A Happy Life, Part 1: Chile, Cat Tongues

 

[F]or my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die.

                                                Alfred, Lord Tennyson

As I’ve grown older, one of the things I’ve learned is that out of even great calamities something good always comes out of them. The most obvious example is that of Christians who believe that if Jesus had not been crucified and died as he did, He would not have resurrected and we would not believe that He is the son of God. My first experience with this happened when I got hit by a car as I was going to school.

            It was a Wednesday afternoon and I was returning to school after eating lunch at home.  I sometimes ate at the school dining hall, but other times went home. On Wednesday afternoons we used to go to confession. I was ready to confess all of the sins that a 7-year old has committed.  It had been raining for the past few days but finally the sun was shining, and it was a really beautiful afternoon.

            I got out of the bus, went in front of it, I looked around: all clear; and began to cross the street.  BANG! I felt that something had hit me on the side, lifted me up and thrown me high in the sky.  I landed in a puddle and, of course, began to howl.  I could see that I was laying on the street, saw the bus driver jump out of the bus through his window, ran over, picked me up and was trying to console me.  I got my bearings, stopped crying and he put me down.  I guess I was alright because I was standing up and it didn’t hurt much. I saw that the car that had hit me had stopped.  There were three people in it: two men and a woman.  The woman was crying hysterically, and the men were also trying to console me.  They asked me for my home telephone number, where I lived, etc.  I told them that I wanted to go to school and that I was okay. I got in the car with them.  The woman was still crying but not as bad as before; I told her I was okay.  I still remember the man who was driving: his hands and his arms were shaking really bad. I tried to give them directions to the school, but we drove in circles a few times as the driver was really shaken up. We finally made it, I said thank you and went in.

            I got to class just in time and was happy that the side of my pants where I had fallen in the puddle were now pretty dry—get ready for confession.  

            Suddenly the classroom door opened, and the school director who was a priest, and my Mother came in; Mom was crying.  She hugged me and told me that we were going home.  When we got home, Mom put me to bed. Our next-door neighbor was a doctor and he came to examine me—nothing other than a small bruise on the side of my hip.   Mom said I was going to stay home for a couple of days to make sure I was okay. She was a Red Cross volunteer nurse, so she knew about this kind of stuff.

            Later that afternoon, the people whose car had hit me came by to visit me.  They were really nice; and no more crying.  The bought me a box of “Lenguas de Gato” (Cat tongues)—milk chocolates shaped in cat tongues.  Chocolate cat tongues were expensive and a super treat for a 7-year old chocolate lover. Our other close friends also stopped by to see how I was doing, all bearing treats.   A lot of good came out of the accident. For me it was like an early Christmas and I was a king; though I don’t recommend being hit by a car as a means for getting attention. 

By: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя

A Happy Life: Immigrant Tales, War Stories, and Some Musings

Introduction

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large; I contain multitudes). Walt Whitman

“Immigrants” … the words echo all over the place in newspapers, magazines, television, social media, etc. I don’t offer any comments on any of them; they speak for themselves. I’m generally not into other people’s labels, but since I came to the United States from a foreign country, this one time and only for our purposes, let’s say “I’m an immigrant…” However, I don’t speak for any other immigrants or groups. “I, immigrant” only speak for myself just to offer a few tales and war stories; the latter compiled from my almost 28 years of military service in the United States Air Force. 

These tales and stories contain no hidden messages, no philosophies, no political motivations or anything else of the sort. My only hope is that they’ll mostly make you smile, laugh, some may even make you a little sad, or just make you think “this guy is wacked”; but that regardless of circumstances, to remind all that we are just… people. I do not use dates throughout the book, the reason simply being: “Youth has no age.” Pablo Picasso. 

When I told my wife that I wanted to write stories about our life, she did not want me to mention her by name or as wife. Yet, she is the center of gravity of our family, so I could not ignore her presence. Accordingly, I’ll refer to her by what I usually call her, “My Girl.” The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. I also don’t use our names because we’re just all families; we could be anyone—and we are.  Now it's been 3 1/2 years since Jesus called My Girl  ... here are some stories of our life together.

I was born in Chile a few years ago. My father was a lawyer though he was mostly sick due to muscular dystrophy and my mother worked as a newspaper agent for a large conservative Chilean daily, “El Diaro Ilustrado”, which is now defunct. I am the oldest of four: two sisters and one brother. My youngest sister and my brother were twins. He died a few hours after birth. The doctors didn’t think that he would make it, so they called for a priest to give him baptism before he died. My mother was heavily sedated at the time, so she could not tell them the name she wanted to give him. The priest then asked my grandfather “What name do you want to give the child?” My grandfather, Alfonso, had no clue so he just blurted out “Juan Luis.” My mother had wanted to name him after Grandfather Alfonso, so although my brother was baptized as Juan Luis, we always refer to him in the diminutive “Alfonsito.” Alfonsito has always been part of our family. My Girl and I named our youngest son, Son No. 2, after him. 

My Girl and I were married a few years ago too.  She is South Korean by birth, though now she’s an all-American girl… who also loves Korea. 

Do I miss Chile? Not really. I miss the wonder that was my youth, which included Chile. In fact, I now have a very slight accent when I speak Spanish, as I have when I speak English. The accent does not show much when I speak slowly, deliberately and authoritatively. But I guess in some respect this leaves me Homeless… so you can call me Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name. 

I blinked my eyes and time flew away with my youth. Now, an older face stares back at me from the mirror. “Who is that???” I ask. “Surely it can’t be me because I feel the same as I always have.” The face looks back at me and never answers. I suppose it’s a small gesture of kindness on its part—why respond to a question with an answer that the speaker cannot bear to hear: we can’t handle the truth.  

By: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя