Mi Vida: A Story of Faith, Hope and Love

By José N. Harris

In Forest Gump, Sally Fields says, Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what youre gonna get.
MI VIDA is like a Latino Forest Gump story. However, it is the true-life story of Jos Harris: his challenging childhood; Army enlistment as a cook but eventually ending up a Paratrooper, Airborne Ranger then Green Beret; obtaining and losing success, and ultimately finding out what matters most in life.
Around 56 A.D., the apostle Paul wrote the Corinthian Christians about the importance of faith, hope and love.
Harris takes the reader along on his life's journey on the road to finding peace, love and happiness. Along the way, he works to strengthen his faith in God and his hope for the future.
At the end of the book, the reader may ask the question that Harris asks himself throughout, "Who Am I?" The reader may discover the answer, and find out today's meaning and importance of the three attributes that the apostle Paul wrote about, 2000 years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456807924

José N. Harris

Detroit-nacido, José Harris es un graduado de la Universidad de California, Irvine y la Universidad de California, Berkeley. Él es un ex niño de crianza, enfermero, trabajador social, psicólogo y académico. En la actualidad reside en Anaheim, California, con su perro imaginario, Jackie. MI VIDA es el primer libro del Sr. Harris.

Book preview

MI VIDA

A Story of Faith, Hope and Love

José N. Harris

Copyright © 2010 by José N. Harris.

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4568-1601-8

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-0791-7

ISBN: Ebook          978-1-4568-0792-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

89205

Contents

DEFINITION

PROLOGUE

PART I: A NEW JESUS?

CHAPTER 1    A NEW JESUS

CHAPTER 2    BAD MEDICINE

CHAPTER 3    RICKY

CHAPTER 4    FERAL CHILDREN

CHAPTER 5    THE DANGERS OF SMOKING

CHAPTER 6    CHILD’S PLAY

CHAPTER 7    ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

CHAPTER 8    PAUSE!!!

CHAPTER 9    TO EL NORTE, THE EXODUS

CHAPTER 10    STOP!!!

CHAPTER 11    GIFTS FROM MY MOTHER

CHAPTER 12    THE LAST WORD

CHAPTER 13    6626 RALSTON STREET

CHAPTER 14    THE CAVE

PART II: BEING ALL THAT YOU CAN BE

CHAPTER 15    ALL THAT YOU CAN BE

CHAPTER 16    AIRBORNE . . . ALL THE WAY

CHAPTER 17    RANGERS LEAD THE WAY

CHAPTER 18    DE OPRESSO LIBER

CHAPTER 19    DAVID (WAS A GOLIATH)

CHAPTER 20    NOT MY QUEEN ESTHER

CHAPTER 21    HEART OF DARKNESS II

CHAPTER 22    MISS COSTA RICA MEETS THE HE-MANS WOMEN HATERS CLUB

CHAPTER 23    MISS COSTA RICA MEETS THE HE-MAN WOMEN HATERS CLUB, PART II

CHAPTER 24    THE PRATER INCIDENT

CHAPTER 25    MISS COSTA RICA MEETS THE HE-MAN WOMEN HATERS CLUB, PART III

CHAPTER 26    GOING HOME

PART III: FROM RAGS TO RICHES TO RAGS TO SPIRITUAL RICHES!

CHAPTER 27    NOT SO WILD A DREAM

CHAPTER 28    ALIYAH AND THE LAW OF RETURN

CHAPTER 29    CONTROL MASTERY THEORY

CHAPTER 30    SERVING TWO MASTERS

CHAPTER 31    P.T.S.D . . . ME?

CHAPTER 32    IN GOD’S HANDS

CHAPTER 33    TAKING THE 5TH

CHAPTER 34    SERVING JEHOVAH

CHAPTER 35    REUNITED

CHAPTER 36    THE TINKY WINKY FAMILY

CHAPTER 37    RORSCHACH JUSTICE

CHAPTER 38    A LITTLE DRAMA

PART IV: MI AMOR, MI MUNDO MI CORAZON, MI MUJER, MI REINA, MI VIDA

CHAPTER 39    I LOVE MANA

CHAPTER 40    CHEAP DATE

CHAPTER 41    GO RAIDERS!!!

CHAPTER 42    HOLD ON

CHAPTER 43    1015 FOLSOM

CHAPTER 44    CITE AND RELEASE

CHAPTER 45    HOW EMBARRASSING!!!

