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.
No comments:
Post a Comment