the year of living placelessly

In the 8th grade I went to three different schools in three different parts of the fine state of California. I began my school year at C.K. Price Junior High in the small agricultural community of Orland, Califas. There were all the people I'd grown up with, spent time with, fought with. From the age of five, when dad took the training wheels off my bike (a wonderful red bike), I had travelled all over that tiny farming town. On the weekends I would ride with my younger sister to the parks, or just around the small downtown, weaving in and out of traffic, stopping to say hi to some of the viejitos in the community, the older mexicanos who had arrived in that town in the 50's, originally as braceros and later as workers in the orchards --picking olives, oranges, and peaches-- where work was steady and they were more or less tolerated as a part of the community. I had relatives living all over that town: they were the reason why my parents ended up there, a few months before I was born. A month into 8th grade, however, I had to move away. My parents had divorced, after years of constant separations, my younger sister was diagnosed with cancer and lost a leg, and dad sold the house, forcing mom into one of the most difficult decisions in her life: separating her children as she couldn't afford to keep us all together. My youngest sister, less than a year old, went to live with my grandmother in Mexicali, on the US/Mexico border. My brother and second youngest sister, moved in with dad's family. Mom went with my sister, the second born, to Mountain View, California. My sister underwent chemotherapy at the Stanford Children's Hospital. As the oldest child, I was the one left over. Dad's family didn't want me, and mom, after many discussions with the owner of an apartment complex where no children were allowed, was allowed to have my sister (though she pretty much lived in the hospital).
Oddly, the anti-child apartment complex was across the street from a junior high school.
With no other option available, mom smuggled me into her apartment. I was told never to go outside, that I could only go to school, but right afterwards I was to head home and stay inside. She found a job at a chip making facility and spent hours on an assembly line worrying about her two oldest children, one in a hospital, the other sneaking around trying to be invisible. That is where my comic books and a love for reading in general came in handy. On the weekends I would stay with my sister in the hospital, sleeping in a cot beside her bed. We shared a large room with five other kids in the cancer ward. At least I was able to go outside.
Of that second junior high, I have vague memories. Met a couple of kids, but of course couldn't hang out afer school. Suffered in most of my classes, save for English, Art, and French (classes I tended to do well in, however, my grades did drop there too). Math was my great failing, though oddly negative numbers made a lot of sense. Maybe not so oddly.
At Christmas we went to Mexicali as we always did. After New Year's we all began to disperse again, returning to our respective homes.
I didn't go back to Mountain View.
One of my tía's took me in and I went to live with her family in Imperial Beach, California. That's where I finished 8th grade, and completed the 9th. It was the perfect arrangement, mom was happy knowing that I was living with family, and I was happy living with my cousins in southern California.
Soon after starting 9th grade, mom was able to reunite most of her children under one roof. My sister had a new doctor in San Diego, my brother and second sister left dad's home, and we all moved into a townhome next to the border. Only my youngest sister remained, she grew up with my grandmother for the next decade.
At beginning of 10th grade, my sophomore year, we moved again. Back to Orland.
La vida es, muchas veces, móvil.

Rainy September, o septiembre es una tormenta

Ok. When this blog was begun (in its previous incarnation over on .mac), the plan was to write about living in Spain. Though if you read that blog you would not have noticed this (much). En fin, qué se puede hacer? So I'm back living in central Pa, and what to do with the blog? Start a new one, I guess. And so here we are.
Today's reading, which I should have read —oh maybe a few months ago— is from the how-to website: How to dissuade yourself from becoming a blogger. Funny.

Technical difficulties

For some reason, this blog has become unaccesible for me. If you can see this post, I have temporarily migrated to another blog, "La vida es móvil" at lost in state college.

UPDATE: (a few minutes later) Odd. After going into the template, it works now. If you're interested, you can still go and check out the other blog. Nothing much there, as it is new. However, until blogger completes its transition any photos that I post from my mobile phone will appear over there.

