Bolt

Today marked the Ninth anniversary of my grandfather leaving this place like a lightning bolt.

There are days when I miss him terribly... when I remember funny little moments I shared with him. I'll think about riding my grandpa's horse, playing with his assortment of cuddly farm animals, and see the images in my mind with the rosiest of filters.

There are days when I still feel incredibly angry and resentful towards him... even if he is dead.
I still have moments where I feel my blood boil, and my head feel lighter, from holding in my rage when someone speaks of him as though he were the greatest human to have ever lived.
There is no doubt in my mind that he was a good guy, that he had his great moments... but it makes me angry to know he placed me in this predicament... where I have the power of completely annihilating this image others have... to taint his memory in the minds of others... but I choose to shut up and walk away. I HATE that I have to deal with that. I WISH I could be like everyone else and whole-heartedly say "That man was such a fucking badass, that fucking amazing HeMan," without the back of my mind screaming "BULLLLLSHIIIIIIT!"
I also hate that I bite my tongue, shrug my shoulders, or raise my brow when others wonder why the fuck I'm such a weird, quiet girl.
WHY the hell can't you be normal? What the fuck is so terrible?
Well, fuck me if I know...
But I know... and I choose to stay quiet... and not blame others... and wonder if others can really be THAT fucking stupid to not put two and two together... to figure that "Well, someone hurt this poor chick."

But I'm not here to talk poorly of my grandfather.
It still feels weird to know I can no longer see him, or hear his stories.
It scares me to think that he could be out there, unable to rest his soul because I'm still so resentful of him.

Everyone has a story, and my grandfather certainly had one that is worthy of a movie saga. The amount of suffering he had to endure is something we continue to learn about to this day, with discoveries of all sorts of historical data.
I've learned to forgive, and sort of understand that he was a damaged person... that had numerous redeeming qualities.
He was my grandfather.
I possess many of his traits-- I have his skin tone, his smile, his explosive temperament, his stubbornness, his susceptibility to fall for a sob story, his charitable tendencies. Thanks to him, I love animals, I'm adventurous (really, I am), I love scary stories, I love nature, I know about farming, I love music... I love storytelling... I have thicker skin.
He prepared me for this world. He prepared me for the harsh realities this life slams upon others-- whether we looked for them or not, whether we deserved them or not.

I miss him.
Besides that night nine years ago, the first night after he died, I haven't dreamt of him.
I'm not sure I'm ready to see him again... but this entire month I kept thinking about today, his anniversary. I kept thinking "Like a lightning bolt... death came for him and took him out with a flash... a quickness... like he wanted."

As I walked outside to head out earlier tonight, I looked to my right and saw a storm brewing in the city's south side... lightning bolts lighting up the sky.

Fucking lightning bolts.
I see you.

Infinity and Beyond

The first summer without my grandpa, the summer of '07, my aunt who lives in Mexico waited for us to head out there before she opened up my grandparent's home to look through the belongings.
She had previously taken the obvious valuables, like the electronics and jewelry, without telling anyone because they'd obviously get stolen had they been left in the house.
The valuables she waited to open were the more personal things... like legal paper work, safes, and personal letters.
Of course, nothing exciting happened there... just shit that made us angry... like more information on more of his illegitimate children... along with their photographs. While it was enraging to see what a dog my grandfather was in playing all these women, it broke my heart to see the faces of the kids-- his kids.
Me: They look so much like... you guys... only darker.
A couple of them even have the same name as some of my "real" aunts and uncles. Sheisty.

My favorite? My grandfather's wallet.
Mom and I stood around my aunt as she opened my grandfather's wallet... and she pulled everything out one by one.
He had photos of his "real" kids... and one of the "illegitimates." He had a photo of us.
He had an old address, written on an old envelope, of some girl from Seattle.
A letter from that Seattle girl-- a gringa... a white girl-- dated some time in the late 50's, written in English. I can't recall what it said, verbatim... except for a part where she mentioned she still "visit(s) our park... our spot by the lake, thinking of you, waiting for you."
GRANDPA! YOU DOG!

As we stood there, pissed off at my grandpa's indiscretions, I pointed at a dark, folded piece of paper.
My aunt pulled it out, and unfolded it.

