How It All Began

By Miguel Cisneros

How It All Began is based on Miguel "Mike" Cisneros Jr.'s life experiences growing up as a child dealing with family conflicts, domestic violence, bullying and child abuse, homelessness, and short periods of happiness. At times there were moments of hopelessness, despair, and desperation until he had to make a life-changing commitment to leave all that was negative and begin a new life, hoping something positive would come from it. That life-changing commitment was with the United States Navy. From the very beginning upon joining the Navy, many in leadership positions seemed to try blocking his desire to move forward, including people in leadership positions during a period when the Vietnam War was ending and the military was experiencing racial tension. Even though he didn't like it and knew it wasn't right, he kept going. There were also those in leadership positions that saw the potential in him and provided the mentoring and guidance for him to advance. After serving in the Navy for over thirty years, through many years of sea duty, deployments, family separations, adversity, and at times humiliations, he found ways to achieve his goals and succeed. At the same time, he provides insights of the chain of command and their leadership style. As with all organizations, there are good leaders and bad leaders; and from that, he learned and tried emulating the best from each. This personal story was written in the hopes that someone may learn from these experiences and perhaps inspire them to believe in themselves, to use their abilities, to have a positive attitude, and most importantly, to never give up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644624500

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How It All Began

Miguel Cisneros

Copyright © 2019 Miguel Cisneros

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-64462-449-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-66240-623-2 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64462-450-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

How It All Started

California Bound

Where Is Home?

Who Wants This Kid?

A Real Home

Back to San Antonio

Turbulent Years

Making a Decision

Boot Camp: RTC San Diego, California

I’m a Sailor Now

Get Your Ass down the Hole (1974–1978)

My Return Home (1978–1981)

Back in the Navy (1981–1984)

Worst Example of Leadership (1984–1985)

Out of the Navy but Not for Long (1985–1989)

Hard Work Pays Off (1989–1993)

Is This a Career-Enhancing Move? (1993–1996)

Back to Sea Again (1996–1999)

Command Master Chief (1999–2002)

US Naval Force Korea (2002–2004)

Wrapping up a Career (2004–2007)

I'd like to dedicate my book to my daughters, Angela C. Hess and Avelen Catalan for being strong and hanging in there while I was serving our country.

Chapter 1

How It All Started

It all started for me when I was born June 22, 1954, in Laredo, Texas. I was named after my father, Miguel. His name was, Miguel Beltran Cisneros, born near Anaheim, California. Not much is known about my dad growing up as a little boy, except as a young man, he did work doing work what most Mexican-American kids did during that time, in the gardening and landscaping industry. His mother told me when my dad was a teenager, he was working in a garden nursery and could name every plant in it. I can’t verify much about my father’s life growing up except by what my dad’s mother told me about him, which in most cases, wasn’t positive at all. My grandfather never mentioned him, and for whatever reason it may have been for, he should have explained it to me. As the eldest grandson, I felt I had a right to know. From the information I got, he was the black sheep of the family. There was nothing good that was ever told about my father. It truly disturbs me that a young man like my father would, at the age of seventeen, want to serve his country during a turbulent time for Mexican Americans in southern California. This all began during WWII and on into the fifties. From what I’ve been told and what I’ve read with the war against the Japanese, American servicemen would go out into the city and look for people that didn’t seem white American like them, which in this case, were Mexican Americans, who were dark-skinned and dressed radically different. They’d pile into a cab and go after the first nonwhite person they’d see and beat the crap out of them. During that time, these Mexican Americans were dressed in a style called zoot suit. During the 1950s, Mexican American tough guys called Pachucos created such a stir that the California National Guard was called in to restore law and order.

I don’t remember much about my life growing up, except from what I was told by my mother and grandmother. What I know is this! According to my mother and what my father told me, he was in the US Air Force. I can only imagine that there really wasn’t much going on for my father growing up in southern California. To me, it seemed very negative, and I suppose his parents either didn’t like what he was becoming or, simply put, weren’t very loving or affectionate. There wasn’t too much of an alternative for a smart young man to do other than to join the military and do something worthwhile for themselves and their country. This was probably the reason why he left home. He probably saw as his only option was to join the military, which in this case was the United States Air Force. Since he was only seventeen years old, he needed his parents’ signature to enlist. I’m sure my grandparents were thrilled to sign him up.

I never knew nor did my father ever mention to me what he did or what he experienced while in basic training. The Air Force was a rather new department in the military. Previously known as the Army Air Corps, it was later changed to its present name. He went through basic training at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, Texas. I don’t know where I saw it or who has it, but I did see an old Air Force Basic Training group picture of my dad. There were other photos of my father somewhere, and it’s just a matter of getting all my siblings together and sorting these pictures out. I do remember a photo of my dad in his utility uniform with a bucket of water, and it looks like he’s getting ready to wash a car, perhaps a general’s.