CHAPTER 46    GOOD INTENTIONS?

CHAPTER 47    THE COMADRES

CHAPTER 48    TIC TAC . . . TEQUILA

CHAPTER 49    NEVER SAY GOOD-BYE

PART V: A GATED ISLAND COMMUNITY

CHAPTER 50    A GATED ISLAND COMMUNITY

CHAPTER 51    TO THE CHAPEL

CHAPTER 52    VALENTINE’S DAY

CHAPTER 53    I PREFER MOVIES TO TELEVISION

CHAPTER 54    AUTHENTIC

CHAPTER 55    THE TURTLE INSIDE MY HEAD

CHAPTER 56    DREAM ANALYSIS

CHAPTER 57    OUT OF MY HEAD AND BACK INTO LIFE

CHAPTER 58    CREATING MY OWN NEW EARTH

CHAPTER 59    LEAVING MAGIC MOUNTAIN

EPILOGUE

FROM THE GATES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MI VIDA is dedicated to:

You . . . my readers. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.

The names and identifying details of some characters, events, and organizations in the book have been changed.

DEFINITION

MI VIDA (pronounced: mē vē●thə) Spanish for:

1. My Life; related to the time period that a person exists.

2. A term of endearment, used to address someone you love, such as a girlfriend or a wife.

See also:     Mi Amor (My Love)

                  Mi Reina (My Queen)

                  Mi Corazon (My Heart)

PROLOGUE

When I was a child, I talked like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. However, the greatest of these is love.

-Paul, the Apostle

(1 Corinthians 13:11-13)

ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA

OCTOBER 19, 2007

Mi Vida,

Although we have only begun to know each other, I have realized that I am slowly falling in love with you—more and more each day. Ok, I have fallen quite a ways! Flor, If we are to really remain friends and perhaps grow into something more, then there are things you need to know about me. Many things! I am not sure how to tell you them. It is a bit scary, but I have no choice. You have been kind and patient, you’ve already listened to some of my stories, and you’ve helped me to see that there is a chance for us.

I will write you my stories. A few at a time. Stories about who I was. Stories about who I am. I hope that when your done reading them all, you will make the decision that I am a man—who you will still want around.

Con amor y respeto,

José

FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTE

TERMINAL ISLAND, CALIFORNIA

JULY 2008

IT WAS A HOT AND MUGGY DAY AS I looked up in the powder blue sky that covered the Port of San Pedro. The Bell helicopter circled above like a dragonfly in my Grandma Cholé’s rose garden. I did not know if it was the unbearable humidity or the whoop—whoop—whoop of the chopper’s rotor blades as they sliced through the air, but something was affecting me. The only thing I knew for sure was that if I did not get inside soon, I would most likely have another flashback of that terrible night by Venado Drop Zone. The night I almost drowned. The night Prater died.

I needed to get indoors . . . and fast. I ran up the steps of our unit. Ernesto raced me to the single available phone, but I won. Images began to flood into my mind: the day I decided I had had enough and I was going to get us back into the U.S. That day, I kept looking back over my shoulder. Were we being followed? . . . I pictured Prater’s license plate frame that read, A country boy will always survive. I saw Prater’s body, cold in the morgue . . . I could see the guns of the FBI agents drawn, as the Santa Clara County Sheriff Deputies held me pinned to the parking lot gravel. Then, I focused on Flor’s face; I could imagine her laughter and her smile. That blocked everything else out. That usually worked.

Quickly, I dialed Flor’s number. I heard her say, Hello, and then giggle, after hearing that horrendous message for the hundredth time. This call is from an inmate at a federal prison . . . I heard her dial a 5 and the message cut off. Well hello there mister. she chirped. I was safe! I asked her if she had received the latest story I had mailed her.

The one about Ricky and the boots? I loved it!

Damn, she’s a sweetheart!

I began to wonder if she would ever have me back. She told me that she wanted to read everything, every story, every chapter, the whole book and . . . I smiled. She used to say she did not really know who I was. I wondered if maybe this could change things. As I thought about all the nights we stayed up on our cell phones, talking into the morning, I realized just how many precious moments we shared—both through our passions and through our passion. I realized that I AM going to make it through this. That this too shall pass! I just needed to stay strong . . . to stay focused . . . and to leave things in God’s hands.

