Memories...

Light the corners of my mind; misty water-colored memories of the way we were. Scattered pictures...This a Barbara Streisand song called "The Way We Were" about how things used to be and those memories we cling to. Memories - we're full of memories, more we could ever imagine and yet still longing to recall the ones we fully can't. Some so vivid and bold they seem to have happened yesterday. Others we desperately cling to the muddle memories deep within our minds. Of those, with our parents' help, they bridge those memories and clearly put all of it together to make sense. With the help of my mother, she put together the full canvas in a period of my life and the earliest recollection I have as a child.

My mother used to take the bus to get places since she didn't have a car. It was there she said I contracted tuberculosis from someone on the bus. The whole family had to be quarantined to make sure no one else had the disease, and it turned out I was the only one. Now, none of this I recalled as a ripe toddler of two at the time, but I do remember other things of that ordeal. I do recall having to go get checked out and getting x-rays to see if I had it. Once they knew, it elevated to shots, x-rays, pills, and a hospital stay. Now, most kids that I know at this age were terrified of needles, doctors, hospitals, and of giant twisted metal that seemed like some cyborg coming to get you so it can put invisible rays in your body. When they would take my chest x-ray I remember my tiny chest on the coldness of the machine, standing there in my undies, the nurse and technician applauding my bravery for being so cooperative and still encouraging me to look at the stuffed toy monkey on top of it and telling me not to move. They would say "Take a deep breath, now hold it.", then telling me to release after the whirring sounds of the machine did its job. Afterward, I would put the little gown they gave me back on and go back to my room for more treatment. When it came time to take my shots they tried to bribe me with candy hoping I wouldn't cry, but I was never afraid of needles or shots and never cried getting one. From their surprise, they would award me two lollipops instead of one. Through it all, I had a calmness that surprised everyone there for being such a young age. Eventually, I was sent to the hospital for treatment and stayed for two weeks - it was probably longer but it felt like two. My room was on the sixth floor and the bed next to the window like they were joined at the hip. At night I could literally look out of the window all the way down to the ground and imagined seeing a large mysterious face in the dark night, scaring myself into covering my head with the bedsheets and wishing to go to sleep as quick as possible so that my little mind would stop torturing me. My favorite memory though was having breakfast with a very kind nurse as she would watch cartoons in my room every morning with me. I don't recall her name but remembered her blonde hair and a pretty smile.

When it was time to leave, my mother gathers what things I had and a nice going away gift a metal Tonka toy truck - I said my goodbyes and surprisingly was never traumatized by this and actually had pleasant memories of it all. For the next two years I would regularly go back for x-rays to make sure it wasn't active anymore and taking horse pill-sized medicine that I had no trouble of swallowing whole, nor did I fuss about taking them either.

Other memories - not mine but my mother's memories of me and how I was as a small child shows that we develop our personality at a very young age - infused by our DNA of what we are going to be - our likes and dislikes that mold us into our future selves. She told me when I couldn't yet talk, I would crawl to the TV and then stand up holding on to it whenever there was music on the television and try to mouth as if I was singing. She said I wasn't even a year old yet and every time I did that she said my father thought something was wrong with me. I grew up loving music and singing and didn't have a shy bone in my body when the music came on. Also when I was two years of age, she said I would sleepwalk into the kitchen, take out a bowl and place it on the table along with dry and wet ingredients and mix everything up together. Now according to her, she would wake up in the morning to see I left all the evidence on the table and all over myself and the bed when she came to check on us in the morning. There I was sound asleep covered in flour, sugar, milk, and whatever else I mixed. Now it didn't portend that I would become a chef, but I do love to cook.

Well, that's the earliest memory that I ever recall as a child, and looking back it was the simplistic everyday happenings that stay in my memories and the ones that I cherish the most. Time spent with my family is what brought me the most joy. Some of them were disturbing, upsetting, frightening, while others were hilarious, sorrowful, reflective, and some were delightful leaving me content and peaceful. Next time I'll share some of those memories and exactly how my mother and father met.

A worm's eye view

Parents; we admire them, at times we fear them - I feared one parent exceedingly more than the other; we delight in our parents, and sometimes we even despise them. Through it all; we always loved them, even when we felt they didn't deserve our love.

