Twin Memoirs Volume 1: Volume One

By Robert W. W Parsons

Do you know your ancestry; your parents, grandparents, great grandparents and great-great grandparents? Have you taken the time to document your life since the day of your birth? I do and I did. In Volume 1, I’ll take you back to the old countries of France and Italy where my story begins with my great-great grandparents. Their off-spring came to America, the first generation of Americans. I’ll guide you through the second generation who gave birth to our parents, the third generation. And then Michael and I, Matlin and Michael DeMarco were born. We write about our lives, the ups and downs; the good and bad; the rags to riches journey. I’ll introduce you to my life-long friends in a future volume and how each one impacted our lives. Coincidences and mysteries are constantly being revealed through our story. If you have a question about our journey; wait, for it will be revealed. Myths and legends come to life and no longer are the fiction we thought them to be. Twin Memoirs is a series of 10 books in 5 volumes. The series began with the publication of a dream I had about mortality and space travel that was eventually fulfilled in my senior years. The dream was interrupted by a phone call. This book. The Flight of the Revelation, elaborates on the unfinished dream in the style of fiction. Between volumes 4 and 5 Revolution will be published going into detail about the dream Michael had about immortality while on his death bed. Will the fifth generation come to fruition? You might wonder when you learn of the lifestyles that Michael and I led. But like I said, our lives, especially mine was ever evolving. Will I have grandkids, them being of the sixth generation? Volume 1, Books 1 and 2 will tell you of my ancestry and bring you up to date through our high school years. These are the years that those mysteries pile up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781682896877

Book preview

Book One

Dedicated to my

great-great-grandparents;

Mario and Isabella DeMarco

…who gave birth to my dreams.

Young men shall see visions,

Old men shall dream dreams.

—Acts 2:17

Foreword

ar.che.type (ar’ ke tip) n. An original or standard pattern or model. [arche-first + typos stamp, pattern]—ar’che.typ’al adj.—ar’che.typ’ic (-tip’ik) or .i.cal adj. Syn. prototype, example, ideal, paradigm.¹also

659 GOOD PERSON

4 paragon, ideal, beau ideal, nonpareil, person to look up to, chevaliar sans peur et sans reproche , good example, role model, shining example; exemplar, epitome; model, pattern, standard, norm, mirror, the observed of all observers —Shakespeare; Ubermensch ; standout, one in a thousand or ten thousand, man of men, a man among men, woman of women, a woman among women

660 BAD PERSON

5 reprobate, recreant, miscreant, bad or sorry lot , bad egg and wrong and wrong number , bad’un or wrong’un ; scapegrace, black sheep; lost soul, lost sheep, ame damnee , blackslider, recidivist, fallen angel; degenerate, pervert; profligate, lecher 665.11; trollop, whore 665.14,16; pimp 665.18

9 wrongdoer, malefactor, sinner, transgressor, delinquent; malfeasor, misfeasor, nonfeasor; misdemeanant, misdemeanist; culprit, offender; evil person, evil man or woman or child, evildoer 593 ²

Genesis 2:15–17:¹⁵ Then the Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to tend and keep it. ¹⁶ And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden you may freely eat;¹⁷ but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die."³

Note: Twin Memoirs is filled with myths and legends. To prevent these stories from becoming boring and uninteresting, imagine yourself sitting around a crackling campfire in the middle of Mother Nature or, in my case, Grandmother Earth, on a summer evening. The sounds of the night fill your imagination, as a light breeze sends shivers down your back. Trees sway in the shadows of the full moon as the smoke from the campfire rises to evaporate into the crisp night air. An old Indian storyteller translates these legends as the light from the campfire dances across the cracks and crevices of his weathered face. Using nature as the main character, the old Indian magnifies the story with hand gestures and animal sounds. Enjoy!

The Archetype of Good and Evil

The Good Twin and the Evil Twin—Yuma

This is how it all began. There was only water—there was no sky, there was no land, only nothingness. Then out of the waters rose a mist, and it became the sky. Still there was no sun, no moon, no stars—just darkness. But deep down in the waters lived Kokomaht, the Creator. He was bodiless, nameless, breathless, motionless, and he was two beings—twins.