As I hung up the phone, I realized that I had to tell this story. This is for you, Flor. This is who I am. Then, I quietly acknowledged to myself that this is also for me.

PART I

A NEW JESUS?

Prison is a place that will test any man’s faith. Many quickly find out the meaning of out of sight, out of mind. You mail out your letters and hope that someone will write you back. If you are fortunate, you get visits. You soon find out who really loves you . . . who really cares . . . for, gone is the money, the fancy clothes and the new cars. If someone sticks around, it has to be because they actually like you. They actually like you . . . for who you are.

Flor seemed to be sticking around . . . so, I began to write her more stories about my childhood; stories about Detroit and about growing up in Mexico. Flor was born in Michoacan, a Mexican state that borders Zacatecas—the place where my mother came from. I was curious to see if she could relate to my experiences.

I wondered how hers would compare to mine.

How do yours compare to mine?

Come along and let us see . . .

CHAPTER 1

A NEW JESUS

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

1962-1967

I REMEMBER VERY little about my first years in Detroit. My earliest childhood memory is that of jumping on my parents’ bed, while watching Romper Room on television. I had tried to execute the perfect forward flip, when my head caught the corner of a nightstand. My mother screamed when she found me. She followed a trail of blood drops leading to my bedroom closet, where I had hidden under a blanket. Fourteen stitches later, we were sitting in a Baskin Robbins 31-Flavors and I was licking a rocky road ice cream cone. It was almost worth it!

What I remember most clearly though, after all these years, is how Detroit contrasted so sharply with Zacatecas, and later, Tijuana, Mexico . . . I was born to a Russian Jewish father (Bernard JOSEPH) and a Mexican Catholic mother (Maria Teresa, or MARY) on December 25th, 1962. My mother would always tell me that I was born to them on that day, so that I could be the new Jesus! Imagine the complex and the guilt trip I carried throughout the years. One thing is for sure . . . had I been sent to be sort kind of messiah—I failed miserably.

Detroit seemed bright and cheery. You could feel the seasons change. There was sunshine and snow, falling leaves and April showers. Mexico seemed like a hot, dark place. There was hunger and poverty, violence and three-legged dogs.

As a child in Detroit, everything in the world seemed either black or white. In Mexico, I found brown.

Detroit had front yards and backyards. Windows were paned . . . with glass! An apple tree grew in our backyard. Mexico had outhouses, crooked dirt roads, drunken uncles and . . . two-legged dogs!

When I asked my mother, why my father was staying in Detroit, she would change the subject by reminding me that I was a descendent of an Aztec God or once again, that I was the new Jesus. Soon, there would be a lot of work for me to do!

Detroit had G.I. Joes, Barbie dolls, Tonka trucks and Boblo Island. Mexico had marbles, tops and garbage trucks and for ten cents, you could ride a neighbor’s boot-leg bicycle for an hour. But, watch out! It might not have brakes!

I lived in Detroit with my parents and my older half-brother, Jesús. Then after me, came Kathy, then Marcia, then Marty. Later, when I had forgotten what it was like to be a normal boy, Tammy was born.

My father (not a carpenter) worked for the Department of Parks and Recreation in Detroit. During the summer, I would go with him to work and run around the parks and playgrounds and get soaked in enormous, fabulous fountains. In Mexico, my mother had to travel to El Norte—to California to work in the fields leaving me behind.

During those years in Detroit, kids were still kids. You could play ball in the streets. If you fell off a slide and skinned your knee, mommy would give it a kiss and put a Band-Aid on it. Later, I realized just how much America had changed after my daughters, Sorcy and Tasha, were born. I had to fear the possibility of them being kidnapped or hurt on their way home to and from school. Moreover, today, if a child falls off a slide, a lawsuit might ensue. What happened?

I remember my Detroit Jewish grandmother’s skin being white, almost translucent. Her hair was fine, silky, grey and curly. Her conservative makeup was always in place; her black and white polka-dotted dress was spotless. She held an eternal smile. Grandma Bella was the poster-child for grandmothers everywhere!

I could hardly stand the excitement as we rode in a taxi for the first time to meet my other grandma from Zacatecas—Grandma Cholé. The Archie’s Sugar, Sugar was playing over the taxi driver’s radio, when he stopped and my mother pointed out Cholé’s house. I ran to the door, beating even my older brother! I knocked as hard as I could for as long as I could. A short, brown Indian woman appeared. She had dark skin and long, coarse, straight, black hair. Her face and hands, covered with wrinkles. When she smiled, you could see she was missing teeth.