Straight out of a magazine.
It had Neil Armstrong's biography on it... talking about his first steps on the moon.

My aunt thought nothing of it, my mom got watery-eyed, and I... well... I was speechless.

Grandpa told me a ton of stories. Yeah, he scarred me in a way no other human has, but he also taught me SO much, and he gave me SO MANY good memories-- I was, after all, his absolute favorite human being, he told me so. Whether I like it or not, I'm a lot like him.

He may not have been a model citizen... but, his good moments were incredibly good.
Like everyone, he was a good kid who was screwed over by life at a tender age-- once his dad died and he took charge of his numerous siblings. HIS childhood was abruptly cut once he had to be an adult and find a way to feed his siblings.
I know a good deal about his life... hence why I found it easier to forgive him.

Something I did NOT know until that summer of '07 was who held a spot as one of his heros.
Neil... Armstrong, Grandpa? You admired an American astronaut... even if you were a Mexican farmer, turned American soldier? You admired... an astronaut? I... get you, sir... I fucking get you.

On rainy, stormy nights, Grandpa would take us out to the porch, and as we'd stare off into dark skies... he'd tell us stories. Funny stories, scary stories... all entwined with a bit of truth-- his truth.
I'd shudder after every loud boom of thunder, and he would chuckle.
Don't close your eyes, Mija... you'll miss what's worthwhile in this entire show.
I'd fight to keep my eyes from closing, he'd sit amused, staring off into the dark sky.

He taught me to chill out... and admire the endless possibilities... to imagine... to dream.
I didn't know where he had acquired that optimism from... until I saw that folded, glossy magazine page.

Thank you, Neil Armstrong. Thank you so much.

This old thing?

I'm outside playing with my little cow (Tyson, my 116 pound pit bull) when I notice Dad grilling in a "new" outfit, a baby-blue checkered shirt with jeans of a similar blueish hue.

Me: Ah, shucks, won't you look at that... daddy's all matching!
Dad: oh... this? It's my dad's.
Me: ... oh...

I don't know... but... that just creeps me out... it's not the first time it happens, either.
I guess his siblings gave him all of my grandpa's clothes... and my dad is going off and actually wearing them...

It's just... sad... and a little creepy... but mostly sad.

stop iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!

No matter how much I said I was ready, I wasn't.

I had been told this was going to happen since last month...

an still... I cried... I AM still crying.

My grandfather... the one with the crazy stories about my mom trying to kill him... just died.

I was out... trying to forget he was even sick...

How fucked up is that?

CAN I GET A FUCKING BREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK?!?!?

FUCK, MAN... I'm tired of this shiiiiiiiiiitt!

Veteran's Day

I know Veteran's day is actually 11/11, but I decided to make the entry today, because it's the day I got off from school.

While growing up, if anyone would have told me my brother was going to serve in the military straight out of high school, I would have laughed in their face.

My brother never showed signs of wanting to serve in the military... ever.
He never owned a toy gun in his life, we never really played anything relating to war, he was sort of chubby, he was a brainiac, and we kind of thought the army wasn't a good idea because "look how grandpa turned out..."
I was shocked when in the month of November of my Brother's senior year (2000-2001) he informed us all that "You guys, Sergeant White's coming over today at 5 in the afternoon... I'm going to enlist in the army."


Mom and Dad didn't put up as much of a fight as I thought they were... however, I started ignoring my brother after that day in November.

I'll admit it, I was pissed.
He was the older one in the family... he was the one who was supposed to experience college first, and then help me along the way.
He was ditching me for the army.

Whatever, dude, good luck with that shit. I can't wait 'til you leave.

I remember before he left for basic I'd constantly tell him mean shit, like "I'm not going to miss you, anyway!" "I can't wait until I don't see your stupid face in this house again, bitch!" and stuff like that.

He was scheduled to leave July 2nd... and the closer that date approached, the more upset I'd become. When we finally said goodbye at a Mexican airport, I hugged him one last time and kissed him on the cheek.

Good luck.

I stayed at the airport until I could no longer see his plane.

The time he was in basic flew by... although I would constantly think about him. Each time he called us, he'd ask us to write to him... and above all, to pray.

"It's so strange... but I can actually feel the prayers. They get me through the tough times."

