miles from our home and we had no idea they were there. It inspired many more searches into the forest to explore what else lies in its depths. Of course this also led to several more encounters with boars and a few life saving sprints to safety. 

  

Talentless

Talent is a trick subject with me. Anyone that knows me will agree to this statement. For me, drumline is life. The only problem is that I don’t consider myself to be very talented. Can I play, I guess, do I have to work harder than everyone around me to sound decent, yes. I’m not talented, I’m a hard worker.

I remember band camp my freshman year very clearly. I was put on first bass drum, so I thought that I was good. I thought I was better than good, I thought I was a gift sent from the heavens. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Different rhythms and pitches came naturally to everyone except me. I found myself having to stress over stupid mistakes just to sound presentable to the people around me. Even my brother told me that he remembers me coming home after practice and diving into the music, with a look of anger and determination. The music didn’t always come easy, I had to struggle and work that’s what has made me the player that I am today.

I remember one occasion in particular where I felt just horrible about myself and my skills. Some people think that it’s stupid, but I don’t, to me this was serious. We were in band one morning, finally working on our fourth show piece. The first twenty measures was a drum break inspired by a drum solo that Ringo Starr did for the song Abbey road. Everyone else’s part on the bass line was more complicated than mine, I had a simple beat that lasted the full twenty measures, so whatever I was just going to chill with it. My band director counted us of and we started. It went good for about two and a half measures when I messed up. Whatever the first time is always shaky, so we tried again, and again, and again. I messed up every single time and I was getting nervous. I was nervous and mad and disappointed. I was humiliating myself in front of everyone over the simplest beast to ever exist (looking back on it, the beat didn’t mess me up, it was how I fit in with what the others were playing). I was shaking and I dropped my sticks, it seemed over to me. My director looked at me and said, “Diego, you’re good, but you’re not that good. Stop being complacent and mad pick yourself up and go practice.” Those words stuck with me.

I practiced, because that was the only way that I would keep up with everyone. I would play it off, pretend that I never practiced act like I didn’t care. In a way I wish that I could be like that. Just slack off and pull of a miracle last minute, but I can’t. I’m not wired that way. However I think that this makes better than others. I’m motivated, to prove my worth as a musician, to others and to myself. 

Meltdown

School is a big part of anyone’s life, whether they like it or not. When I got into high school I was overjoyed to be going to school, for once in my life. This wasn’t the case my first day of school in 2001 when I went to preschool. I threw probably the biggest fit of my life. My mother and I look on it now and laugh, but at the time, she could’ve beat me in front of everyone out of embarrassment.

            It was my first day at preschool and my mom had walked me to the bus stop. We waited there for about fifteen minutes, I looked around and saw a couple of other kids standing with their mothers, all with the same terrified look on their faces. That’s really all I remember from the time pre tantrum, but my mother says that I did a little bit more than just stand around looking mortified. Apparently, I paced around aimlessly, trying to bargain with my mother. She says that it was the funniest thing ever seeing a four year old try to convince her that he saw no point in going to school and that it would be more beneficial for me to dedicate my time to training to become a Power Ranger.  

            Finally the bus arrived, and I was scared stiff. I made sure that I was the last one to get on board. As my mother half dragged me up the steps of the bus, the shock ended and I went wild. I attacked anyone that came near, the world morphed into a blur of tears, fists and screaming. The bus driver, the other parents my own mother couldn’t calm the atomic bomb that had manifested itself into a four year old Mexican child, with glass too big for his face and a bowl cut.

            Eventually, after a ten minute delay, my mom gave up, picked me up and said, “fine we’re going home,” in probably the scariest tone my mother has ever used. Suddenly I didn’t want to go home, but still, anything seemed better than school. She took me home and sat down on the couch with me in silence for two hours before I finally broke and agreed to go to school. The drive to the school is a blur, but I remember arriving at my classroom and throwing, yet another, nuclear tantrum. This time, my mother smiled and said, “see you after school,” and preceded to run out of the classroom. It took two teachers thirty minutes to calm me down with a mix of blocks and crayons.

            School has been a roller coaster ride, from beginning, and I’m sure, until the end. I hope I go out with a bang just like I started. Ultimately, I see my separation anxiety at the time as endearing. My mother won’t be around for much longer, and when that time comes, I won’t be breaking down in a school bus.

            

Max

I’ve only had one pet in my entire life, and that is my cocker spaniel, Max. Now just to let you know, Max is dead. He’s been dead for about seven years. I had Max when I was between the age of four and eleven, and I have never wanted another dog after Max. He was my first dog and I’m fine with him being my last.