My brother, Jesús caught up to me, hugged that old woman, and called her, "Abuelita! I remember turning to my mother, as tears filled my eyes screaming, That’s not my grandma, my grandma is . . . white!" I was only four.

I was born in Michigan’s only Jewish hospital—Sinai Hospital in Detroit. I attended a Jewish preschool. I ate Matzo ball soup, corned beef on rye sandwiches and drank Faygo soda pop.

In Juan Aldama, Zacatecas, no one had ever seen a real Jew before. Certainly not a living one! They were thought to be mythical like unicorns or gremlins or . . . La Llorona! Kids would poke me and curse at me. They would feel the top of my head to see if I was sprouting horns . . . like Satan . . . like the Devil. Didn’t they know? I was the new Jesus!

I remember the day that my mom picked me up from my Detroit preschool for the last time. I cried because I wanted to take home a drawing I had made of our apple tree, but it was locked in the teacher’s desk, and the substitute did not have a key. At least that is why I think I was crying. I also wanted to say good-bye to Ms. Rosen, our teacher. I knew I was going . . . to Mexico.

That same afternoon, at the age of 4 & 1/2, I kissed my first girl—Kate, a five-year-old kindergartener who lived next door. I’m going to Mexico, I told her. She came over to my house. We snuck into a dark hall closet. And we kissed. It was gross!

The next morning, my father dropped us off at Detroit’s Grand Trunk Train Station. We were going to the place where my mom had grown up. We were heading to Mexico.

Adios Detroit!!!

CHAPTER 2

BAD MEDICINE

ZACATECAS, MEXICO

1968-1969

I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT my experiences in Mexico may not be considered typical. At different times in my life, I have spoken to others who either lived in, or visited a much different Mexico than the one I lived in. Could there be two Mexicos? Probably not! However, in 1999, I returned to Zacatecas for the very first time since I had left Mexico in 1973. My grandma Cholé had died and I took my daughters with me to her memorial. Oddly enough—everything was just how I remembered it!

If you were a child living in Juan Aldama, Zacatecas, in the 1960s and 70s, you quickly learned to try your best not to get sick. For in Juan Aldama, there were only five standardized treatments for childhood gastrointestinal illnesses. And here they are, in order:

Treatment Level 1. If you were a child in Juan Aldama with an upset stomach or diarrhea—you would initially be given the first level of treatment. It is a very basic treatment . . . . you will be ‘ignored’ by most adults. The theory is that if you are ignored, eventually the illness will go away. This treatment may last 1-2 days. But sometimes 3 days if your parents did not really love you. Frequently, this treatment actually works!

Treatment Level 2. The second level of treatment should not be confused with Treatment #1. Treatment at the 2nd level is much more sophisticated. We will call this treatment—"Aguantalo." Roughly translated, Aguantalo, means—tough it out or nowadays, Man up! Again, so as not to confuse this with Treatment #1, Level 2 involves monitoring and some supervision of the sick child. The philosophy behind the treatment is similar. If left untreated, most illnesses will run their course and disappear. This treatment can last another 1-2 days and is also frequently effective. The theory here is, You’re Mexican, what doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger!

Treatment Level 3. It has now been 2-4 days and you are obviously not faking it. You are truly sick. You have bad diarrhea or have been vomiting most of the time. You have filled bedpan after bedpan with . . . well . . . whatever. Treatment #3 reflects the true seriousness of your ailment. You are dehydrated . . . so you are given sips of room temperature Squirt to drink. Not 7-Up and certainly not Sprite. If you are given either of those two substitutes, it means your parents do not love you. If you are given Pepsi or Coke, run . . . they are trying to kill you. Now the Squirt tastes good. It’s sweet and you are thirsty, but Mexican parents . . . please listen up, IT NEVER WORKS! Perhaps it is the thought that counts!

Treatment Level 4. We are getting serious here. We are getting medicinal . . . Sal de Uva or Sal de Picot—Mexico’s bootleg version of Alka-Seltzer.

Warning: never put Sal de Uva/Picot in your Squirt. If you do, you do so at your own risk!

An alternative treatment at level 4 is to cover your entire body in Vick’s Vapor Rub.