Then the waters stirred and rushed and thundered, and out of the spray and foam rose the first twin, the good twin. With closed eyes he cleaved the waves and came to the surface. He stood upon the waters, opened his eyes, and saw. There he named himself Kokomaht—All Father.

And from beneath the waters a second voice called out to Kokomaht: Brother, how did you rise? With eyes open or with eyes closed?

Bakotahl was the evil twin, and Kokomaht wanted to make it more difficult for him to do harm. So Kokomaht lied to him, saying: I opened my eyes while I was under water. The second twin opened his eyes as he rose, and when he reached the surface he was blind. Kokomaht said: I name you Bakotahl—the Blind One.

Then Kokomaht said: Now I shall make the four directions. He pointed with his finger and took four steps, walking on the water. Then he stood still for a while and said, Ho, this is north. Then he went back to his starting place, and in the same manner made the west, the south, and the east—always taking four steps in each direction and always returning to the center.

Now, Kokomaht said, I shall make the earth.

Blind Bakotahl answered: I don’t think you have the power to do this.

Certainly I have, said Kokomaht.

Let me try to make the earth first, asked Bakotahl.

Certainly not, said Kokomaht.

Kokomaht stirred the waters into a foaming whirlpool with his hand. They frothed and swelled and bubbled, and when they subsided there was land. And Kokomaht sat down upon it.

Bakotahl was angry because he would have liked to create the earth, but he said nothing and settled down by Kokomaht’s side. The Blind Evil One said to himself: I shall make something with a head, with arms and legs. I can make it out of the earth. Bakotahl formed something resembling a human being, but it was imperfect. Instead of hands and feet there were lumps; it had neither fingers nor toes. Bakotahl hid it from Kokomaht.

Then Kokomaht said: I feel like making something. Out of mud he shaped a being that was perfect. It had hands and feet, fingers and toes, even fingernails and toenails. Kokomaht waved his being four times toward the north and then stood it on its feet. It moved, it walked, it was alive: it was a man. Kokomaht made another being in the same way, and it was alive: it was a woman.

Bakotahl went on trying to make humans, piecing together seven beings out of earth. All were imperfect. What are you making? Kokomaht asked.

People, answered Bakotahl.

Here, said Kokomaht, feel these people I’ve made. Yours have no hands or feet. Here; feel; mine have fingers, thumbs, to work, to fashion things, to draw bows, to pick fruit. Kokomaht examined the beings Bakotahl had formed. These are no good, he said, and stamped them into pieces. Bakotahl was so enraged that he dove down deep beneath the waters amid rumblings and thundering. From the depths he sent up the whirlwind, bringer of all evil. Kokomaht stepped on the whirlwind and killed it—except for a little whiff that slipped out from under his foot. In it were contained all the sicknesses which plague people to this day.

So Kokomaht was by himself except for the two beings he had made. These were the Yumas, and in the same way that he had created them, Kokomaht now made the Cocopahs, the Dieguieños, and the Mojaves. In pairs he created them. Then he rested. Four tribes he had created. After having rested, he made four more tribes: the Apaches, the Maricopas, the Pimas, and the Coahuilas. In all, he made twenty-four kinds of people. The white people he left for last.

The one he made first, the Yuma man, said to Kokomaht: Teach us how to live.

You must learn how to increase, said Kokomaht. In order to teach them, he begot a son. Out of nothing, without help from a woman, he sired him and named him Komashtam’ho. He told men and women not to live apart, but join together and rear children.

Still something was missing. It is too dark, said Kokomaht. There should be some light. So he made the moon, the morning star, and all the other stars. Then he said, My work is done. Whatever I have not finished, my son Komashtam’ho will finish.

Now, among the beings Kokomaht had made was Hanyi, the Frog. She was powerful; fire could not destroy her. She envied Kokomaht and his power and thought to destroy him. Kokomaht knew this because he knew all thoughts of all the beings he had made, but he said to himself: I taught the people how to live. Now I must teach them how to die, for without death there will soon be too many people on the earth. So I will permit Frog to kill me.

Hanyi burrowed down underneath the spot where Kokomaht was standing and sucked the breath out of his body through a hole in the earth. Then Kokomaht sickened and lay down to die. He called all the people to come to him, and all came except the white man, who stayed by himself in the west.