I don’t know much about what my father did in his free time when he wasn’t training. Did he have any hobbies? Did he go out in the city to sightsee? How did he meet my mother? Where were they when they met? Maybe someday my mom can shed some light and tell me how they met. All I know is, they met in San Antonio, Texas, and he courted her. Supposedly, in the beginning, the courting was in the living room. I really don’t know for how long, but eventually, that led to them to get married. After a while, my dad received orders to Laredo Air Force Base, Texas, which by the way is now and has been closed for many years. I was born at Mercy Hospital in Laredo, Webb County, Texas. One thing my mom said about my dad when we lived in Laredo was my dad went to the border town of Nuevo Laredo. According to her, he partied and get in trouble because he’d make it back past the curfew. My mom said when I was born I was premature, weighing in at four pounds and a few ounces. She didn’t tell me much about my childhood. I mean as a baby and toddler. The only significant thing she told me was that I had little skinny legs, which to this day I still have and whenever I’d get upset, I would hold my breath and turn blue. I suppose I never did anything that was worth mentioning. I can’t say I had a happy life as a toddler or even leading up to age seven. She said very little about me, but there was nothing I did as a child that was significant. No mention of me being a quick learner or that I was potty-trained at an early age. I don’t even recall or anyone mentioning me learning to say my first words. I don’t even know when I said Dada or Mama or when I held a spoon for the first time. I must have had a very boring childhood. It must’ve not been very exciting because I don’t remember anything that stood out about my life. When I ask my mom, she’d tell me that my brother John would play in the backyard, and after a few hours, she’d bring us back in the house and give us a bath. The part I didn’t understand was she said I was acting out as a priest, the Catholic kind. Supposedly, I carried a cloth around and went through the motions of the Mass. To me, that didn’t make any sense to me because we didn’t even go to church. So where did I get that idea from? The times I’d spend with my dad doing stuff with me and my brother were the best times. I don’t remember much about those times, but either way, they’re memories I cherish. Like the time when my dad went out and bought a couple of puppies for me and my brother. I’m not sure, but I think those dogs were named after me and my brother. My dad cut their tails off, and there was blood everywhere, and the pup was screaming its head off. Another time I remember my dad taking me and my brother to a shoe store to buy us shoes. I don’t remember if it was me or my brother sitting on a counter getting fitted for shoes. My brother and I were so excited.

My mother told me that my father had bought a brand-new house with nice furniture…the works as they used to say. As a little boy, you don’t see the significance of it all. It was the latest in-home building with a lot of amenities. Life was good, supposedly. As a toddler or as a young boy, you don’t know the significance or the consequences of your parents’ actions can cause. Other than that, most of the time, I remember my dad being home, watching TV with my mom and my brother. I do remember me and my brother watching TV, sitting only a few feet in front of the TV. My dad would be sitting in a big chair with my mom sitting next to him. For the most part, he’d have a beer in his hand and after a while fall asleep. There were a few times when my mom, my brother, and I would have to drag my father to bed. I didn’t live a very memorable childhood except that my father seemed to be either drinking or passed out drunk. I remember one time he fell asleep in a chair. Another time, he passed out with his face slamming into a plate of food. And another time, we heard a huge thud in the bathroom. My mom happened to open the door, and there was my dad lying on the floor passed out with his pants and underwear around his ankles.

Somewhere along the way, my sister Debbie was born in San Jose, California, to be exact. To be quite honest, I don’t remember much about my sister when she was a baby. I guess after a while, things started to change, and it wasn’t for the better. Our entire world was turned upside down. According to my mother, he got busted with a driving under the influence infraction. He’d spend weekends in jail. After that, sometime later, he got two more within a month. It was obvious that alcohol was my dad’s major problem. From that moment on, it was a blur, and my dad sent us to San Antonio to stay there for a while. I suppose as a young child of four years old, I wouldn’t understand what exactly was going on around me, and what do you expect? At that age, the normal thing for a kid to do was to eat, sleep, and play.

My dad eventually would send away my mom and the rest of the family (me, my brother John, and sister Debbie). Perhaps it was because of his legal problems. He didn’t communicate much with my mom about these issues. It was a wife’s duty to do what the husband told them to do. After arriving to San Antonio, we stayed with our grandparents for a while. My father didn’t come with us. He seemed to have vanished, and along the way, my sister Diane was born. For some unknown reason, I don’t remember much about Diane as a baby. I can only remember that I was too busy just hanging around my brother John. It was just my mom, me, my brother John, and my sisters Debbie and Diane.

After a while, my mom was contacted by my dad to go to St. Louis, Missouri. It was one of the worst places I had ever lived at. This was where I would begin my education, kindergarten to be exact. There were two things I remember about being over there. First, it was very cold, and second, I was bullied by an older kid.

Like I mentioned earlier about the weather in St. Louis, it was cold, and it snowed. Going there was the first time I had ever seen snow, and there is a fond memory I had about snow. There was a moment when we went outside and got snow to eat it as ice cream. My parents added sugar and milk to it. I guess it tasted pretty good. I remember getting excited about eating it.