Sorry . . . Level 4 seldom works either.

Treatment Level 5. So, it has been about a week and you are . . . dying! It is time for the sure-fire cure and this always works. Your mom offers to take you for a walk. When she offers you candy or ice cream, you should take it as a sign, to run! For some reason, the candy store and the ice cream shop are both located a stone’s throw away from the pharmacy. There are no real doctors in Juan Aldama. However, there is a man . . . We will call him Dr. Heal. Now trust me, Dr. Heal is not a doctor. I do not even think he is a pharmacist. Perhaps, he is just a clerk. Anyway, when you enter the pharmacy, your mother will whisper something to Dr. Heal, and then, they will both look at you. RUN! If you stick around, you will be shown to a back room. Dr. Heal will be right back. He is going to get the candy. This is your last chance. RUN! If you have not bolted, Dr. Heal will reappear with a glass and stainless steel syringe in his hands. The syringe has been sitting in a refrigerator and it is cold. In it, is about 100 billion units of penicillin. Your mother will pin you down and drop your pants. You are going to get a shot in your butt. Moreover, it will hurt! It will hurt a lot! Ironically, the next day, you will feel a lot better. Then, you will go about your day, touching and picking up God knows what. You will brush off your hands and fingers and later put them in your mouth.

Unfortunately, we never learn, do we? Because classical conditioning requires an immediate response after the stimulus is introduced. If you don’t believe me, just ask Pavlov’s dogs!

CHAPTER 3

RICKY

TIJUANA, MEXICO

1969

WE DID NOT last long in Zacatecas. It was as if we were the European pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock. Hunger, poverty and disease set in—these were all constants. My mother had more relatives living closer to the U.S. border—in Tijuana. Grandma Cholé even had another house there. Moving there would make it easier for my mother who was always traveling back and forth from "El Norte." So, we packed up our few belongings and headed to Tijuana.

Ricky was the local bad boy that everyone loved to hate. He was scruffy and thin. He was dirty and mangy like a Tijuana street dog, all knobby, with scars and scratches and fur full of oil from the cars he crawled under. He was only seven or eight when I first met him. He picked up a little English and we became best friends. Ricky mostly kept to himself. However, one day, I don’t know why, he decided to tell me his story.

Both of Ricky’s parents were dead. They had died in a terrible car crash in Sinaloa, a couple of years ago. He had been living with an aunt who resented him and hated him. His aunt would beat him regularly and insult him daily. Ricky frequently went hungry. I could relate to that. Finally, his aunt threw him out. Somehow, he made it all the way up to Tijuana from Sinaloa. He dreamed of living one day in "El Norte."

Everyone else thought that Ricky had a home. One of his favorite stories was that he lived with the priests at the Santa Margarita Catholic Church and one day he was going to be Pope. The priests would drink sacramental wine with him and Ricky would always beat them at playing loteria because he was such a good gambler. They would smoke cigarettes with him and he would get to stay up all night if he wanted, watching American movies or Tarzan on television.

The reality was that he actually did stay at the church. At night, he would sleep behind a row of pews, but he lived entirely off the streets. He was a modern day Oliver Twist, conning, begging and stealing. He would do whatever he could, to get by.

One day Ricky showed up with some new boots. They were huge, oversized hiking boots. My father got them for me, he bragged! I knew that was impossible. I assumed that he had stolen them. I was just happy to see that he had something warm on his feet, because that winter, Tijuana was cold and rainy. Besides, the other boys, even Esteban and his goons, were impressed that his father would send him such expensive looking boots—all the way from America. He must be really rich!

Ricky and I were leaning against my grandma’s house one day. We could hear Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Have You Ever Seen the Rain? playing out of my grandma’s kitchen, as we were watching the other boys playing soccer in the street with an old coffee can. Ricky did not want to play with them. He didn’t want to scratch up his fine boots! While we were standing there, I glanced at his feet and noticed that the tip of one of his toes was showing. I looked closer. His big toe was sticking out of the boot!

Let me see your boots!

"No pendejo! Leave me alone!"

Let me see them!

No! he protested.

I quickly grabbed him. He put up a fight, but I got him on the ground and onto his back. The boots had no soles! There were just the leather uppers. He had gone by for weeks through that cold winter, practically barefoot. "You better not tell anyone, cabron!" Tears wet his cheeks.