Then September 11th happened... and I've never been so terrified.
I was 16, come on now.

When we arrived at Fort Sill for his graduation on the 13th, I cried. A lot.
I cried out of nervousness.
I cried from happiness.
I cried from guilt.
I cried from uncertainty.

I saw a skinnier Brother, a more serious Brother, a more... responsible Brother.

Holy cow, my brother's a man!

When we were finally allowed to touch him, this is what we did:He was making a face, obviously, making fun of us for being so sentimental. My sister and I were saying things like "What the fuck happened to you? You're like 90 pounds and you're as dark as an Aztec!"
So then Mom continued snapping shots of us. Were we happy about that? No.
It was annoying. We just wanted to spend time with Older Brother and keep him informed on what had occurred in Mexico over the summer, while he was gone, and here you had Mom and her annoying 1980's camera shooting away as we talked to Older Brother.
However, once it was time to go, she did capture one real shot (as overexposed as it might have been): It was hard to get back in the truck and watch his body get smaller as we drove away.
I took with me a very long blade of grass Older Brother had been cutting with his hands (we do the same thing while we talk: we start messing with whatever's close, much to the annoyance of others) as he talked with us prior to our departure.
I save stupid shit like that.

Those four years Older Brother was active duty were some of the most distressing ever.
While Mom had been aging well, those four years really took a toll on her. She started going grey and wrinkles started forming (Mommy looks old now ::frown::).
Each time we'd say goodbye to Older Brother, we'd wonder if it'd be the last time we'd get to tell him we loved him.
Sad to say, but true.

But it was thanks to those four years that I really started to know and appreciate the soldiers.
They're amazing men and women.
Sure, many have very... ummm... interesting love lives... but when it comes to character, I love and admire every single one.

It breaks my heart to know that so many men and women of my generation have been killed or wounded in this stupid, stupid war.

God bless the veterans (and not one should be homeless. Not a single one).

And in loving memory of the first soldier I ever knew,
My Grandfather, the Korean War veteran: (He's the guy in center. While I did not inherit his lovely blue eyes, I did get that crooked smile. Badass!) Such a handsome man... too bad he was... just a little... messed up (and look, this photo serves as a prime example of how having someone in the military affects people differently. This picture was almost torn to pieces by one of his daughters who hates the fact Grandpa served in the army. She says it's thank to that Grandpa made his family go through so much turmoil. She blames it for stealing her father away... when it was my mom who didn't know her father until she was 11 years old, but whatever, at least she failed at ripping the picture).
It's crazy to think this is the first year he's not here to boast about Veteran's Day, and then go on and on about the Korean War until the phone card runs out of minutes.
:' )

Descanse en Paz, Abuelo.

Spiderwebs

Who needs Valium when you have this:
(And here I always thought marble only served the purpose of making me slip and suffer nasty falls)
I no longer need to lay on the floor in order to answer a phone call... but it saved my ass on Friday.

I was given phone-duty by Mom (she left to Mexico at 5 PM Friday) since my little sister would lose control even before answering (I'd only lose it after someone would say something nice... like that they were sorry). Dad wasn't available until 12 AM... so I had to answer the phone from 5 PM till around 11 PM, when people stopped calling.
At first I had no idea what to do... I'd burst into sobs each time someone would get to the "We just want you to know that..." part of their speech. I'd have to whisper back my reply each time.

The idea of lying on the floor came by accident.
Since I was alone, and had just gotten off my running binge (for some reason, I run when upset...), I got out of the shower and was walking around in a wife beater and boy shorts. I held my iPod in my left hand, phone on the right... just lying on the floor, waiting for the next phone call.
The cold floor would keep me from sobbing... I think my body was just confused as to what it should have been doing. Sobbing... or shivering?
From there on, I was able to answer the phone without getting choked up or letting a sob go. I was good.

I did shed a ton of tears though...
I'd cry each time a Spanish song came on during the shuffle (and we all know I have around 370 Spanish songs out of a possible 494... I'd basically be praying for No Doubt or The Killers to come on) because I'd remember how much my grandpa loved music.

"Hey, Mija, sing me a song," he'd tell me EACH and EVERY summer.