I remember the first day my older cousin brought Max to my house. My cousin Adriana was about twenty at the time, she stood about 5’6, a business major in college with tattoos crawling up her left arm up into her back. This girl has been an amazing part of my life, and she gave me one of the best things that you could ever give a kid, yes even better then proof that Santa Clause exists (which I recieved), my first dog. Her and her, now husband, had two cocker spaniel breed dogs, one named Penny and the other named Coby. At the time I thought that Coby and Penny were in love and married and that’s why they had puppies. One of those puppies was my soon to be Max.

Adrianna got out of the car with a basket full of four ecstatic blonde puppies. Three girls and one boy. My parents told me that I chose Max because he was a boy and apparently I said, “Guys need to stick together.” Adrianna says that I chose Max because when I peaked into the old laundry basket max jumped up licked my face, so of course, I wanted the puppy that had the audacity to lick me. Adrianna stuck around for a while to talk with my parents, but she had other stops to make, so she said her goodbyes and told me to have fun with my new best friend.

I don’t remember that day too clearly but my whole family says that I didn’t even want to eat that day unless it was dog food like Max. I spent all day with him, we were inseparable. I still have this picture of me and him that first day. We were both on the floor under a blanket, I wore an orange Sponge Bob Squarepants t-shirt and we both had passed out after a day of nonstop playtime. It’s probably my favorite picture of all time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really an animal person, but it was different with Max. He wasn’t a dog to me, he was my closest friend. With him, I was an animal person. Maybe I just liked that I could tell him anything, as weird as that sounds. Or maybe I liked that even if he would leave, he would come back. His loyalty was greater than some of my family members. Even as a small child I understood that. 

Conquer the world

Love isn’t always spectacular and everlasting, especially in youth. At the time an eighth grade relationship seemed infinite. It feels like you’ve found the person that will love you for the rest of your life, and if by chance, maybe in the life after this. She and I look back on that time, and just laugh. How ignorant we sounded in the grand scheme of things, acting as if our love could conquer the world.

             A few days ago, I texted my ex-girlfriend Taryn. A chance to catch up and talk about what idiots we used to be. The day of our first break up is a bit foggy to both of us. I mean it sort makes sense, it’s been four years since that day and so much has changed. For the record, she broke up with me, and it stands as the worst break up of my young adult life.

            The day before she broke up with me we got into our biggest fight to date. Neither of us can remember what we were fighting about, which probably shows how ridiculous and irrelevant that reason must be. However, I remember her exact words, “Do you want to break up?” I thought she was asking not demanding. I told her no I don’t want to break up, she said ok and the fight was over.

            The next day I walked into class, and people swarmed around me, “OMG you and Taryn broke up?” that was the question of the day, everywhere I went I was bombarded with that question. My explanation to each person was, “no we just got into a fight,” and everyone would say, “That’s not what she’s telling everyone.” I was devastated, why was she saying this? Was the fight really that bad? Was she asking if I wanted to break up or stating that she wanted to? I couldn’t find her at lunch, and I didn’t have her for class until the last two periods. So I was left in silence on her part all day, left to deal with the onslaught of preteen gossip. When I finally saw her at the end of the day, all hell broke loose.

            I screamed at her about love, honesty and about how she embarrassed me beyond belief. She was no stranger to confrontation and began to yell back at me. I told her that she betrayed and how much it hurt to hear from half the school that we had broken up before hearing it from her. She said, “I thought you understood what I meant last night.” She had wanted to break up but didn’t have the heart to tell me directly.

            Since then we’ve had several failed romances and have found our way back to each other several times. Although our “love” wasn’t storybook ready, it was a real experience that we both took a lot from. Love does not conquer all, but it seemed like a nice idea to try, and to continue trying.

Party Monster

Life lessons are learned every day, but there are certain ones that stick with you. My freshman year, I learned that you can’t really trust people. Everyone has their own agenda or means behind what they do. Nothing remains genuine anymore, everyone has something to gain. It’s kind of sad when you put your trust into someone, and then they just betray you, no hesitation, and no regret.

My first high school party, sound like fun right I mean come on they usually are, but not this one. It wasn’t the fact that I knew absolutely no one at the party or that everyone around me was either wasted or under some other influence. None of this bothered me, but the night ended up full of drama. It wasn’t even a high school party. More than eighty percent of the people at the party were not in high school anymore. At the time I felt cool though, I was at a party, I had taken my first shot of alcohol, and everything seemed great. Except it wasn’t. I awkwardly stood in the corner as my “friend” was “dancing” with some guy in his mid-twenties who looked like he didn’t even knew where he was at the time. It was eleven, and the night had just begun.