I told my uncle Antonio the story. Soon, the three of us were inside of my grandma Cholé’s house digging underneath the bed searching for a pair of shoes that might fit Ricky. Ricky finally settled on an old pair of black Converse high tops that he seemed to like, even though they were at least three sizes too big. He would not show or say that he liked them, but we would catch him peeking at them when he thought we were not looking.

After that, Ricky and I got an ice cream, and walked back to where the boys were still playing soccer. Ricky wanted to join in.

"Mira pendejos! Look what I’m going to kick your asses with!" He walked around the street, doing Pele style corner kicks at an imaginary ball. Ricky became intolerable as ever with his new shoes.

"Mira cabrones, look at the new shoes my father sent me!"

All the way from America!

He’s a famous cowboy there!

That was Ricky!

CHAPTER 4

FERAL CHILDREN

TIJUANA, MEXICO

1970

WHEN WE WERE BORED, Ricky and I would climb up on my grandma Cholé’s roof to get a better look at the world. We would sit there, dangling our bare feet over the edge. My pockets would be filled with "pepitas" (pumpkin seeds). His would be full of rocks. We would sit there and chew on the seeds. Sometimes we would spit out the shells at each other, laughing and giggling, as we told each other stories. I can still see Ricky on that roof . . . the sunlight shining in his round, dark eyes, dark as the onyx stones on my mother’s silver bracelet. His shiny black hair was matted and shoulder-length. I wondered who cut his hair. My grandmother cut mine.

Sometimes, sitting up there, I would talk Ricky into throwing rocks at my neighbor’s dog, "Cocho," the one that walked with a limp. Ricky had a strong arm and an even better aim. We were embarrassingly merciless. He would usually give in and do whatever I asked him to do. If it wasn’t for me, I don’t think he’d have thrown a single rock. Maybe not even at Cocho! When the sun dipped slowly beyond the distant mountains, we would be done playing for the day and Ricky would head home.

My grandmother’s house in Tijuana was barely more than a tin and wooden shack. It was not made of brick and adobe, like the one she had in Zacatecas. However, there were roses in her garden, lining a sometimes-white picket fence. A washboard and a tub sat at one end the yard. On the other side of the yard, there always seemed to be a "fogata" going, where she would either be steaming tamales or roasting pepitas.

I remember that her house was sparsely furnished. It had two rooms, one bed, a dining table, a stove and a sink. There was no running water, though. The outhouse was erected 10 meters from the front door, on the downhill slope.

At night, it would be dimly lit with kerosene lamps and we would eat pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) and drink either hot chocolate or té de canela (cinnamon tea). I liked the pan dulce that was shaped like little piglets and I would dunk them in my drink. The floor was barren dirt, but it was kept clean. It was swept repeatedly throughout the day. There were a couple of chairs and stools and another smaller table in the corner where my uncle Antonio first taught me how to read and how to write stories.

When other kids would ask me about my father, I would lie.

He is a bullfighter in Spain!

He works for the President of the United States!

He got killed in Vietnam!

Telling lies became second nature for both Ricky and I. Ricky never really talked about his mother to anyone. I wondered if he dreamed about her, like how I dreamed about mine. My mother had to travel to El Norte to work in the fields in California. She would leave for weeks or months at a time. I am not sure how long she was actually gone. Looking at a calendar or knowing the time of day beyond morning or nighttime really served no purpose to me as a child. It all seemed like such a long time ago; like the story of another person who once lived there, but that boy was me.

When my mom would return from El Norte, she would usually collapse, exhausted for a day or two. I would wait close by. Sometimes, I would watch the rise and fall of her chest as she slept. I’d find joy, just in watching my mother breathe. She would wake up, and I’d be all smiles! So would she! I would accompany her as she went about her business. She’d pay the bill at the "changarro," a local mom and pop store, barely larger than a booth at the local church’s bazaar. They would give her credit for food and other things we needed while she was gone. I would have a few precious days with her when we might go into town to buy ice cream or get freshly made tortillas or we’d go to church together, hand-in-hand. Those were the most special days for me. But eventually, the day would come when she would have to go away again to El Norte.

I knew I would miss her, but she would always buy me so much candy or so many small toys on the last day that it would lessen the pain. Besides, she would always allow me to walk her the four blocks to the bus stop, where she would catch the bus to El Norte. It would be just her and me, alone for those last minutes, I