My father seemed larger than life to me when I was young; though in real life he was only five foot eight, it felt like he towered over us, his demeanor dominated even more so - its presence always took our attention regardless of what we were doing at the time. He came across like some superhuman being - with powers I clearly didn't understand at the time or probably just suffering from a wild imagination - regardless it felt real to me. Being an ex-Marine had a vast effect on his personality which made him a very strict and demanding father, not in a way of WHAT he wanted us to be in life, but HOW he wanted us to be in life. He hated insubordination to him or my mother - like most soldiers who were regimented, he also hated us to be late for anything; waking up, getting ready for school, eating breakfast, eating lunch, eating supper, taking our baths, homework, cleaning our rooms, coming inside, going to sleep, or going anywhere outside the home. He HATED being late for anything. At the same time apart from his military makeup - he had a surprising and quite endearing quality of being spontaneous at the most inopportune times - coming home and waking us up from a night of deep and satisfying sleep to tell us to get our clothes on and get ready to go to Galveston, or Texas City, or even to our aunt Licha's (her name was Alice, but we never called her by that) house to visit. It was something we never complained about though my mother would beg him at times to be more reasonable. It was one of his attributes I certainly duplicated in my life. But there were other times I just absolutely despised my father - something I just didn't think I could do since I never really hated anyone, much less my parents but this was as close I would get in doing so. And I didn't hate HIM so much, but what he DID - I would be so confused as he developed a Jekyll and Hyde personality that came without warning and we all dreaded it when he transformed. We would be the object of his wrath, us, and our mother, but mostly our mother, and we were helpless when it happened. It was like a bad dream that we were living in real-time and it was one we couldn't wake up from and just has to suffer from seeing our mother suffer or eventually us. But my mother was strong.

My mother was a small woman in stature (five-foot-two), but her identity was strong, pillar-like, immovable, and determined. She was the glue that kept our family together and I'm sure most people reading this would agree that most mothers are the glue that keeps the family together. I don't know how she did it; she had six children - five of us by the time she was twenty-six years old. My mother and father were thirteen years apart when they met; she was eighteen and he was thirty-one. She had her first three children; me, my oldest brother, and my brother after me within less than 24 months of each other. My oldest brother was born in March of 65', myself 10 months later in January, and our third sibling 11 months later in December of that same year in 66'. Afterward, she had her only daughter three years later, then the fourth son another three years later, and the last son six years later. Five boys and one girl, not what my mother wanted since she wanted at least one more girl and that's why she had another two more kids before calling it quits medically since they tied her tubes. By the way, all of our names start with "M", including my father. Her name was Santa - yes that's like the Claus dude but she's real. Her full name was Santa Maria Inez Cruz - then, Santa Maria Inez Cruz Garcia after marrying. Most Mexican children usually take on the mother's maiden name as their middle name so all of us boys have "Cruz" as our middle name. Our sister bucked the tradition having the middle name "Yvette" - and she wanted her second daughter's middle to be Yvonne, but that never transpired. So initially, she wanted the boys to be MCG (Mark, Michael, Martin, Malcolm, and Malachi) and the girls to be MYG, (Melissa Yvette Garcia and Michelle Yvonne Garcia), funny on how and why parents determine how we get named. She seemed ethereal to me, so loving, patient, kind, warm, honorable, forgiving, faithful, honest, and spiritual. There were times she did expose her bad side, but to me, it was always warranted - and she made sure we understood why even when she went berserk the few times she did - like I said, it was always warranted - we were pretty bad at times. She was the one that really taught us about life and how to be a decent person and eventually a decent man. My father did teach us respect, hard work, not to fight, and honesty as well, but she did most of the work by example. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

So you can see, parents have a deep impactful effect on their children, sometimes to our detriment suffering the rest of our lives for it; bad choices, addiction problems, violent, lazy, entitled, ungrateful and at the same time the effect is so powerful we make a determination we NEVER want to be that part of our parents' personality. Other times we see the good in them and hope to aspire to be like them in every virtuous and decent way. My personality is definitely part of both parents, the good and the bad. The bad I've just about stamped out, though at times there are sparks I have to make sure that doesn't become flames ever again. We're always a work in progress, so that goes without saying. 

Growing up with 6 children and a father who's an ex-Marine, a keep it all together very spiritual mother who basically had to raise those six kids because my father wasn't there physically or emotionally, except the few times when he had to discipline us - something so traumatizing we'd never forget - and my mother maintaining a fine balance keeping my father happy, all of us occupied, and her sanity intact. Until next time.

Quarantined, but not my thoughts

Being alone to yourself affords the opportunity, or should I say renders our emotions, some that we struggle with and others we fondly remember. I've had a head start with my isolation and my thoughts as I was forced to stay inside due to an accident back in September of 2018. With my head, neck, and spine injuries I really didn't have many opportunities to do anything expect labor in pain. I still deal with it and it's a very slow recovery, but most of these problems remain.

