Juan of Words

Haz Bien Y No Mires A Quien

Do Good And Don’t Worry For Whom

The Bali Hai Apartments were cheap and they were the closest place to my uncle’s house we had found in the first few days we arrived into Houston. 

Unless you peeked through the floor-to-ceiling double curtains in our one bedroom apartment, or one of the younger kids in the house raced through the makeshift clothe doors you couldn’t really see the bunk bed in our dining room.  Neither could you tell my mother’s more than six foot tall brother, his wife, and their two children – one boy and one girl – were living in that space.  The Bali Hai Apartments were a small complex by all accounts.  At most, 30 odd units, all either one or two bedrooms, circled a small eight-shaped pool in the center of the compound.  Two months out of the year the water inside the pool was clean enough to swim in.  On those days, all of us kids would take turns diving into the murky blue water from the top of a large, black, cave-looking rock, the kind you might find in Hawaii or some exotic place like that, but ours was old, dirty and manmade.  The other 10 months of the year the water was green and slimy. 

Next door, an abandoned apartment complex sheltered at least a dozen homeless people who pretty much kept to themselves unless we ganged up and provoked them by throwing rocks and calling them names.  Our parking lot was our playground where we’d play basketball, blow up hair spray cans in the garbage can, fight with each other, and built imaginary club houses in the bushes.  To the east of us were several small skyscrapers and the largest building in the city, the Transco Tower; to the north, across several acres of green grass, the world class shopping center known as The Galleria, the same one my brother had first thought was a giant hen house; on the west side, more untouched acres of land before a neighborhood of poor little houses; the abandoned apartment complex was to the south of us. 

My boy cousin was especially bad.  He was just about the same age as my sister Linda, about two years old, but he was spoiled rotten.  My aunt didn’t believe in corporal punishment, something I had hoped would rub off on my parents, but never did, and would let her son run wild.  We’d just hear wails and whimpers every time he had bitten my sister again.  This was a constant source of grief for my mother who didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just slap him in the hand a few times to let him know what he was doing was wrong, but she tolerated and bit her tongue for the sake of peace.  So my brothers and I took matters into our own hands.  If we saw or heard him making Linda cry we would walk up to him, look around to see if anyone was looking, give him a quick pinch, and walk away as if nothing had happened.  He couldn’t speak very much so that made telling my aunt on us pretty unlikely, but eventually he figured out how to get back at us.  Out of nowhere an entire apple on a fork would come flying at us when we least expected it, usually when we were watching Duck Tales or Looney Tunes after school, and we’d race after him through the tiny apartment in a mad rage.

At night, our family of eight slept like sardines on two beds.  Shoulder to shoulder, laying sideways, my two brothers and I slept on one bed, with my two older sisters taking turns sleeping next to us.  On the other bed, my mother, Linda, and whichever teenage sister wasn’t on our bed.  My dad slept on the floor or in the living room on a sofa.  My uncle and his wife slept on the bottom bunk, while their two kids slept on the top one.  Sometimes we had other relatives spend a few days or weeks with us and they’d sleep on the floor or on whichever couch was free in the living room.         

We weren’t well off by any means, but we never went without. 

By that time both my parents and my older sisters were working.  My dad had found a steady job in roofing, and except for the days when it rained, he was working pretty regularly.  My mom was working at The Galleria part time in the daytime and then would head over to the skyscrapers in the evenings with my two sisters – they must have been 15 and 16 at the time – to clean business offices and cubicles.  I was 10.      

Eventually we moved into a two bedroom unit at Bali Hai, which was pretty much the same situation except my uncle and his family were no longer living with us.  Instead a few of my cousins from Mexico were now here and they were staying with us until they got on their feet.  We didn’t have to sleep so tight anymore, but we always understood that at any moment we might have to return to one bedroom if that meant my parents could help someone out.  Mainly my mother was the one who would argue and battle my father down until he agreed to help the next wave of family members.  It was as if she could not turn anyone away.  How many people she actually helped from that apartment complex turned sanctuary I’ll never know. 

Her reasoning, though, was always plain and simple: today for them, tomorrow for me.

Nunca Sabes Lo Que Tienes Hasta Que Lo Pierdes

You Never Know What You Have Until You Lose It

Accidents, I’ve had more than I care to admit.  Some of them my fault, others, believe it or not, not my fault at all, just the product of bad luck, or karma – one of the two.  For better or for worse, when the Texas Department of Public Safety and I entered into our marriage of wits it was until death do us part, at least for me, or until I moved out of state.  A few times we’ve been at the brink of despair, heading for “Splits-Ville,” especially at the inception of our story together, but we’ve always managed to pull through.  No laughing matter, simply all I can do to hold back from crying.