The other thing I remember St. Louis about is going to school. My mom took me, and I remember it was very scary for me. I didn’t want to go, and I clung to my mother. The teacher was trying to pull me away, and I kept hanging on to my mom. I was screaming up a storm. After my mom left, I sat on the floor with the other kids. There was a little girl who noticed my sniffling, and I’ll never forget what she told me. She said, Don’t cry, little boy. I stopped crying because I was ashamed.

Finally, there was the bully. He must’ve been either in the second or third grade. That kid was always hitting and kicking me. It was bad because it started when I walked home after school. I guess he liked seeing me cry. It must have given him immense pleasure to see a five-year-old cry all the way home. I tried telling my mom, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Eventually, that boy began picking on me in the school playground. I don’t know what happened after that except I hated going to school. I would make a fuss about not wanting to go. One day, I guess my dad got tired of me whining about it, so he took me to school, and he asked me who the kid was. It may seem funny now, but when I tried looking for the kid in school, they all seemed to look alike. I’d tell my dad, There he is. So my dad would go to the kid and ask him, Are you picking on my kid? Of course, the kid was scared and said, No. After about four blond kids, my dad gave up, so he left pissed off. When the bell rang to go to class, I saw the kid in the hallway, and he signaled me that he was going to beat me up. I said to myself, Oh no, not again. Right after school, that kid came after me like he never did before. It seemed I accepted the fact that nothing was ever going to change. It’s funny how after that I don’t remember much as far as the beating that boy did on me. I just accepted it as a way of life. I can’t even recall when we left St. Louis.

Eventually, we would find our way to San Jose, California, and I continued going to kindergarten, and this time no bad memories. My grandparents (my mom’s mom and dad) showed up, and I suppose it was good. My mom did mention that she missed them, and perhaps it was an appropriate time for my grandfather. My father had started a landscaping business and helped him with some work. Being in California was like a breath of fresh air. It was always sunny, and it was a fun place to be. Even kindergarten was fun. No bullies. Most of all, I remember doing so many fun things. I remember playing in the playground, finger painting, using building blocks, snack time (Graham crackers and milk), and finally our nap. It was great. I was taught how to walk home from school, but I can’t remember who taught me. It might have been either my mom or grandfather. I would eventually get in trouble. I was taught that after I got out of school, I would walk on the sidewalk and meet someone before crossing the major street. I guess that someone knew when I would arrive because they’d come out and walk me across. One day when I got out of school, I was walking home, and I decided to zigzag all over the street. I guess that person that was watching me come home up to the major street and saw what I was doing, so I either got an ass chewing or spanking or maybe both. I guess I never did that again.

Eventually, my grandparents ended up going back to San Antonio. My mom would later tell me that my dad and grandfather got into it, so they decided to leave. All this had one thing in common with all the misunderstandings and arguments, and it was the alcohol. I never considered my dad to be a violent person up to this point. I really don’t know what the disagreement was about, except my mom told me that my dad kicked them out of the house.

I finished kindergarten, and we all traveled to San Antonio, and I don’t have the slightest clue as to why. From the moment we arrived in San Antonio, it was like a blur. Everything was moving so fast. A lot was happening, and it wasn’t good. We had moved into a small house, and everything seemed to be normal. I don’t remember starting school. From that point on, all I knew was scary moments, doing stupid things that got me in trouble. Thinking back on one scary moment, my dad was drunk, and he was giving my mom a tough time. The room was dark, and my mother was crying, and there was some pushing and shoving. I just assumed that my dad was hitting my mother, and as it turned out years later, she said he had only slapped her once, and she grabbed us kids and headed to my grandparents’ house.

Thinking back on what my mom had to go through with my father, it wasn’t the best life for a young woman who had a sheltered life. I suppose you can say my mother lived a boring life, not only as a child, teenager, but also as a married woman. I didn’t find out until later that my mother and her siblings were taken by her parents to be migrant workers. They called it, las piscas. I suppose the word is slang for doing the harvest. The other word was to piscar, meaning to pick fruit, whatever produce you’d be required to pick. I know it was hard, so I asked my mom what her job was in the piscas, and she replied, I took care of my baby sister and got dinner ready. It looked like she spent lots of time with me and my younger brother. That seemed all right to me, but not too exciting for her.

My mother finally left my father for good. She took us kids, and there was a bunch of us living with my grandparents. As a child, you don’t have any ideas how things are financially. All you know is, do you have a roof over your head, food on the table, clothes to wear, and a place to go outside and play? When I think back on it later in life, I began to realize it must’ve been really tough all the way around; for a while it may have looked like we were a nomadic tribe just moving around from one place to another.