The real trouble started  when my friend came up to me at about two in the morning, with her mind on a completely different planet, and asked half belligerently, “what’s wrong?” I didn’t want to seem like a downer so I sloshed down what remained of my drink my drink. Bad idea, and tried to pass it off as I was having the time of my life. She then proceeded to savagely insult me and talk about how she doesn’t even like hanging out with me and that she only hung out with me out of pity. I really didn’t feel like putting up with her drunken escapade any more so I told her off and walked out of the party with a bottle that she had bought with her own money ( at least worth thirty dollars).

The party was in the north east and I had no ride home, so I just walked in the direction of my house and though that I would make it home eventually. My parents thought that I had spent the night at a friend’s house, so there was no worry about where I was. I tried finishing the bottle but ended up only getting half way through it then leaving it abandoned in the middle of the street. So my night was totally unproductive and pointless. I was left half drunken and with a damaged ego. I guess that’s what I get for thinking that she was my friend.

I learned that you can’t trust everyone, especially after learning that before I left she stole twenty dollars from my wallet. Whatever, it makes a decent story. I watch everyone now, seeing their true motives. Cynical maybe, but not stupid. 

Doodles of Despair

When I started any type of school, I was three and starting my first day at the Learning Center. My mother dressed me in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a matching red skirt. My hair was cut very short and I resembled a little Asian boy.

I trudged down the hall with my mom. I was holding her hand and rolling my backpack behind me. My mother pushed me towards the door of my classroom. She knelt down, pulled me in for a big hug, and said “Good luck mija. I'll be back for you at three, okay?” While my mom was on her way out, I ran and grasped her leg. “No mommy! Don't leave me here! Mommy, don't go!”

I bawledmy eyes out. I refused to let my mother's leg go. It took three teachers to get me off of my mother. After they finally got me away from my mom, they sat me down at the tables near the window. I looked around the room and I was surrounded by pictures of rainbows and cats.

I continued to cry. I remember my teacher sat next to me and put a piece of a paper and a box of crayons down in front of me. “Draw what you feel sweetie,” she said in a voice that sounded like monkey.

I ended up creating a series of black swirls and sketches. I wanted to express my anger and sadness. The teacher laughed and said “How cute.” I turned to my teacher quite seriously and sniffed. “Can you write something for me please?”

“Of course! What do you want me to write?” I instructed her. When my mom finally came to pick me up, my teacher handed her my artwork. My mother read out loud: “ 'Mommy, please don't forget me,' and how cute! Look at the little frowny face.”

Peanut

My first pet was a Chihuahua-Pomeranian mix named Peanut. Looking back I realized that receiving him had been one of the best things that had ever happened to me. As a six year old at the time, the idea of a puppy was amazed me me.

On a Saturday afternoon at my mother's work, I had been coloring on the ground for about an hour by then. I got up and walked out of my mom's office. I started wandering around the gigantic office building.

A few halls over, I heard a commotion and I decided to be nosy and peek into the room to see what was happening. The room was filled with a bunch of little girls around my age gathered around a box. “Come on in little one!” called a woman sitting behind a computer.

I walked in shyly and sat down next to a little blond girl. In the box a bunch of tiny little dogs appeared amongst an array of blankets. Splashes of brown, white, and black squirmed around in the box. They were the cutest things I had ever seen.

“Do you want one sweetheart?” The lady said. I looked up. “Really!?”

I had a the tiniest puppy in my hands and walked back to my mom's office. “Where were you?” my mom said not looking away from her computer monitor. The puppy made a little noise and my mom finally looked towards me. “What's that?” Her head peaked over the screen. I giggled and showed her the little dog.

“Oh my god mija.”  

Let Go of Me

As a little girl, I never thought of falling in love or finding “the one.” Just like any little girl, I dreamed of a wedding, but not falling in love. As I got older I began to believe that no one would ever fall in love with me so why would I fall in love with anyone else? But once I got to high school, my whole view on love changed. I met a boy who quickly became my best friend.

He was extremely skinny and he had a dark brown hair- so dark that you would've mistaken it for black. He had gigantic brown eyes and eyelashes that were a mile long. His smile was fantastic and his dimples were the most adorable thing I had ever seen.

At the beginning, things were great. I was happy. We spent every weekend together, whether it was Netflix at my house or dinner at a random restaurant, the stereotypical perfect teenage relationship. But after a while, things would change for the worst. He seemed distant and, in some instances, completely disinterested in me.

I eventually found out that he was seeing another girl and I was devastated. A whole year of my life wasted. Afterwards, we tried getting things back on track. We wanted to start dating again. It just ended with constant arguing and crying. I began getting more and more tired. There is one particular argument that always stands out to me.