The white man was crying because his hair was faded and curly and his skin pale and washed out. The white man was always pouting and selfish. Whatever he saw, he had to have at once. He had been created childish and greedy. Komashtam’ho, tired of hearing the white man crying, went over to him and tied two sticks together in the form of a cross. Here, stop crying, he said. Here’s something for you to ride on. The white man straddled these sticks and they turned into a horse, so the greedy one was satisfied—for a while.

For the last time now Kokomaht taught the people. Learn how to die, he told them, and expired.

I have to make what my father could not finish, said Komashtam’ho. He spat into his hand and from his spittle made a disk. He took it and threw it up into the sky toward the east. It began to shine. This is the sun, Komashtam’ho told the people. Watch it move; watch it lighting up the world.

Then Komashtam’ho prepared to burn the body of his father, but since there were no trees yet, he had no wood. Komashtam’ho called out: Wood, come into being! Wood, come alive! Wood, come here to where I stand. Wood came from everywhere and formed itself into a great funeral pyre.

Before he died, Kokomaht had told Coyote: Friend, take my heart. Be faithful. Do what I tell you. Coyote misunderstood Kokomaht and thought that he was supposed to eat the heart. Komashtam’ho knew this because he could see into Coyote’s mind. So he told Coyote: Go get a spark from the sun to light the fire.

As soon as Coyote was gone, Komashtam’ho took a sharpened stick and twirled it in some soft wood until he sparked a flame. Look, my people. he said, this is the way to make fire. Quick now, before Coyote comes back. With these words he lit the funeral pyre. The people did not lament for Kokomaht because they did not yet understand what death was. But before the flames had consumed the body, Coyote returned and leapt up quick as a flash to seize Kokomaht’s heart. He ran off with it, and though all the other animals and the people chased after him, he was too fast for them.

Komashtam’ho called after Coyote: You have done something bad. You will never amount to anything. You will be a wild man without a house to live in. You will live by stealing, and for your thefts the people will kill you.

After Kokomaht’s body had been burned, the people asked Komashtam’ho: When will Kokomaht come back?

He will never come back, he told them. He is dead. He let himself be killed because if he had gone on living, then all you people would also live forever, and soon there would be no room left on the earth. So from now on, everybody will die sometime.

Then all the people began to lament. They wept for Kokomaht and for themselves. They did not want to believe that he would never come back. As they sat grieving, they saw a little whirlwind like the dust devil rising from the spot where Kokomaht had been burned. What is it? What can it be? they cried.

Komashtam’ho told them: It is the spirit of Kokomaht. His body died, but his soul is alive. He will go someplace—north or south, east or west—somewhere his spirit will dwell. He will never tire, he will never be hungry or thirsty, and though we weep because he has died, Kokomaht’s spirit will be happy always.

And Komashtam’ho instructed the people in the nature of death. When you die, you will be again with those you love who have gone before you. Again you will be young and strong, though you might have been old and feeble on the day you died. In the spirit land the corn will grow and all will be happy, whether they were good or bad when they were alive. So death is not something to be afraid of. And when they heard this, the people stopped weeping and smiled again.

Then Komashtam’ho chose one man, Marhokuvek, to help him put the world in order. The first thing that Marhokuvek did was to say, Ho, you people, as a sign that you mourn the death of your father Kokomaht, you should cut your hair short. Then all the people, animals, and birds did as they had been told. The animals at this time were people also: they looked like humans. But when he saw them Komashtam’ho said: These animals and birds don’t look well with their hair cut, and changed them into coyotes and deer, into wild turkeys and roadrunners—into the animals and birds we have now.

After some time, Komashtam’ho let fall a great rain, the kind that never stops. There was a flood in which many of the animals were drowned. Marhokuvek was alarmed. Komashtam’ho, what are you doing? he cried.

Some of these animals are too wild. Some have big teeth and claws and are dangerous. Also, there are simply too many of them. So I am killing them off with this flood.

No, Komashtam’ho, stop the flood, pleaded Marhokuvek. The people need many of these animals for food. They like to hear the songs of the birds. Rain and flood make the world too cold, and the people can’t stand it.

So Komashtam’ho made a big fire to cause the waters to evaporate. The fire was so hot and fierce that even Komashtam’ho himself was slightly burned. Ever since that time, the deserts around here have been hot, and the people are used to the warmth.