My mom just grabbed all of us kids. I think she was carrying my little brother Louie, and the rest of us were in tow. It seemed to me like a long walk, and once we got to my grandparents’ house, all hell broke loose. My dad arrived a short time later, and from the porch, I could see my grandfather, Dad, and two men talking, which I found out years later one of the men was my uncle. My dad who was smoking a cigar suddenly took it and shoved it to my grandfather’s face. There were women screaming, men cursing, and a lot of pushing and shoving. Next thing I know, my dad was walking away, and my uncle and the other man attempted to jump him, but he just brushed them off. I heard someone had called the police, and they arrived a short time later. By then, my dad was long gone.

As it turned out, my mother decided we all stay at my Uncle Francisco’s house. The house was already full with my grandparents, my uncle and his wife, my mom and her five kids, and my aunt and her baby. My uncle and aunt had, more than once, opened their home to us many times during our times in need. The place was a madhouse with so many people living under one roof. No one had any privacy. I had no idea how big the house was, but I do remember the bathroom had a big hole in the floor, and we had to heat the water in a huge wash basin on top of the stove for us to have hot water to bathe. As a six-year-old child, you’re too young to complain because you don’t know any better. It seemed that the one who had it worse than all of us was my grandparents. To me, they had always been there for us. Even when it wasn’t their home—for an example, it was my Tio Panchito’s home—my grandfather told him that we were coming in, and he obediently followed the orders.

It never occurred to me until years later why we never went back to my dad. My mom told me it was because my grandfather had given her an ultimatum: If you go back to your husband, you might as well forget you have a father. It’s incredible how much influence a parent can have on their adult children that it can cause the breakup of a marriage. Regardless of whether they try working things out, it seems that’s the way it is. This I disagree totally. Try to work things out. I’ll be the first to tell you that a marriage is not a perfect union between a man and a woman. If it is, it’s only in fairy tales. I guarantee that there will always be something you don’t like about your partner, but it doesn’t matter. You learn to live with it and accept the fact that there are things screwed up about you. A marriage is about love, acceptance of the person you’re in union with, and collaborating to make it work.

It might have bothered the adults living in close quarters in a tiny house, but did we have a choice? To us kids, it was neat having all your cousins living with you and your siblings. If you want to talk about a full house, that was it. I remember very distinctly sleeping on the floor. I didn’t think much of it. I suppose we all got along. The kids played with each other and, of course, kids being kids, end up fighting each other. We all got spanked, and it didn’t matter whose fault it was—we all got it. You cried, and a short time later, you stop and start playing again. This went on throughout the day.

I didn’t realize how poor we were except going to school, and it looked like there were kids better off than me. There was one memory that stands out, and it was on Saturdays, cartoon Saturdays to be exact. All of us kids, maybe a total of nine or ten, would sit in front of the TV, watching cartoons. Then our parents would give us five cents each, and we’d all march to the grocery store to buy candy. With the five cents, the store clerk would fill up the small bags with candy, and then we’d all march home to watch cartoons. That made Saturdays very special to us all.

For the most part, the things I remember is the fun I had with my cousins. Of course, the adults were strict with us, and it may have had to do with all the kids running around, the crying, screaming and yelling, until it came to a boiling point, and then the spanking would begin. I guess when you add up all the people living in the house, maybe close to twenty, it would probably drive any normal person to their wit’s end.

I don’t remember starting school, but I started going, and I had to cross this street where there was a crosswalk safety lady. She had a white long-sleeved shirt and a blue skirt. She had a badge, a whistle, and a handheld Stop sign. On each side of the street and across were kids with Stop signs on long poles. Each time there wasn’t a car passing, she would blow her whistle and hold out her little Stop sign, and the safety patrol kids would hold out their signs out and the kids would cross. I crossed that street every day, and it seemed the crosswalk lady liked me, so we started talking. I don’t know what happened that maybe I started whining to her a sob story each time she crossed me across, but I guess she felt sorry for me, and she told me she was going to give me a nickel. So here I am crossing the street, expecting her to give me a nickel. After what seemed like days, the day finally arrived that she gave me a nickel. You want to talk about a very happy little boy, I was it. I don’t know it was such a big deal for just a nickel, but with a nickel, you can buy a lot of candy. Once I got my little bag of candy, I had to share it with my brother, sisters, and cousins. That nickel went very quickly.

Before you know it, my grandparents got their own place, and my mother followed them with us kids. It was there that my grandparents put up with a lot of crap, especially from my mother. My mother was still a young woman, and it seemed that she was always away from the house. I know she was working hard, trying to bring in money to support us.

An incident I remember was a time when I was about seven years old and my mother and grandmother were arguing. My mom was going somewhere, and it was daylight. It wasn’t pleasant because as much as my grandmother pleaded for my mom not to go, she still took off. All of us kids were just standing there, watching this scene. As soon as my mom shut the door behind her, my grandmother got this cup and threw it across the room. The sound was loud, and it ricocheted off one corner of the room to the other. All of us jumped off our feet, wondering if it would hit one of us. She was so pissed and yelled out something that was incomprehensible. I saw she was looking toward me after I had seen the cup whizzed by. To my astonishment, she would regain her composure and resumed as if it didn’t happen. Perhaps she figured it wasn’t our fault, so why take it out on us?