It had been on a half-day at school. That boy I had-and still- loved so much had asked me to hang out. I had plans with a boy who had begun to like me and some of our mutual friends. When he found out, he stopped me in front of the steps of the school. “You're going with him?”

“I'm going with a group of friends.”

“You're seriously ditching me for HIM?”

“I'm not ditching. I told you that I couldn't hang out.”

He had then grabbed my arm and burst into tears. I could feel my heart breaking.

“Please don't go with them. Stay with me. Please, stay with me,” he said. His grip had gotten tighter and it had started to hurt me. I didn't know what to say. “Let go of me.” I made sure to speak in a whisper. “No! Stay here and talk to me.” I kept telling him to let me go. Every one of my requests got louder and louder. He wouldn't let go of me. It had gotten to the point where I yelled at him.

“LET GO OF ME!” I yanked my arm away as roughly as I could. Everyone who had been in the vicinity turned and looked my way. My friends called out to me, “Yo! Come on! We're gonna go eat now.” I looked away from him and walked away.

I cried on the way to the restaurant. I loved this kid so much, yet I knew I didn't deserve to feel like I was the reason for everything that had gone wrong. That day I realized how much I had put up with, and I learned that love is a compromise and that things wouldn't be easy. To this day I still love that boy. Probably more than anything.  

Life Line

Many children have their first experience with death when a pet or grandparent passes on. My first experience was my own encounter with the it. I became depressed at an exceptionally young age.

At age ten I had come across a lot of things I didn't understand and it became overwhelmingly difficult and I was sad beyond all control.

My first run in with death had been a failed suicide attempt. It happened during my seventh grade year and I was twelve at the time. I had attempted to hang myself with a belt in my closet, and just when I thought it was going to work, the belt snapped, forcing me back onto the ground. The sound boomed through the house. I remember hearing someone call my name, and footsteps. It had been my mother who found me.

After all was done, you could see a change in the way my mother went about her daily life differently. She roamed around like a zombie. Her movement was restrained and her face constantly still. In my attempt to end my own life, I ended something much more precious; my mother's happiness.

A few weeks after the initial incident, I had been staying at my mother's house. The house smelt of chile and the house was abnormally dark. I was lying in my mother's bed watching whatever cartoon was playing that Saturday morning. My mother walked into her room and flew onto the bed exhausted. “I cannot keep cooking for these work parties. My hands can't take it anymore.” I crawled closer to my mother

“I'm sorry mama. Do you need help?” she peered at me and a slight grin developed on her face. “Mija, you burn water.” She giggled slightly. It had been the first smile that I had witnessed in weeks, and I wanted to keep the fantastic feelings going.

I started massaging my mother's hands and you could see how much better she felt. Her facial expressions said it. They screamed it even. It appeared that her dull, lifeless eyes had returned to their bright hazel color.

My mother grabbed my hand and started tracing the lines along my palm. I remember growing up, my mother would talk about how reading palms and all of that was nothing bad luck, so I was surprised to hear: “Your life line is long. That means your going to live a very, very, very long life.”

After speaking, she pulled me in for a tight hug, and began crying. “Mi reina. Mi reina. Mi reina.” She ended up falling asleep after crying for a good twenty minutes. I couldn't sleep that night. That experience was definitely an eye-opener. I had felt the pain my mother had to feel, and it definitely changed my view on how I dealt with everything, mainly because I couldn't cause that kind of hurt to someone I loved so much.

Tita

A plastic Tweety bird figurine with a blue backpack and a matching cap wasn't anything special. Yet, I loved it and I would take it everywhere.

Every Sunday up until I turned four, my family would attend Spanish mass in the morning and then visit my great-grandmother in the nursing home. We would sit in her room and the adults would chatter for hours on end. The conversations seemed to last forever.

On one particular Sunday, it was my great-grandma's birthday so I was forced into wearing a super frilly dress. It was pink and had ruffles on the skirt. My grandparents were dressed very sharply and my mother was wearing a black dress that made her pale skin look white as a ghost's.

My great-grandma, who I called “Tita,” had the small television in her room turned to a novela and the bleakness of the room was accompanied by the smell of a powdery perfume. “Your Tita likes to spray the room with her perfume before we get here so it'll smell real pretty,” my grandma would tell me. We had been allowed to bring a cake for my Tita's birthday. It was chocolate, her favorite. We sang “Los Mañanitas” and stuffed our faces until we couldn't eat anymore.