After that, he called the people together and told them: Over there is your father Kokomaht’s house. We must pull it down, because when a man dies, the spirits of his house and all of his belongings follow him to the spirit land. So people must destroy all the things he owned in this life so that their spirits can serve him in the other world. Also, after a man has died, it is not good to look upon the things that he used to own. One sees his house, but he who dwelt in it is gone. One sees his water olla, but he who owned it is no longer here to lift it to his lips. It makes people sad, and they sicken with grief and longing. Therefore you Yuma people must always burn the house and possessions of those who die, and you must move to another dwelling where nothing reminds you of the dead. Also, never again mention the name of him who is gone. He belongs to another life, while you must start on a new one. And from that time on, the Yuma have followed these rules.

Komashtam’ho took a huge pole, smashed the house of Kokomaht, and rooted up the ground on which it stood. Water welling up from the rut made by the pole became the Colorado River. And in it swam the beings that Bakotahl—the Blind Evil One—had formed, the creatures without hands or feet, toes or fingers. These were the fish and other water animals.

Now Kahk, the Crow, was a good planter and reaper. He brought corn and all kinds of useful seeds from the four corners of the world. He flew south to the great water, stopping four times on the way and crying: Kahk, Kahk! Each time he did this, a big mountain arose. After the overflow of the river which Komashtam’ho had made, Crow brought many seeds from the south for the people to plant.

The tribes had been scattered over all the world, but Komashtam’ho kept the Yuma near him because they were the special people he loved. Listen closely, he said to them. I cannot stay with you forever. I am now only one, but soon I will become four. My name will no longer be Komashtam’ho. I will turn myself into four eagles—the black eagle of the west, the brown eagle of the south, the white eagle of the east, and the fourth eagle, whose name is ‘unseen,’ because no man has ever caught a glimpse of him.

When Komashtam’ho had turned himself into the four eagles, he dwelt no longer among the Yuma in the shape of a man. He kept watch over them, however, and in their dreams he gave them power from Kokomaht. Thus Kokomaht advises the people through Komashtam’ho and tells them while they sleep: Think about me, think of what I taught you. Sick people especially should follow my teachings.

Now Bakotahl, the Evil Blind One, is under the earth and does bad things. Usually he lies down there quietly, but sometimes he turns over. Then there is a great noise of thunder, the earth trembles and splits open, and mountainsides crack, while flames and smoke shoot out of their summits. Then the people are afraid and say: The Blind Evil One is stirring down below.

Everything that is good comes from Kokomaht, and everything evil comes from Bakotahl. This is the tale—how it was, and how it is, and how it will be. ⁴—Retold from several sources, among them Natalie Curtis’s report in 1909.

PROLOGUE

1940’s Hehan Imacage—

I grew up in the ‘40s.

January 17, 1947 Pop told Matt and me a story today about an Indian Chief named Falling Rock. This is how it goes.

Once upon a time, many, many summers and moons ago, there lived an Indian named Chief Falling Rock. The village he oversaw prospered, as the Great Spirit watched over them. The Great Spirit had blessed Chief Falling Rock with a healthy, strong son. He grew in the freedom of Grandmother Earth and Grandfather Sky. He would grow up to be a mighty warrior, and someday, he would fight to save his people from the oncoming destruction of the white man. This is what Chief Falling Rock believed.

But before any young Indian male can attain warrior status, he must prove his manhood. Besides the vision quests and other rituals, he must go out on a hunt alone and bring back a kill. He must survive for days in the wilderness on his own with nothing but his knife, bow, and arrows. If he is a success, he will have gained warrior status. If he fails, he will work with the women.

Chief Falling Rock said prayers over his twelve-year-old son as he sent him out on the hunt that early summer morning. Some young men had died with wounds afflicted from wild animals. Some even starved. And some died eating the wrong fruits and berries. But many young men did return to make their parents proud. Warrior status was then bestowed upon them with great honor.

After a week, Chief Falling Rock’s son hadn’t returned. A few days later, a warrior search party was organized to look for the young Indian. The party returned without the chief’s son weeks later. Chief Falling Rock’s son was nowhere to be found.