I don’t know what the argument was about or what, if anything, my mom did to cause that situation, but we were all surprised by my grandmother’s action. Usually, she’s cool, calm, and collected. Imagine that all your kids have grown, and you’re looking forward to relaxing and just enjoying your life, and someone suddenly dumps all these kids at your doorstep. As far as I know, my grandmother was always taking care of kids, and for the most part, all of us depended upon her for quite a bit. My mother was still a young woman who was raised by very conservative parents, and she tried to make the marriage with my dad work; however, sometimes it just doesn’t work out. From what I know growing up in the house, my grandfather was the main breadwinner. My mom worked and contributed to the household while my grandmother took care of us kids. I don’t remember us kids being bad, except sometimes we’d get in trouble and we’d get spanked.

I didn’t know what was going on with my mother, for it seemed she wasn’t around a lot. Perhaps she was working a lot of hours. All I know is, she wasn’t around much. Perhaps she was working or maybe out in the town while my grandparents stayed at home watching over us. My mother came and went as she pleased, and I know for a fact there were times when my grandparents didn’t like it.

With all the trouble my mother and us kids had moving from house to house living with an uncle, and of course, my grandparents were always there for us. My grandfather was the only male figure in the household. He ruled the house even though my mother did whatever she pleased, but it was my grandfather who made the decisions to be our father and my grandmother was our mother. Sure, they were strict, but it was for our own good. As limited as their education was, they showed a lot of common sense raising us. One trait was they treated all of us the same. My grandfather’s rule at the dinner table was silence when eating. Before you came to the table, you better be washed up, and your hair had to be combed.

After settling in, we carried out our lives as normal as possible. In the Hispanic culture, the head of the household worked, the young adults did as well, the grandmother took care of the kids, and the grandkids went to school and played. It was an easy life. It was a simple life with no luxuries. We had a place to sleep and three square meals per day.

There was an empty lot next door to the house, and it had an old junk car that was abandoned. One day there was a man in the car. He seemed to be sitting in the front seat. This went on for a few days. After a while, that man went to the backyard and knocked the rear door of the house. I can’t remember if it was my mom or grandmother, she answered the door and gave this man a wash basin to wash up. That man was none other than my father who was supposedly passing through. I can only imagine that he was attempting to try one more time to get his family together. I guess it didn’t work because after that he left, and what’s so weird, no one made a big deal about it.

There was one time that I remember, and it was real funny. I think I was about seven, and my brother was six years old. My mom started sending us to Catholic school close to the house. My brother and I wore a khaki uniform with black ties. Every day she’d give us a quarter for lunch. I enjoyed a burger and chocolate milk. John and I were in the same grade, first grade to be exact, and yes, I did repeat first grade, and you know what’s so strange about it, I don’t even remember ever being in first grade. For the most part, it was great being in the same grade as my brother. It’s like having your best friend with you 24-7.

Even though the Catholic school we went to was fun, it did have some things that I didn’t consider fun. It was the nuns! They were mean. One of those mean nuns was Sister Clara. She was as mean as they come. Everyone knows that nuns are very strict, and she was no exception. Our regular teacher’s name was Mrs. Douglas. For some reason, Sister Clara was always around, and she of course was the disciplinarian. She used to pull our sideburns and scold us all the time. Since my brother and I looked similar and we both had flat tops, the kids called us the Frankenstein Brothers. The best part of school was recess. I didn’t like going to that school. I don’t know if John felt the same as me, but he was always, it would seem to me, cool, calm, and collected.

To me, the coolest thing I saw at the Catholic school was the priest.

One day John and I were walking to school, and I was saying to myself how much I hated going to school and having to see Sister Clara. I decided not to go, and I talked John into not going too. With the quarter that my mom had given each of us for lunch, we stopped at a small neighborhood mom-and-pop store and bought some small toys to play with. I don’t know how it happened, but we began to walk, and I mean walk to who-knows-where. After what seemed like a long time, we finally hit paradise. It was a huge park with a playground.

When John and I reached the park, I didn’t know the name of it. Years went, and I know the park’s name is Roosevelt. To me, as I mentioned earlier, was like paradise. It has a nice green lawn, large oak and pecan trees, swings and slides, a swimming pool, etc. My brother and I were having lots of fun. We played and played. It was still kind of scary because we were dressed in our school uniform and people kept asking us, Why aren’t you in school? At first, I was nervous, and then I didn’t think anything of it. We were just having too much fun.

