Cactus Thorns

When my Abuelo Corona died in the sixth grade, it was cold. His Rosary was set for Super Bowl Sunday, which in those days used to be in January. I remember hearing the news from my grandmother on my mother’s side. My grandfather, the last one I had - because, really, we only get two - was now meeting the other one in Heaven. I sat in bed for a little while to digest the news. It was strange, really. Only three grades ago I was at my grandfather’s (Mom’s dad) funeral. Now was the time to bury my father’s father.

I put on my scuffed shoes and went outside into the back yard, which is much different now. Up against a fence, rusted over, was a cactus patch. The thorns struck out like quills. With pluckers, I took a few out and stuffed in them in my shirt pocket. I brushed the cold soft earth from my knees and stared at the patch. They towered above me, the cacti. And they been allowed to live, they probably would have surpassed me in height forever. I pulled a thorn out and smelled it, making sure not to let the sharp part prick me any. After my brief inspection, I stuck it in my mouth and let it dangle there. It made me feel strong - why? I don’t know.

“Mijo,” his voice sounded familiar. He’d call me that all his life and would continue it to this very day. “Mijo.”

Most sons would rejoice over this. I didn’t. It felt strange and fake. I wasn’t his son more than I was anyone’s son other than my mother’s. She had been the one who raised me. Who taught me wrong from right. Who said men never run away. And yet, he did.

I turned on a heel and looked at him. My face had been puffy from crying earlier. My eyes reddened. I wasn’t  his son and he wasn’t my father, ‘apa, or whatever you want to call him. He was just the man who decided only to pop into my life whenever it convenience him. I spat the thorn from my mouth and allowed him to hug me. His clothing smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, father’s cologne. His hugs were awkward. There was hardly any emotion in them. His hands, used to sooth me by disheveling my hair, were rough and dry. Oil stained with crud in the finger tips. This, I believe, is why I don’t hug. The emotion’s hardly there.

He asked if I was doing fine. He asked if I was doing well. I answered. Lied. I didn’t want him to know that I had been born broken. That there were thoughts up in my head that weren’t supposed to be there. That I only did the things I did - the reason I read and wrote so much was to escape the world I was never meant for. Instead, I muttered a fine and explained my reason for being outside. The thorns, you see, brought comfort later on when I was alone and two or three were sticking into my flesh. The rush of ecstasy that flowed through me was almost orgasmic. I longed for it. It was my embittered medicine.

Three years later, my grandmother (Mom’s mom) died. I stood outside, again in the cold, at looked at the cactus patch. The thorns seemed smaller than I remembered, but I went to work anyway, plucking out only a few. The pain didn’t do what it normally did. It didn’t bring me the joy it has those three years ago. In fact, it only brought me a miserable sense of hatred.

I don’t cause pain to myself anymore because pain doesn’t work. Though now, I wish that cactus patch was still in the backyard.

Happy Birthday Father of Abscence

Today is my father’s birthday, however, considering that the time on this blog is nonAmerican and I don’t know how to or if I can change it so I should say that yesterday was my father’s birthday.

I haven’t spoken my father in years. In fact, the last time I saw my father, I wasn’t sure if it was him or not. It’s sad when a son doesn’t recognize his own father. It’s depressing. Almost profane.

Falling Down

El Senor doesn’t call. We miss another coffee date, but that’s okay. He has kids and I understand. Instead, I get dress and walk about the house for a moment contemplating my next move. I call Adam Zuniga to tell him about the blog. I mentioned the article had been put up as well. He seemed pleased and that made me happy. I think for the meanwhile, my part is over. I got the accurate information out, something Miss Leatherman failed to do in her article. Now it’s phase two: Editing the article for publication. I must cut it down by a thousand words and revamp it with an angle that will blow Leatherman’s article away. That’s something I always had trouble with, angles.

David said working with a daily would be a lot more meaningful if I wanted to be a serious writer. I do, however, not media writer. I suppose we all have to start somewhere, right? Maybe that’s why I write the blogs now. I suppose in some sense of the idea, writing these everyday, or almost everyday, will help me learn not to be so paranoid when it comes to writing.

I’ve gotten off subject, haven’t I? I was talking about El Senor, not David or writing, though that’s where I’m heading towards anyway. It came to my attention that I’m a Chicano writer. This was brought on by Chicano News when a quote from my first blog made it to their page. It, of course, was taken out of context, though I’m sure they weren’t trying to crucify me. At least I hope they’re not. Here’s the quote:

“I for one have never considered myself a Chicano writer, but a person who happens to fall under the label Chicano by a community and just happens to write.”