For the times I've been able to think clearly I've recounted many memories and how the influence of our parents shapes us - sometimes in a positive way and others in a negative. I can say outright, for the most part, I'm proud of my parents - not to say they didn't have their faults; one more so than the other, but when it was all said and done, in the end, they both made me proud that I'm their child. No matter how hard we try though, we are reflections of our parents and those things are what I reflect on now. Though my parents are gone, I carry their likeness; spirited, sinful, regretful, wishful, benevolent, apprehensive, loving, but always ready to learn and grow; willing to become a more whole version of them both.

So I will expound on how they shaped my life and the life of my siblings as often as I can, just bear with me as I'm still dealing with my injuries.

My father was an ex-Marine and in the Korean war for a short time; he was discharged but for the life of me I can't remember why. I'm sure being a Marine and being in the war shaped his outlook on life and how he valued it, though I would have to say his upbringing was even more traumatic. Being a Marine definitely made him hide his emotions and become a very strict father - the opposite of what his father was and it made us fear him greatly - though he did have his playful and reflective moments with us as children growing up.

The one thing I'll say for the moment his childhood years were wrought with difficulty and sadly at the hands of his grandmother on his mother's side. As a kid, he grew up on the farm and in the summertime, he picked cotton in the fields - very hard work. He was born in a small farming town of Simonton, Texas, about 40 or so miles Southwest of Houston, Texas. As he would tell it, from picking cotton all day his fingers would be all cut and bloody from the hard husks of the cotton, sore and tired and then would be punished by a grandmother who didn't like him because he was very dark-skinned. In fact, his grandmother would call him the equivalent of the "n" word but in Spanish; she called him her "little n" to be exact because he was so dark. This infuriated him to no end and he ended up hating her because of it. His sense of justice sparked him to retaliate quite frequently despite being on the losing end every time. One day already angered by the maltreatment by her, he decided to make her pay indirectly by disobeying her as he was told to take some water out to his Tios to drink (uncles in English) in the fields. Well, he was going to show her as soon he was out of her eyesight - they had acres of land and he had to cross a creek to get the water to his uncles. Well, before he arrived he dumped the water out and then made up a story as to why it was empty. Once word got back to his grandmother she punished him by making him sleep outside without any food to eat - his younger sister sneaking tortillas in her underwear so he wouldn't go hungry.
His father and mother eventually would move to Houston still a young boy though I don't recall how old he was, I do recall he had to quit the 6th grade to help his parents financially. At the age of fourteen, he helped physically build the house on the property they bought in Houston. He came from a family of seven children, (though he had half brothers and sisters from a prior and later marriage) being the third in line, and for some reason ended up being the most responsible out of his siblings and the one whom his father loved most. He told us he loved boxing growing up as a kid -  so much so when an adult he had a tattoo made of a baby with boxing gloves and a lock of hair on top of its head with the above inscription of "Chino". My father was Mexican American and I'm sure something else, but he never told us or maybe I just don't remember. Of course, we had to ask what "Chino" meant even though we are Hispanic my parents never taught us Spanish (I'll tell you later why) and he said they called him "Chino" because when he was young he had curly hair.

Well anyway, back to his time in the Marines. He used to tell us that while in training they would have them swim with all their gear on their backs for strength and stamina; sadly he said a few died drowning, not having the strength to stay above the water with all that on them. He said the sergeants would get their minds ready for combat and how to view the enemy. They would chant: "What is an ambush? Killing! What is killing?! Killing is fun!" They would repeat that over and over until it was etched in their minds. Also, when someone was out of line, they would punish the whole troop and told us of two ways I guess he hated most; one way was they would make them hold out their arms straight out and then would place their rifles on the tips of their fingers and they had to hold it for many long grueling minutes - which was extremely hard and painful to do. Another way was they would make them put on all their gear and "duck walk" for miles. Other than that, he rarely spoke about the war - he didn't like to. He did say how cold the Korean winters were as they were in tents and had to wash their face in freezing water with temperatures at -15 below zero and how one of the soldiers gave up his life by jumping on top of a grenade, saving him and others. But other than that, he didn't say much about the war, though he did have a few pictures of him at the barracks and a couple with his troop that my mother kept.

My mother's life was even more fascinating - at least it was to me. Just to give you an idea but not all the detail; the state took her from her mother at the age of eight, she wanted to be a nun, grew up in a home in Waco and forgot how to speak Spanish, loved sewing and created a stitch that is used all over the world (the teacher stole it from her and sold her creation), her father was a rich man but she never got a cent. Well, I hope all of you are doing as well as can be expected during this trying time. As my mother always used to tell me and it's become part of my personality - "Don't worry about things you can't control." - so don't worry, this will pass and things will get better. Until next time.