After what seemed like a long time, I figured out based on how long we’ve been out and by the position of the sun, it was time to go home. Mind you, here was a seven-year-old kid trying to figure out how to get home. After thinking about it for a little while, I told John we had to start walking. I wasn’t sure where home was, but I made the decision to go a certain direction. That’s the conclusion I made. Like a good little brother who thought his big brother knew where he was going, he followed. It was tough leaving that beautiful park. We had lots of fun, but then we were getting a bit hungry. It never occurred to me that people would even notice us not being in school. I suppose our little brains weren’t developed enough to think like that.

As we walked along this road that I had selected, it was getting hot, and it was very dusty since it was a busy street with cars driving by continuously. My brother and I always thought about our dad. I suppose we missed him and wished we were all back together as a family. I knew about the drinking and the drama that was going on between my parents. We had heard he went to California. So we kept walking and walking and, I for one, hoping that we were heading in the right direction.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose, at least for me and my brother. A police car showed up and stopped in front of us. At that very same moment, a train was going by, and John yelled out, I’m going to California to be with Dad! So here I am with a little brother running toward the train, a police car, and then another showed up with the cops getting out. I ran toward John and grabbed him by the arm and told him he can’t go. I thought it was impossible for a little guy like him to jump on that fast-moving train. Just as fast as it happened, it was all over. I was waiting for the cops to put the cuffs on us. I was looking forward to that, but they didn’t. The cops rounded me and my brother up and put us in the back seat of the police car. I remember seeing one of the cops imitating the way my brother was trying to run away, and they were all laughing. I didn’t care if they laughed at us because at least I knew we were going home.

What awaited us at home wasn’t a happy welcoming committee. After the cops dropped us at the house, we went inside the house and received a good spanking. My mom spanked the heck out of us. I was first, and then I was told to kneel and face the corner. After me, she went after my brother. My brother crawled up under the bed and grabbed the springs from the box springs and hung on for his life. My mom couldn’t detach him from the springs, so she overturned it and got him that way.

The following day, John and I went to school, and I was nervous. What I was nervous about was that the school was going to know what happened to me and my brother, and there would be Sister Clara waiting for us. As it turned out, nothing happened. My brother remembers going to school, and we were scared to go to class so we were crouching under the window outside, trying to figure out what to do next or who was going in first. We looked up, and there was Mrs. Douglas looking down right at us. Of course, that prompted us to get to class right away.

Like I had said before about me and my brother, we were always together and were like best friends. You practically couldn’t separate us for anything. I don’t remember a time when we weren’t hanging out together. Where you saw one, you saw the other. I guess overall, we were good kids who didn’t start or went out looking for trouble. We were, however, very mischievous or, for a better word, adventurous. One of the things we like doing was going out and exploring. It didn’t matter what or where we were exploring; it was all considered exploring. My brother John was more of the outdoors type of guy. He liked going out into the woods, down in the creeks, or hanging out in the river. I remember chasing critters, catching them, or bringing them home to study them more closely. Besides getting caught playing hooky, John and I snuck out of the house one time, and I’ll always remember because it was funny. John and I decided to go down to the San Antonio River and play around close to the water. We liked looking for minnows, frogs, and little fish. There was this storm drain that came out of the side of the slope, and we decided to go inside and play. I was eight, and John was seven years old. We caught this crawfish, and we were standing outside the storm drain when we heard a loud voice. There was no mistake whose it was. It was my grandpa leaning over the bridge rail, looking at us. He called us over, and of course, we couldn’t leave the crawfish, so we brought it with us. John and I feared what he might do. Perhaps he’ll wait until we get home, or maybe he’ll spank us on the spot. We were so relieved that my grandpa was in a good mood. Basically, he asked what we were doing and that everyone was worrying about us. He asked for the crawfish, and he allowed it to pinch his fingers with their claws. I would never have had the courage to do that, including my brother. After that, we all went home and had dinner.

Life resumed as usual. My mom was working, and we were staying with my grandparents. I really must hand it to my grandparents the way they always welcomed family members that needed a place to stay. By now, the kids in the family have grown to five. I was the eldest, then my brother John, my sisters Debbie and Diane, and my little brother Louie. Life had finally become a little more stable.

Chapter 2

California Bound

I was a happy kid by now, and I mean an extremely happy one at that. I went to school and was learning something, but most importantly, I loved to go outside and play with my best friend, and that was my brother John. We were always hanging out, doing everything together. One day, it must have been late morning or early afternoon when there was a knock on the door. My mom was working, so my grandmother answered the door. When my grandmother opened the door, we saw that it was my dad. John and I were happy to see my dad. We could see him on the other side of the screen door. My grandmother and dad were talking for a while until my dad convinced my grandmother to let me, and John go with him for some ice cream. Wow, we were excited to go hang out with our dad. He took us for what turned out to be not an ice-cream parlor but a beer joint, or ice house as what we normally called it back in the day. It was a clear, cool day, and my dad decided to drink his beer outside in a makeshift beer garden. I could tell the beer was icy cold because the can was sweating. To my dad, it was a favorite place to enjoy an adult beverage. The season must’ve been fall or winter, so it was very comfortable outside. My dad sat down on a bench with a table and immediately started a conversation with a man next to our table. I don’t know if my dad knew the man, but it didn’t matter. To keep my brother and me occupied, he bought us a soda and chips. John and I always kept busy playing as you’d expect from kids eight and seven years old. One of the most popular games that kids played during those times was pretending we were soldiers. Of course, one of us had to be the bad guy, and that meant a German soldier because at that time, the TV programs was about World War II and our country was fighting Germany. My brother and I didn’t have toy guns to use but used whatever was available (i.e., sticks, rocks, boards, etc.). We had quite an imagination, and it kept us very occupied. I guess for me that was the beginning of my interest and fascination with the military.