Things seen

In my walks (or rides, as now that I'm back in central PA I'm most often riding around town on my bike) certain random images strike me. I've written about them in the past. These images of the day can hit at any given moment: they stand out not because they are looked for, but rather, because they happen. Many times they are odd, for example as in the case of my friend Jimbo who mentioned the oddest experienced he ever had on his bike was when he was almost hit by a Volkswagon bug that was completely filled with loaves of Wonder bread. Of course, the thing about these images of the day is that I rarely have my camera handy when I see them. So they only exist in description.
Here are a few from my last month in Madrid.
#1. A man in a bright red flamenco hat, wearing tan shorts and sandals, smoking a fat, fat cigar in the shade of plaza Chamberí.
#2 Riding the metro (Line 9) after classes have let out for the day. Two kids, a boy and a girl, chatting. At metro República Argentina, the boy gets off and while the train is in the station he cracks joke to the girl from the platform. As the doors close he pretends to try to stop the train and then as it pulls away he runs alongside, his laugh trailing along and mixing the laugh of the girl.
#3 An older, balding, man in short sleeves calmly standing in the sun on the corner of Santa Engracia and Martínez Campos, calmly wearing a magazine on his head.

My dictionary

Escritor: Por qué? Quizá la respuesta más corta y correcta de esa pregunta es no sé. No sé por qué escribo. Quizá por eso me siento frente a la computadora cada mañana.
Quizá escribo porque no puedo hacer muchas otras cosas. Soy pésimo para los deportes. Yo era el niño que nadie quería en su equipo. Tengo un primo que es un atleta natural, su papá era un coach de un equipo de béisbol para jóvenes, equipo donde su hijo era uno de los estrellas. Una vez —la única vez— me metieron al equipo. Claro, no aporté nada, no ayudé ni un mínimo y si mal no recuerdo, perdimos. El fútbol americano, mal. Quizá podía jugar el fútbol más o menos, pero lo dejé cuando pateé a un bato en la cara. Eso sí fue terrible, porque el tipo estaba en un gang. Pasé un mes escondiéndome de sus compas en la pandilla. El basket…menos. Demasiado chaparrito.
Y con lentes? Los deportes no eran para mí. Hay pocos deportes para un miope.
Siempre era malo para el trabajo en los campos, los files como los llamábamos en mi comunidad. Ir a la pisca me parecía fatal, horas debajo del sol en los huertos de olivo o de naranja…no thanks.
No me puedo concentrar por mucho tiempo en una cosa. Demasiado televisión.
No bailo bien. En la secundaria iba a los bailes de mi escuela y me decían que bailaba bien. Pero era la década de los 80, todos bailábamos al new wave, espasmódicamente a las rolas de los Talking Heads. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
Dinero? Soy malo para los ahorros. Siempre estoy comprando libros y discos.
Conversación? Soy medio torpe en eso también. Las palabras siempre se me quedan trabadas antes de salir por la boca.
No me gusta hablar por teléfono. Me aterra tener que llamar a alguien. Pensé que cuando mis hermanos y yo le regalamos una cuenta de e-mail a mi mamá que ya tenía todo hecho. Pero la computadora de ella ya no quiere conectarse al internet.
Tengo miedo a los perros. Estoy alérgico a los gatos.
No me gusta volar. Me encantan los viajes. Viajar por tren es una de mis cosas favoritas. Caminar por una ciudad, perderme en sus calles, también. Volar, nada. Pero, por desgracia, lo tengo que hacer. Lo bueno del mundo es que existe la Dramamina.
Quizá escribo porque en realidad no puedo hacer muchas otras cosas. No es que se me hace fácil escribir. Al contrario, escribir es difícil para mí.
William Gass dice: “I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.”
En fin, no sé por qué escribo, y la verdad es que no lo quiero saber. Porque quizá al saberlo dejaré de hacerlo. Ya no habría misterio y simplemente sería otro trabajo.

Made in Mexico; Nacido en el USA

I first crossed the US/Mexico border before I was 1 year old (unless you believe in the life begins at conception business, then I first crossed the border before I was 1). I don't remember that crossing, but it began a life of border crossings. From home on this side, to home on that side, my life has been shaped by that border. Here's a blog that takes off from my other blog (confessions of a border crosser). Why start a new one? Por qué no?
Ready? Ahí vamos...