My parents like to tell the story of when we went to church in the Valley. It was an Anglo-Mexican mixed community and services for all of us were at the same time. According to mamá and papá, and my two older sisters for that matter, as soon as we’d walk into the building I’d walk away from them and head to the front of the church where I’d sit next to the little girls with the blue eyes and blonde hair. No matter how much my mother would signal me with her hands to come back, worry in her face, they say I’d only turn back at them and turn away, as if taunting them with my disobedience. I was in grade school back then and don’t even remember these occurrences with any clarity, but every time I’m told about them it is with great laughter and pride, especially from my mother. In the way only a parent can, she took these actions to mean something deeper about me and who I might one day become. She tells me it was a sign that I was restless and curious, aching to push beyond the definition of what I should be and how I should act, what my place as a child of Mexican immigrants should be. I don’t know that I agree with her assessment – those are big shoes to fill and I am definitely not sure that I am the one best suited to fill them – but today, as an adult and a parent myself, I understand the hope of wanting the next generation to push beyond the boundaries of our own limitations. I understand what her hope for me and the rest of her children was.
I understand because, today, I have hopes and dreams of my own.
Love the positive story!
Thank you! So glad you enjoyed this post 🙂
You reminded me of me when I was a 12 year old kid in the middle of a class and our cute “servant de messe” “altar boy” was seen in the Ursulines courtyard. He was directly under the window. I had gotten some of the little girls to write love letters to him and motioned to them to throw the letters out the window to Jeremy.
Of course the nun watched and demanded they stop but I made sure all the letters were thrown out that window before we stopped this nonsense.
Jeremy had to turn over all the “love letters” over and of course, everyone of us was punished! I didn’t care!
Great story, Josette! I love that even now you can say “I didn’t care!” You probably made this little boy one very happy camper giving importance to those love letters… it’s always amusing to me how early we get started with matters of the heart 🙂