Chief Falling Rock wouldn’t give up hope. He set out to search for his son alone. He searched and searched without success. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, Falling Rock continued his search. Those months turned into years, and the years turned into decades. Falling Rock still continued his search.

The centuries passed, and still others went on looking for Falling Rock and his son. That is why today, as you drive down any road across America, you will find signs reading, Watch for Falling Rock. He needs to be told that his son has been found.

What Chief Falling Rock had failed to learn was that his son had never been lost. His son had always been in his heart, if he had only realized it.

So as you travel down the highways of life, and you come across and find the Falling Rocks of our times, let them know His Son is alive and well and resides in the hearts of His people. All they need to do is stop searching and allow His Son into their hearts.

Introduction

I am Lakhota. I am a Christian.

I am a spirit being, and I pray to one God.

I fly with the eagle; Michael runs with the bear.

And together we pray to Wakan Tanka, Father God.

For He sees us not as men, but as creatures of Himself,

made in His image. I am one and the same as Michael.

—Matlin Peter DeMarco

1997

Rhett, it would be a lie, and why should we go through all that foolishness? I’m fond of you, like I said. You know how it is. You told me once that you didn’t love me but that we had a lot in common. Both rascals, was the way you—

Oh, God! he whispered, rapidly turning his head away. To be taken in by my own trap!

What did you say?

Nothing, and he looked at her and laughed—but it was not a pleasant laugh. Name the day, my dear, and he laughed again and bent and kissed her hands. She was relieved to see his mood pass and good humor apparently return, so she smiled too.

He played with her hand for a moment and grinned up at her. "Did you ever in your novel reading come across the old situation of the disinterested wife falling in love with her own

husband?"

You know I don’t read novels, she said and, trying to equal his jesting mood, went on: Besides, you once said it was the height of bad form for husbands and wives to love each other.

I once said too god damn many things, he retorted abruptly, and rose to his feet.

Don’t swear.…

…Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!⁶

I was inspired to write Twin Memoirs when I learned that Margaret Mitchell’s life mirrored Scarlett’s and Gone with the Wind was her way of telling her story. Twin Memoirs will mirror the lives of Michael and myself, and this will be our story. Also, Donna, my best friend in high school, and I would do a lot of role-playing. Rhett and Scarlet were our favorite characters in our high school production of Gone with the Wind. More detail on Donna later.

I, too, went through a lot of foolishness in my life. Donna had a crush on me, and we had much in common. I have mentioned God a few times in my life, along with the word damn. I never thought I would use both of these words in the same sentence. I never did, but Michael did all the time, out of his anger and frustration toward life. I kissed Donna’s hand the night of the junior prom. She didn’t read too many novels because of her analytical mind. But I’ll be damned—I mean, you’ll be blessed with the ending of my story. After all, there will be no tomorrows for me. Good writing, Margaret Mitchell!

Memorial Day weekends have always meant so much to Michael and me. You will find out the reason as I tell you our story. It is Memorial Day, 1996, as I begin to pen this book. I am sitting alone in my office, contemplating all the events of the past few months. I can’t stop thinking about Michael. Today is an exceptionally lonely day, filled with the absence of Michael. Michael was my brother, my twin brother. From birth, we were inseparable. He died just a few months ago from AIDS; he was only fifty-five years old. My name is Matlin DeMarco. My friends call me Dr. Matt.

A twin can only feel the agony of losing a twin sibling. I was too young to remember all the events of my father’s death. Grandmother’s death was expected because of her age; she had lived a long, fulfilling life. Much of her life knowledge was passed on to Michael and me through her wisdom of the ancient ways. The loss of our mother was heart wrenching but also expected, because of her age. However, the loss of a twin is devastating, especially if one was as close as Michael and myself. Michael was still in the prime of his life. My faith in God and the love of my friends has gotten me through this loss. My newfound faith and love for God will continue to do so. This book is part of that healing process.

This book is not a religious book as you might have thought by the opening pages. This book is about the struggles we all have on our journey throughout life. It is just that some of our struggles are more challenging than others, darker. Our struggles, Michael’s and mine, were threefold. Even though our story is about a spiritual journey, it is also a story about two people, where they came from, who they were, and what they became despite those struggles.