After the initial celebration, I was sitting on the ground, playing with my Tweety figurine when my Tita called me over. I shyly walked over to her bedside. My grandpa picked me up and put me next to my Tita. She spoke to me in Spanish and held her hand out. I handed her my toy, and she grabbed it and made him dance. She then made a weak attempt to copy Tweety's voice. I giggled and she hugged me. She continued to create a bunch of stories with the small figurine. We ended up leaving the small room a few hours later. I would never smell my Tita's perfume, which was as

My Tita ended up passing away a few weeks later. I never really got the chance to be sad about it because at the time I was too young to understand what death was. Looking back, that is the only real memory I have of my Tita and it is one I continue to treasure even to this day.

Lost dogs

Growing up, my brother and I disagreed on almost every topic, it was simply our nature. However, there were rare times we would come together in unity: to beg for a pet. Cassandra, affectionately and as the result of an early speech impediment called "Ca-ja-ba", was my first dog. She was a huge, black, mixed breed puppy that very quickly got big enough to bully me daily. Soon afterward we inherited a golden retriever mixed with something unique, possibly a wiener dog. It looked like a normal golden retriever, just a lot stubbier.Those mutts kept my brother and I running around everyday after school. It was a great time to be young and rambunctious. 

The tide changed when my mom announced that we were moving to New Waverly in the middle of Texas, specifically a small rural village of 900 people. Immediately I cried, "What about the puppies?", and my brother followed with the same concern. My mom decided it would be best to reply, " Let's not worry about them right now, they will be fine". For some reason we accepted this as legitimate answer to our question. Looking back of course, with my current propensity to question the logic behind everything, I would have not have been satisfied. On my last day of school, I arrived home and the backyard was empty. No excited barking to greet me. No new holes dug. No Cassandra. No Jayjay. My brother told me a man came and picked them up earlier. The next few days of packing were not very pleasant. No school, no friend... no puppies, it was not a great time to be young and rambunctious. 

The friend that changes you

When I graduated from the fifth grade my family and I moved from El Paso, Texas to Albuquerque, New Mexico. This move appeared a little harder on my father than it was on my mother, mainly because most of my father’s family lived in El Paso and Mexico. Meanwhile my mother’s family lived in New Mexico. I on the other hand did not mind moving as much as my father did, mainly because I would get into fights at my old school. Albuquerque would mean anopportunity for a new start. 

I only remember bits and pieces of sixth grade: the first day of school I waited in the frontof the school with my sister for about one and a half hours before school started because myfather would go into work very early. I remember feeling certain nervousness while waiting there with my sister; the feeling kept growing as more students showed up to school. 

I do recall the bell ringing after that but I don’t remember many of my classes that day until I got to science class, this is where I met my first middle school friend: Gabriel. Gabriel and I started talking when the teacher set up an ice-breaker for the class; she partnered us up and gave us questions to ask each other to kick-start a conversation. Fortunately this worked very well with Gabriel and I. I remember asking Gabriel where he was from and he told me Albuquerque; he replied asking where I was from; I answered him telling him that I was from El Paso. He went on to ask me if I knew anyone from the school. I told him no, outside of my sister of course. Gabriel then invited me to eat lunch with him and his friends that day; I accepted his offer. That conversation I had with Gabriel helped me become friends with other kids in school and I became able to establish my own status at school that year. I became social, had my first girlfriend, and as well it resulted in me participating in sports. 

Everything seemed to be going great until my family and I moved back to El Paso and I once again had to start over at a new school. This time felt different though, I was taller, more outspoken, and I knew my weaknesses as well as my strengths. This time I made my own place among the other students, but I owed all of that to Gabriel. He taught me to be confident around others and to not let others tell me how to be, but to be myself and people will like that the best about me. Overall it might have not have resulted in the move itself that helped me to be the person I am today, but Gabriel himself. 

Switching places

​I was around four when my family and I moved out of my grandparents’ house and into our own. I was young when we left so moving really wasn’t that big of a deal for me. We also really didn’t have much so moving was almost a fresh start for us. When we arrived to our new house I was amazed at its size, living with my grandparents was great but not very big. We all had our own rooms now, a big backyard and to my surprise I met my best friend that day.

​As we unpacked our things a woman and her son came to our door holding a plate of casserole. Me hiding behind my mom and him hiding behind his, we didn’t really say hi at first kind of just looked at each other. Soon enough, without even realizing he would just come over, help me unpack and hang out. We would hang out for countless hours just running around thinking of things to do as we went. Going on a new adventure each day.

​As a kid I remember thinking I wouldn’t really care for the move, and would rather stay with my grandparents but as I look back on the move now I can only see it as fate that I would happen to move into the house across the street from my best friend. Even to this day he has grown to be more of a brother than friend and I wouldn’t have it any other way.