Dreamer

I'm not really sure why I'm writing anything at all. I'm not egotistical enough to believe that anyone would really find my story interesting, or that I'm a good writer. I think it's really just to get it off my chest so that life will seem a little less heavy. I always seem to enjoy listening and learning about other people's lives, so maybe someone out there will read about mine and feel a little better about theirs. In essence, I'm writing this for myself. Unaltered of my mistakes and sidetracks. So that my life will be written down somewhere. For better or worse.

I guess we should start at the beginning, or at least what I consider the beginning. My parents were a pile or burning debris since the start of their relationship. My mother was a student at the equivalent of a community college in the north part of Tamaulipas, Mexico. Directly south of the border of the state of Texas. My father was running away from the cops for some unknown reason. I'm sure I was told at some point, but neglected to remember due to the absurdity of the entire situation. My mother had grown up in a household full of disfunction, but with a tad bit more money than the common household in Mexico at the time. Her parents and grandparents had been the owners of a small convenience store (if you can call it that) that awarded her the rare priviledge of attending school. My father was the unknown number child of man who cared more about alcohol and women than he ever did about kids. At about 7 or 8 he was already on his own, learning how to work the fields and getting into whatever was necessary to stay alive. How or why these two unlikely people decided to procreate is beyond me. But soon after, my sister Daisy was born. The first of three. She was born in Texas. My father had decided to move there for work and parties, and so my mother followed. He was very much a miscreant and would look at any woman within a mile radius. But for some reason my mother married him after going back to Mexico and having my older brother, Carlos. If this part of the story seems a bit rushed, its because I really don't have much knowledge about it. It wasn't until the third oops baby came along that I really became involved, seeing as that baby was me. My siblings were "accidental", but I was an accident that was far beyond what they could manage at the time (which already wasn't much). My father had the education equivalent of a second grader, and therefore worked farm jobs that at that time in Mexico paid very little. The equivalent of 10 US dollars a day in 1992, which was not much at all. If he was lucky, the farmers would sometimes let him take some of the crop home. He would then store whatever it was in a random part of the shack that we called a house. He would seal it as best as he could to protect it from rodents and other animals, and he would spray it with pesticide. My mother in turn had studied how to be a secretary, but had no actual experience. The town where we lived didn't have paved roads, much less any offices, so it really didn't matter either way. She managed to get a job at a factory but had to quit when she found out she was pregnant with me. I was born bright and early on April 6, 1992 in Soto La Marina, Tamaulipas Mexico. It was a government operated hospital in which my had had to sweep the floors while he waited as part of payment for the birth. My parents both were fairly certain I was to be born a girl, but I like to keep things interesting for everyone. Not only was I not born a girl, but I was also born blonde. The nurses treated me like a rear specimen because I was the first blonde baby they had ever seen in person. My father however, was not amused. Being of a very dark complexion and with pitch black hair, it didn't seem likely for me to be his son. According to them, this almost led to a divorce. The only thing that saved their marriage, were my undeniably large earlobes, which I had unfortunately inherited from my father. There were times in this stage of my life that my family struggled. My dad would tell me how they would make food in a small frying pan, and they would let the kids eat first until they were full. Then they themselves would eat slowly, lying to each other about being full so that the other would have just a little bit more to eat. In my first memories, I don't remember these struggles. In that aspect I guess my parents did a great job. I simply remember life as being normal. Or what my tiny self would consider normal. My first recollections are of my first few days of school at about the age of four. Our house was at the end of town, and my siblings and I would walk to the other end of town where all 3 buildings that were considered schools were located. I wish I could tell you that the path was uphill both ways, but that's not true at all. It was entirely flat the whole way there, it was no more than a quarter of a mile. This was the length of the town, if one can really call it that. The other kids in schools didn't like me much, which is fair, I don't much like myself either. The first encounters I recall with other kids my age, were rocks being thrown in my direction for some reason. Luckily they were all under five years of age and therefore had terrible aim.