The worst involved a maroon colored La Baronne convertible property of one of my sisters, a freeway, lots of fire and an explosion.  I’d borrowed her car to make it on time to the job where I spent eight hours a day making payment arrangements for people unable or unwilling to pay their phone bills.  Cruising along, top down, music pumping, cigarette lit, all of a sudden precisely before my exit a dark cloud of black smoke unleashed itself upon me.  From every direction, every single vent, the smog was darkening every crevice of the La Baronne’s front window.  Paranoid as they had us about being late, all I could stupidly think was to get off and walk fast before quarter to three turned into three o’clock.  At the light, a coworker offered a ride and we made it on time.  That’s when the worrying and reality actually set in. 

Wow, did you all see that car that was on fire on the side of the freeway, were the next words I heard.  My heart sank.  What would I say?  How would I explain to my sister her car had burned up.  The older boss lady at my job found my predicament quite amusing:  Well what are you going to do now?  It’s not like you can do anything if the firefighters are already out there?  Nevertheless she obliged and allowed me to walk the several blocks back to the car.  Traffic tickets were expensive I knew that.  Let alone tickets for burning up an entire patch of state grass on the side of the freeway, and what about having all those firefighters out there, and holding up traffic, definitely had to cost a pretty penny.  So my game plan was eyeing activity from the Target parking lot just across the way.  From there I’d fabricate my story and save face. 

Only at the sight of that car, all the blackened grass, and the frenzy of people moving back and forth, I knew I had to be honest.  I called my sister and broke the news.

Surprisingly and thankfully she did not yell at me, well not for long anyway.  Instead she wondered if I was okay and told me not to worry.  I didn’t receive any tickets, but they weren’t necessary.  I’d seen how hard she worked to pay for that car and I was the one that now had to live with that guilt. 

I wish I could say my track record has improved since then, but quite the opposite is true unfortunately.  Literally stacks of pink and white colored papers are archived in my name somewhere in the state of Texas with violations ranging from expired stickers to speeding, even a few for failing to yield.  I’ve totaled at least three cars over the past 10 years, and have been threatened with losing my license on more than one occasion.  Not that I’m proud of these achievements – actually written out here like this now they are quite shameful.  Instead they’ve taught me a thing or two about owning up to the things we do. 

As in an actual marriage between two people, or any relationship for that matter, it is impossible to overcome a dilemma if we are unwilling to be honest and take ownership of our mistakes and flaws.  I know, I’ve tried to play stupid and it only gets you so far.  Because at the end of the day we are the ones that have to deal with the consequences of our own actions, not the other person or people who can choose to leave at any moment – in the same way we can as well.  And many times once that something is lost there are very little probabilities of getting it back.  Our marriage is still on rocky ground, but the state of Texas and I have come to a new level of understanding I feel.  

You never know what you have until you lose it.

Más Vale Tarde Que Nunca

Better Late Than Never

There were times I’d lay in my bed wishing things were different.  One arm on the side of me, bent upwards underneath my face, the other slightly embracing me, against the world, hands fisted, solemn face, eyes refusing to shut, mind lost.  Counting sheep didn’t work.  The thoughts inside my head would take over.  Before I knew it scenes were forming, people were engaged in dialogue, my own mouth was moving, and exactly what I’d wanted to say was coming right out, like nothing.  Aww man why didn’t I say that, I’d scold myself and once again remember what number sheep was I on?

Over and over this routine would continue until either my thoughts were gone, or I’d get up and find something to do to avoid the thinking.

Usually that something was watching television and making myself a sandwich.  Two slices of bread, three pieces of ham, two slices of cheese, literally a slab of mayonnaise, tomatoes, lettuce, lots of pickles, mustard on both breads, hot sauce, and when we had them, chips of any flavor, although my favorite were sour cream and onion, laid on top of everything else, and then made into crunchy bits by my hands pressing in on both slices of bread.  A large cup of soda or chocolate milk accompanied my snack.  When it wasn’t enough, which it never was, I’d get up and make another sandwich.  I didn’t even bother to put anything up after the first sandwich because I knew I’d be coming back for more. If my mother caught me in the act she’d say mijo ya no comas tanto pan, que ese pan nada mas engorda, which basically meant stop stuffing your face. 

I was a big kid and loved to eat.  The same kid who walked into Burger King and ordered eight whoppers, the one who scurried away from my family at Fiesta to order a couple of tacos, the one who stopped at Circle K every day after school to pick up a small package of potato wedges with cheese, later the teenager who skipped homeroom every morning to make sure I had a proper breakfast before going to school, my younger brother forced along for the ride most of the time, until one morning he said no more and jumped out of the car.  From then on I rode alone.  Those lyrics from 50 Cent, I love you like a fat kid loves cake, I can totally relate. 

