Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Rainy Day Piñata

It's not my intention to make this entire month... or MONTHS about my godson, but Jesus Christ! No one has done me this dirty. Ever.
I mean, when someone is my declared "enemy," someone who from the get-go let me know they disliked me, and wanted nothing to do with me... I can somewhat accept it. I know, or can imagine, what I might have to brace myself for whenever I deal with this person. If I hear some shit-talking from someone who doesn't like me, I have an easier time letting that shit roll off my back.

But here's this human... this creature I spent the majority of my life LOVING... like... really, REALLY fucking loving and even sacrificing my own wellbeing/future prospects, all in hopes of helping this kid out-- making his life easier, brighter... better.
Why did I love this kid so much? Because he was my cousin. I remember when he was born. I remember when he was an infant. I remember when he learned how to walk.

I remember this particularly rough day, back in June of 1998, when I was sitting alone in the living room of my godson's Mexico house. I was upset because every girl in my group had been flirting with the guys in town and I had been cast aside... by everyone. Guys were like "Ew. What the fuck is that fucking fatass doing here?" and the girls were like "The fatass is not part of our group!"
So, I had spent my day at a 5 year-old's birthday party, alone, under my umbrella, watching a bunch of kids swing at a piñata outside in the rain (Mexican kids don't give a fuck about weather when piñatas are involved. We're gonna swing at that motherfucking shit come rain, sleet, or snow... not that weather gets that extreme to begin with)... free to cry because the rain did a good job covering for me.
Once we all sang the birthday song to the birthday boy in the kitchen, I walked over to the living room, which was on the opposite side of the house, and sat in silence-- alone. No television or radio or people noise... just me, sitting quietly in an empty living room, swallowed by a giant burgundy couch, and observing the surroundings (so much yellow. I remember that the most-- the abundance of yellow colored objects). After perhaps half an hour of being alone, my eight year old godson waltz into the room and turned on the television. He changed the channel to MTV, and turned up the volume when the music videos came on (yes, this was back in the day when they still played music videos). And then he started to dance.
My godson turned into my little jester, and eventually coaxed me into standing up and dancing with him. He hugged me and started dancing Banda music with me... his tiny head resting on my stomach as he wildly swung around... trying to get me to move.
Godson: I may be eight right now... but watch when I turn old enough to dance at these dances... I'm going to take you out and show you off! You're going to get tired of dancing!
Me: Ohhhh am I?
Godson: You're beautiful. They're all just dumb.
And he continued to dance like a little fool... making me smile.

Here was this tiny eight year old I had always thought was just.. a kid... but proving he was as observant as I.
And he cared.
And he kept me company.
And he made me smile.
And he wasn't ashamed of me.
And he was making me discard the suicidal thoughts of that moment.
This fucking little tiny kid was making me live, keeping my hopes alive.

I mean... fuck! How can I forget something like that? I fucking can't. I won't.
The memory seems trivial as shit... but it wasn't to me.
And he only continued to do similar things in the summers that followed... my godson kept giving me company and reasons to smile... and kept reassuring me that nothing was wrong with me... and he fucking kept me company.

Now, after everything that has happened in the last couple of months... after seeing this image of the kind little boy crumple so fucking VIOLENTLY and abruptly to the ground... I'm devastated. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm confused.
Now I wonder if all those years where this kid went to war for me, who did so many favors for me... if he did all that in order to gain my favor and just... use me. Was it all false? Did I really not know this kid at all, while he knew ME TOO WELL... and used it to his advantage? Has this kid been playing me my whole life?
It sure fucking feels that way... and it HURTS. It fucking burns.
But I find I'm still reluctant as hell to let it go... I'm holding on this this image I built of this kid, and I'm getting dragged.
I want to believe they're all lies... that what others are telling me are just... exaggerations or misunderstandings... lies. I want them all to be lies.

I won't write what the things I've heard are... I'll wait until I hear them from the horse's mouth.
I don't want to propagate information I've received from third parties.
Come next week, I'll have all my answers, and I'll be free to tell the fucked up, stupid shit form this recent vacation which shattered my longest-held illusion.

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