Here’s the entire paragraph:

“So I’ve come to the conclusion that Jane isn’t an atheist at all, but merely a joke. I have the irking feeling that she is just the pawn, an invention of Judeo-Christians to promote the belief system. She is not a true atheist, nor does she deserve to use the term to describe herself. It has been to my belief that those who are willing to go as far as to label themselves, unless asked by the general public, that they are so and so, are using the term loosely. I for one have never considered myself a Chicano writer, but a person who happens to fall under the label Chicano by a community and just happens to write. And the only label I have ever called myself is agnostic solely because people refuse to believe there is gray area between those who are devout and those who don’t believe.”

I had already had the pleasure from Friendly Atheist of being posted as a quote in a comment made about 90 Day Jane. It’s not that I’m trying to toot my own horn–what does that mean anyway?–I just ask for permission to be shocked. Before moving here, I only wrote private blogs. Those who read them were just close friends of mine. Now I’m out there in the public with several readers (I go about 83 within a 4 day period) that I don’t even know. Now I worry just how much I can write here before exposing who I am and what my beliefs are.

I’m not ashamed by them, so don’t get me wrong. I have always stood by my word, which is why I’m not ashamed of writing something against The Monitor, the Rio Grande Valley’s guru of news. Actually, they are the stain in the media world. All the rejects from Pan American find themselves in the hands of the Freedom Communications paper, wandering about like thoughtless drones, writing what they see, and getting the facts wrong, as per Miss Leatherman–though, luckily, and happily, she didn’t go to Pan American and pursued higher education. (Notice how I don’t link these things.)

The Monitor makes mistakes, but then again, what paper doesn’t? I shouldn’t be too hard on them, should I? However, they refuse to show anything but what they’re paid to show. Money down here, as I suppose in other places, pushes the paper. What the rich wants The Monitor to publish is what makes it to the front pages. All that money stolen from X School District? Oh that never happened.

Reminds me of William S. Burroughs when he wrote in “Where You Belong,” a selection from The Soft Machine:

“My trouble began when they decide I am executive timber–It starts like this: a big blond driller from Dallas picks me out of the labor pool to be his houseboy in a prefabricated air-conditioned bungalow–He comes on rugged but as soon as we strip down to the ball park over on his stomach kicking white wash and screams out “Fuck the shit out of me!”–I give him a slow pimp screwing and in solid–When this friend comes down from New York the driller says “This is the boy I was telling you about”–And Friend looks me over slow chewing his cigar and says: “What are you doing over there with the apes? Why don’t you come over here with the Board where you belong?” And he slips me a long slimy look. Friend works for the Trak News Agency–”We don’t report the news–We write it.”"

That’s pretty much what The Monitor does–write the news. I’ve had the discussion with El Senor before.

How rude of me. Here I am talking of a friend and I haven’t probably introduced him. El Senor is a man, less than twenty years my senior. A marine, ex-military. He fought in Iraq Part One. Afterward, he decided to deal drugs on the street before finding himself in prison. After he was released he used his military funds to pursue higher education. He’s now working on his thesis. The reason I know him and we speak because we’re both poets/writers from La Frontera, and he was my vice president during my stint as president of Sigma Tau Delta last year. The former before the latter.

Right now we’re in the position of wondering what we’re going to do with ourselves. He has kids and I suffer from depression. Either makes it difficult to leave the valley.

We’re both would-be philosophers, also.

He’s an atheist and I’m agnostic. Most of the times, though, he treats me like an atheist. We talk politics at Moonbeans, sipping on bitter coffee. I’m not an avid drinker. I know nothing of coffee; I drink tea, Earl Grey mostly.

And like most atheists and agnostics, we talk about our beliefs openly. People around us normally add in how they wish they were as free as we are. I often wonder if they mistake us for father and son, I don’t look anywhere near 25, I’ve been told. (I can’t even grow a full set of facial hair, just patches as if puberty only just hit.)

I’ve been wanting to get him to sit and talk with Adam because I think the conversations would be interesting.

Note: The style of my writing is slowing down. The room is now hot. It is at a temperature when air conditioning fails to cool, but not cool enough outside to make it unnecessary. With the heat of my room, my thought process has begun to slow.

Last time we spoke, we had a discussion on the Borderwall. In a few weeks, months, whatever, the wall will make so much noise down here that I’ll never run out of material to write about. Luckily for him, he’ll be in Ohio serving out some time from an incident in his past. Imagine that–a graduate student working on his thesis behind bars.

I’ll try to write more on the subject on a later date. Hopefully, when I do, I can provide a transcript of a conversation with Adam E. Zuniga and El Senor.