What I didn’t figure out till much later, many pounds later, was that I was eating for the wrong reasons.  First, five pounds were shed, so I kept walking.  Twenty pounds lighter I wanted more.  Fifty pounds into my exercising it was now a competition.  At the mall only shorts and a muscle shirt were worn for the weekly weigh-ins.  I was the biggest loser.  After a year I was 100 pounds lighter and thinner than I had ever been in my entire adult life.  At Walmart most every size was too big, so children’s large shirts were my preference.  I could run five miles six days a week without so much as a whimper, early in the morning at that, rare for someone who’s never been a morning person. 

People didn’t recognize me anymore, they were nicer to me, they paid more attention to me, as if I had transformed completely from one day to the next.  The old me was gone in their eyes, but for me nothing had changed.  Well except for the fact that I no longer cared about how big or small I was.  In the end nothing had changed except for my own perception.

That’s the thing about self-image it’s not about the way you look or how much you weigh, although I can’t deny it feels great to be healthy, but most importantly the decision to accept ourselves no matter what is an empowering one.  Today, I know I could stand to lose unas cuantas libras, but whether that happens or not does not determine how happy I am. 

It’s never too late too late to change our perception, and yes I still do love cake!

Perro Que Ladra No Muerde

A Dog Who Barks Has No Bite

Solo Vino, Fidolice, and Miclo all names of friends of the four-legged kind who have been a part of my life  at one point or another.  None of them entirely too brave.  Solo Vino, I can’t even remember when we made our memories together.

My parents decided that would be the most appropriate name for you since one day you just showed up out of nowhere (Solo Vino = Showed Up On Your Own).  We fed you and you decided to stay.  When we headed back to the States you became the keeper of my grandparents and their land.  If anyone so much as stepped within your peripheral vision the roaring strength of your woofs could be felt for miles, as far down as the arroyos.  You growled, you howled, you forced yourself against the power of the iron fence, and paced wildly until your warnings were heeded, but you never actually attacked anyone.

Instead you waited for your cue.  Callate perro or shh-ta we’d say and you obediently would comply.  Fidolice and Miclo you never cared much for barking, only in the most inappropriate of times, like when we were sleeping or talking on the phone.  Eventually you’d stop, but not before we yelled at you to shut up.  Of course, others from your same breed would follow their fierce bark with a vicious attack.  As in life, we never could tell when a woof from your kind was really a threat or just a frivolous warning aiming to create fear in your bite.

In middle school, my bus driver Mrs. Campbell turned out to be mostly bark and very little bite.  From the moment we walked onto the bus she glared through us, letting us know she wasn’t having any of the hell we had unleashed on our previous bus driver.

Our route had a reputation.  We’d been zoned outside of the well-to-do schools in the area in which we lived because we lived in the rattiest of apartments, ironically next to The Galleria, to an overpopulated, understaffed campus 30 minutes away – closer to an hour ride on a school bus.  Southwest Cholos and wannabe cholos, along with a pimply array of low income, high testosterone, mostly Mexican or Mexican American kids rode this bus that a year earlier had all but driven the elderly and feeble Ms. Lilly insane.  Rumor had it she had refused to come back to work after completing a school year with us.  We were bad and we knew it.  In our world of little means and respect this was something we could take pride in.  Mrs. Campbell, though, was different.

She was a deep dark brown, mature in her tone, and firm in her middle age.  Every couple of weeks, at the top of her head she donned another hairstyle, which she’d then spend days talking about with her bus driver friends at the foot of our bus while we loaded inside for our drive back home.  On more than one occasion we bounced our heads against the seats as Mrs. Campbell slammed on the brakes to let us know she meant business.  I will turn this bus around right now, she would threaten.  We’d stop our paper throwing, yelling at other school buses, yelling at each other, and pencil break fights until she continued driving.  If we didn’t stop Mrs. Campbell would just sit there staring us down through the rear view mirror, saying nothing at all.  Even though we didn’t like to admit it we admired her for keeping us in check.  Those of us a little more pimply and dorky felt a layer of security from our bullies on her bus.

One day our behavior was so bad Mrs. Campbell literally turned our bus around and drove us back the three fourths of the way she had already driven, pulled up at the entrance of the school, and watched from her seat as our principal escorted all of us back into school.  The wannabes had initiated a fight at the very first drop off site for our route, proceeded to insult Mrs. Cambell when she got off to stop the fight, and then had thrown rocks at the back windows of the school bus.  Get back in here, she roared at her young passenger and said nothing again about the incident the rest of the school year.  Parents were called, kids were publicly scolded, in school detentions were assigned, and from then on nobody dared so much as provoke Mrs. Campbell.