Having a brother as your best friend and playmate was great. This was good if he somewhat had the same interests as you. It’s strange when I think back and how much fun we had together. It wasn’t until we were teenagers that we stopped hanging out. One thing my brother loved doing was going out and exploring new things. If there was an area outside that was open or looked like a forest, he’d be there. Later he’d get a BB gun and enjoyed using, and when I acted mean toward him, he didn’t hesitate to use it on me. Normally, he’d shoot me on the leg or butt. Even though it was only a BB gun, it still hurt.

I don’t know how long we were in that beer garden, but after a while, the man that my dad was talking to left and we sat with our dad at the table. I don’t know what led to it, but eventually the conversation turned to California, my dad’s home state. He then asked my brother and me if we’d like to see our grandmother, uncle, and aunt in California. Of course, we said yes. He made it sound so exciting, and we didn’t realize how far it was. I guess I imagined it being like right around the block. We didn’t even think about what might happen or perhaps my mom and our grandparents would worry about us. We just took off from that beer joint.

After we set out on our journey to California, realization hit me that we were going there without a car. We were going to hitchhike to California, and it was very cold. I can’t remember what time of year it was, and here we were—I was eight years old and my brother John was seven. It was dark before someone finally picked us up. The car pulled over to the side of the road in a very beat-up car. The car looked like it was very old, and there were two Hispanic men in the front seat. My dad and the two men spoke for a bit, and the next thing I knew we were all getting in the car. My dad sat in the front seat, and my brother and I opened the door to the back. To our surprise, there was no back seat. We were told to just sit on the floor board, so that’s what we did. It felt weird sitting cross-legged on the floor of an old beat-up car. After driving for a while, due to the motion of the car, I decided to lie down and try to get some sleep. I have no idea if my brother did the same, but the car bounced around a lot, and as much as I tried getting some sleep, I just couldn’t. I noticed that John didn’t say much about the ordeal, or maybe he thought he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

It seemed that we rode for hours, and as I mentioned before, it wasn’t the most comfortable ride lying on the floor. Perhaps the car was very slow, maybe it was far, or I just wasn’t used to being in a car. My only recollection of riding around San Antonio was the public transit system or the car my dad had when my parents were together. Living with my mom and grandparents, we always depended on the city transit system. It was a bumpy ride all the way. We finally arrived at our destination, and I assumed it was somewhere in New Mexico. The place looked like it was hidden. The road leading up to the place was bumpy and uneven, it was very dark (no lighting), and the house was very small, like a shack. I didn’t care because at least we got to get out of that jalopy and stretch our legs. We were met at the door by an old woman, perhaps the mother of one of the men who brought us. It felt like there was no heat, and the house was dimly lit.

The old woman prepared dinner for us, so we all sat down to eat. It was a very simple meal—no meat whatsoever. John and I were served potatoes and a tomato-based sauce, beans, and flour tortillas. It was so simple yet so filling. The adults, on the other hand, ate something totally different, and that’s a good thing because I don’t think I could have eaten it anyway. It was, to me, a plate of cooked saucy hot-chili-pepper stew. My dad was chowing down on it with beans and tortillas. You could see my dad sweating. It was pouring down his forehead, cheeks, and dripping off his chin. He had to keep wiping if off. After dinner, the men sat a while bullshitting; and eventually, my dad, John, and I were shown a back room where we would be sleeping the night. I don’t know how big the bed was, but it must have been a full size. All of us got in bed. Since there no heat, we all kept warm together.

We got up in the morning, and it seemed like they were in a hurry to see us leave. I don’t recall eating breakfast, but I do remember being given a ride and left on the side of the road next to a café. I suppose we went inside the café to eat breakfast, and there was a man sitting on a stool. The man looked tall and lanky. He wore some type of uniform that seemed to me like the kind a greyhound bus driver would wear. After a while, we all left, including the man in the uniform. Each of us assumed the position to hitchhike. It was a brisk morning. Not too hot and not too cold. We’d have our thumbs out each time a car would pass by, and then we’d walk a bit. Finally, what seemed like a brief time, we were picked up by a man who was headed to Phoenix, Arizona. The car looked like a Chevy Impala, maybe a 1963 or 1964, and it was white. To me, it looked beautiful. As we drove off, we passed the man in the uniform. I guess we had the advantage. Who’d want to pass two little boys hitchhiking? The man that picked us up looked clean-cut and well-groomed, and he wore sunglasses. As was usual with my dad, he used his gift of gab to start a conversation with this man. It was a very nice ride all the way to Phoenix.