Everything I say will have meaning. There are symbolisms, allegories, and metaphors to strengthen my convictions. Everything will be told from the heart, because that is where Michael now resides. He now lives within me, the good memories as well as the bad and challenging ones. Our memories together will never be lost. I will capture them in this book for all eternity.

This book series is a venture into the past. For me, it will be a difficult story to tell. But with the help of my close friends, I know it is doable. Tommy Crow, a dear friend, will interview some of my closest friends to complete the missing links within my story. I found Tommy’s interviews most intriguing, and without those interviews, my story would not have been complete. Everyone’s story needed to be told to round out the book’s entirety.

I begin our story with a brief history of our ancestors. I will show you the lineage of our families and how Michael and I came to be. Beginning with our great-great-grandparents, we’ll travel back in time to the old countries of France and Italy. With a pioneering spirit in their hearts and the faith to make a long, treacherous journey, both sides of our family came to America with the hopes and the dreams and the visions of a new life.

Life deals all of us challenges and struggles. We must overcome those hardships to move on in life. My family isn’t any different than yours. The hardships of my great-grandparents soon blossomed into rewarding memories as our family history unfolded. Thank God for the pioneering spirit of my ancestors and the faith they had in God.

Just as our European roots had a history, so did our Native American roots. Michael and I chose our Native American heritage over our French, Italian, and Tahitian lineage. Besides being raised in a Christian home and church and being sons of a minister and missionary, Michael and I interwove our Native American beliefs and traditions into our foundation in God. People have often asked us why there wasn’t a noticeable separation of beliefs and practices. If anyone would take the time to do a study on comparative religions, especially those of the Native American, generally speaking, and Christianity, one would begin to realize that we all believe in the same concepts, although we have different rituals and different names and different associations.

The contextual way of this book by no means syncretizes the two belief systems. I do not want to dilute the teachings of Jesus Christ or the legends and myths of the Native American people. This is my contextualization and my syncretism (an attempt to blend and reconcile) within my own belief system.

Christianity is told through the parables of Jesus Christ, and the Native American traditions are told through myths and legends. In my story, I will not support my Native American beliefs with scripture, even though scripture is used throughout the book. This book is a story, a memoir, not a reference book or textbook.

Grandmother was a full-blooded Indian. She was from the Sioux Nation, of the Lakota people. Her tribe was the Oglala. Father was half Indian and half Italian. Michael and I are one-quarter Indian. We are of the Sioux Nation. Our people are that of the Lakota or Teton Sioux, as the white man called them. Our tribe, or band as the red man calls it, the largest of the seven sub-tribes, is the Oglala. Here I will share with you a brief history of my people. Intertwined throughout the book, I will share many legends and stories that will help you understand Michael’s and my journey. These legends and stories will be set apart and represented by an asterisk (*).

Our early years were those of normal young boys, growing up on a ranch in Aspen Springs, Colorado, during the 1940s and 1950s. We dug worms to go fishing and used old willow boughs for poles. We used string as fishing lines and corks as bobbers. We caught frogs and carried them around in our pockets. We wore overalls without shirts and went barefoot in the summer. The little girls chased us as we ran for our lives, but we got even when we pulled their pigtails. We were healthy, energetic boys who just loved to play and tease the girls.

We learned at a very early age what heritage we would follow. Thank goodness for Grandmother. Her wisdom and knowledge led us, grounded us, and prepared us for our life journey. Those were the years that held a series of defining moments that would forever change our lives, especially Michael’s. I say defining moments, because each of those specific moments we have marks us for life. These were the years Michael and I began to discover our sexuality. These were the years Michael and I became men.

Our high school years were years of continuing maturity, both in wisdom and physical stature. Michael and I were competitive in many different sports. I was more academic than Michael, and he was more athletic than I. Our personalities and choices would become quite different, but yet in many ways, we were also the perfect complement to each other. We were both good in everything we did. But we were rebels—I the academia, with a cause, and Michael, the greaser, without a cause. We were good boys, Michael to a point, but Michael seemed to have more of a bad boy, wild nature about him. His Sioux blood would soon begin to boil within him, and his actions would show it.

Michael and I were very popular in high school, despite our mixed racial descent. Our ethnic choice as Indians was to become a challenge for us throughout our lives. Many, many girls had crushes on us—and so did some of the boys, which would also become a struggle for me. We were different from the