The very last day of school when the first student went to get off the bus she stopped them.  Sporting a red, partially curly at the top and straight at the bottom do, Mrs. Campbell hugged Southwest Cholo Adrian, the toughest kid on the bus, and handed him a small white bag and a pencil.  On and on each student that exited that old yellow school bus was greeted with the same farewell from Mrs. Campbell.  When I finally made it home, I tucked myself away in the privacy of our only bathroom, quietly opened the small little white bag and found in it a few chocolate kisses and a simple handwritten note that read: Thank you for riding my school bus.  It was a pleasure having you on my route, and I wish you the very best in the future.  God Bless.

No Hay Mal Que Por Bien No Venga

There Is No Wrong That Does Not Happen For Good Reason

Regardless, waiting around for a silver lining is incredibly annoying.  Few things provoke as much anxiety and impatience as dealing with the unknown, feeling that we are in a state of limbo, or just not knowing why we are having such a long string of bad luck.  Above all else we simply want to know how things are going to end up when all is said and done. 

Yes, maybe the outcome will not be what we expected, but who among us still believes we, as individuals, do have complete control over our own destinies?  Of course the decisions we make and actions we take do impact what happens to us, but there is no way to assert 100 percent that every single plan we make will work out exactly as we envisioned.  If that were the case we’d all be walking around with rock hard abs, thick flowing hair, designer duds and  genuine smiles on all our faces.  Well maybe some of us would choose less vein realizations, but coming from a 5 feet, 8 inches tall “hard to kidnap” fellow I’d say this wish list is a pretty good start (borrowing from comedian Jen Kober now).

Unfortunately…or maybe fortunately, since we should be careful what we wish for, the reality is sometimes shit just happens.  I’m reminded of the time I begged a restaurant owner for a job as a teenager.  Every day for about a week I called the business and asked to speak to the guy, inquiring each time if he was ready to hire anyone yet.  In hindsight my actions were pretty annoying and I’m surprised he wasn’t ruder to me.  Finally one day he told me I could come in the next day to work as a dishwasher.  Money hungry as I was, I pressed my nicest pair of jeans and button-down long-sleeved shirt, mounted my bicycle, made the four mile trip down the major thoroughfare in Houston’s humidity, and arrived 15 minutes before I was scheduled to clock in, albeit soaked in my own perspiration. 

I was so proud of myself – I had set my goal, persisted and achieved it! 

Thirty minutes into my dishwashing career the brunette Goddess-looking waitress called me over to the phone to speak to my new boss.  His words were pretty brief.  Basically he’d overlooked some budgetary items and it turned out they really didn’t need me.  Angry and ashamed I hopped back on my bike and made the four mile trek back to my parents’ house.  The worst part was my neighbor driving by and honking and waving at me from the main road. 

Another time I’d just pulled out of my high school parking lot in the multi-colored car my sister had handed down to me that summer (think dark green hood, cream body, and brown driver’s side door), when I noticed a police vehicle parked in the road median just ahead of me.  I didn’t have enough time to break my speed and the next thing I knew the cop was flashing his lights driving up behind me.  I had a choice to make – either I’d sit here and wait for him to pull me over and give me yet another ticket, maybe even take me to jail, or I could make a run for it and drive through the red light ahead.  Stupidly, I floored the gas and made it to the other side of the intersection, drove past a few stop signs, and slid into a small shopping center with Palais Royal on one side and Little Caesar’s Pizza on the other side.  Too scared to make any more sudden moves I sank into my seat in the middle of the parking lot and watched as the police vehicle drove by, lights flashing and horns blowing now, past my rearview mirror. 

I waited another 30 minutes and then drove to my girlfriend’s house.

From then on I was so paranoid about having my vehicle identified that I finally confessed to my mother about the more than $1,000 in outstanding tickets against me at the county.  She rode with me to the bank, withdrew from her savings, and made me drive over to the court to find out what I needed to do to avoid being arrested.  Had it not been for that very fortunate brush with the law I would have likely been arrested at some point during my junior or senior years. 

In each case, after my anger, frustration, embarrassment, and fear subsided, I felt a little wiser.  Like I had learned something, or at the very least that now I had a very interesting story to share with my friends and family.  Certainly there have been more dramatic and tragic circumstances that have tested my faith and sanity, and surprisingly even then, at one point or another, I’ve come to understand why it was necessary for me to experience that pain.  Maybe it’s in the way we look at our situation – the whole glass half full or half empty notion – because after all, that is the one factor we can always control: our attitude towards a given stretch of bad luck.