Before we knew it, we finally made it to Phoenix. The ride was so nice, I didn’t want it to stop. The man in the Impala dropped us off at the Salvation Army shelter for the night. There were many people staying there, and you can hear all the noise going on until it was time to go to sleep. It was strange to me, and I’m sure it was for my brother, too, sleeping in a place with dozens of people you didn’t know. Even though there were lots of people, I felt safe since we were with my dad. I realized that in places like where we were at, you must abide by their rules so at a certain time all lights went out and then silence.

In the morning, I awakened to a whole bunch of noise. It looked like everyone had to get up at the same time and get washed up, dressed, eat, and out the door. The place was all lit up with bright lights, and all kinds of people were milling around like they were confused. Suddenly, people began to hurry up and pack and from the sleeping area, straight to the dining area. It was a rude awakening since I wasn’t used to being around so many people. We went about our business, gathering our belongings. Of course, not that we had a lot of stuff to pack, but what little we had was what we wore. We were finally ready to go eat breakfast. Maybe as a little kid my perception of big is huge, and to me, this place looked huge. It was a big open dining area with people eating, standing in line to get food, or just hanging out. We got in line to eat breakfast. I was a little nervous because these people didn’t look like your typical people that you’d find in your neighborhood. They looked beat down, hung over, or just really going through some tough times. I never considered us, meaning me, my brother John, and my dad to be in that category. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized that we were just like them. This was the first time I had seen adults get in line to eat like kids in a school cafeteria. To me, the breakfast was good. Back home in San Antonio, we never ate what I would call a typical American breakfast of scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, coffee, and juice. My dad always had a talent for talking with people or, should I say once again, a gift of gab. Before I knew it, we got a ride with a young couple from Oklahoma heading to the West Coast like us. I’ll call them Jack and Jill. My dad, when we were off to the side, said Jack and Jill were Okies. I had that look like, What are you talking about? I didn’t know it at the time that Okie meant people from Oklahoma. Dad had made friends with Jack and Jill, and to me that was good because we sure needed a ride to California. I still didn’t know that we still had a long way to go to reach our destination. We all headed out the building and onto the parking lot. It was a rather chilly morning in Phoenix and saw that the vehicle we were going to be traveling in was an old black sedan. The young couple seemed to be nice, especially the woman who seemed cheerful. If there was ever the look of a typical all-American, these people were it. I think back wondering what their story was for leaving their home. I never realized that for most people around, California was where most of the opportunities were. I guess they were happy to meet up with my dad, a native Californian, someone that knew his way around and, of course, his gift of gab. The one driving was Jack. Jill sat in the middle, and my dad sat in the passenger door side. My brother and I sat in the back.

As an eight-year-old boy, I figured out that this young couple that had given us a ride left their home. While I sat in the back seat, listening and watching them, I noticed how different in size they were from each other. Jack was a huge man. His wife, Jill, was sort of medium, not fat though. And my dad was the smallest. Mind you that he was at least five feet seven inches tall. Once we were on the road and drove out of the city, there was a huge emptiness as far as I could see. If you ever driven in the desert, there’s really nothing to see except for brush, sandy-looking soil, and cactus. The drive from Arizona to California seemed rather uneventful. The landscape was all desert and flat. It started to change a little as we got closer to our destination. There were starting to be more towns, greenery, and people. On our trip to California, we mostly ate sandwiches. I’d never eaten so much baloney in my life. I never noticed whether my dad gave money or paid his fair share for our food. Maybe it was something I didn’t bother to notice. We finally arrived at our destination in San Jose, California. The trip was fun, and thanks to Jill, she made it that way. She had a very positive and optimistic attitude about life. Overall, it was a very nice trip. It was night and dark as we approached the edge of the city. We were somewhat elevated, and for as far as we could see, there was nothing but lights. It was an awesome sight. Jill was so excited about what she saw, all she kept say was God bless America. Jack and my dad didn’t say much. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember Jack saying much during the whole trip. When I think back on that moment, to a kid who hadn’t seen much in his young life, it seemed awesome. I had never seen anything that incredible up to that point. After enjoying the scene for a few minutes, we started our way down into the city, not knowing what to expect. All I know I was here years before, and to me, even though my dad’s side of the family lived here. They were strangers to me and my brother. If we did see them, I have no recollection having met them or how they looked.

We ended up unannounced at my Aunt Helen’s house; and her husband, Henry, wasn’t very pleased we were there. Thinking back on the situation, I don’t blame my uncle. Imagine this—you