"Who the hell told you I could sing? Birds are gonna start dropping dead mid-flight once I open my mouth... haven't you heard me talk? My voice doesn't get much better than that," I'd answer back.

That or...

"Are you kidding me? Quit being an ass."

The latter was one of the main reasons I was crying so badly. I was such an asshole to him... not just behind his back... but mainly to his face.

Sure, he wasn't a terrific, perfect man... he's the main reason behind so many of my traumas... but he was still my grandpa. Plus, I never knew the full extent of his... craziness until I was like... 7. Those previous 6 years were amazing... even the years between 8-14... he had some pretty cool things to show me. His war stories were my favorite... embellished often... but he was such a great story teller. I could see myself in the rainy forests, standing alongside him in the holes he'd have to dig in order to get some shut eye. He had this one story of a giant frog that once got in his trench... and how it scared the shit out of him... that one cracked me up every time... just how he described the frog would have me heaving with laughter.

I just got older and let the bad times overpower the good... and I turned mean... and rude towards the old man.
Fuck... I was a monster. Who likes making an old man feel bad?

I'm ok now... I still haven't accepted the fact that when I go back to Mexico in July... he won't be there. I've fooled myself into believing he's just on a trip. I'd only see him about 5 times during my vacation in the first place. I usually showed up during times he'd be out "en el monte," at his various ranches... feeding the cattle... herding his horses... tending his lands. That, or he'd be in the city, "grocery shopping" or getting his hair cut... or his "truck repaired"... or eating some menudo at a specific "restaurant" that he craved around ten times a month.

I think I'll just tell myself "Oh well, he's out grocery shopping today... guess I won't see him today," or "I guess his truck broke down AGAIN and he had to travel to the next town to get it fixed."

I'll remember his mischievous smile... how his sky-blue eyes would light up each time we told him a good joke... how he would let us run in his huge corn fields while playing tag, and how he showed us the difference between a good snake and a bad one (eww... snakes).

I just don't want to answer any more phone calls... they burst my bubble. They let me know that hey, the chick getting the condolences is ME... it's MY grandpa that died.

He's gone. No more.

Everything Ends

Abuelito Lupe,
Perdóneme por todos estos años en los que rehusé perdonarlo. Perdóneme por la terquedad. Perdóneme por ser altanera.
Yo debería haber sido humilde… buena… como lo era de pequeña. La niña a la quien casi se le salía el corazón, de gusto, cada vez que lo veía acercarse en su yegua.
Quisiera que esto fuera como en esos años, cuando moría por ir a México… llegar a verlo… jugar con sus animales… y escuchar sus historias… cuando yo lo adoraba.
Aunque me volví rencorosa e ingrata tras los años, todavía mantengo el amor por los animales… el amor por el campo… el amor por mi lindísimo pueblo. Todavía llevo en mi lo que usted me enseño… y lo seguiré cargando… por toda una vida.
Trato de comprender porque la vida lo hizo así… y creo entender.
Me parte el alma saber que no pudo aguantar unas cuantas semanas más… que no lograre platicarle de mi próxima graduación… que como usted me aconsejo, hice algo con mi vida para nunca depender de algún hombre.
Pondré el apellido muy en alto… se lo prometo… y jamás renegare de mis raíces.
Espero y nuestro Señor lo haya perdonado… y espero que no se haya partido con una gran pena en el alma. Espero que, como usted me hizo creer, usted se haya olvidado de lo que me hizo hace quince años. Espero que solo yo sea la quien carga con ese dolor.
Espero que mientras esperaba su final… solo momentos de extrema felicidad hayan cruzado su memoria. Sus travesuras en Corea… la ingenuidad de su niñez… su primer amor… la alegría de tener su primer hijo… el gusto de tener tantos nietos… sus animales… todas sus aventuras en California.
Nunca imagine que fuera ser tan difícil despedirme de usted. Estupidamente pensé que me daría gusto saber que usted ya no existiría para atormentar mis recuerdos. Le doy gracias a dios que de lo único que puedo pensar en esta hora tan obscura, es en toda la alegría, todo el orgullo que le dio a mi vida.
Que dios lo tenga en su santa gloria.
Perdóneme, abuelito… perdóneme.
-Noemi

The most influential man in my life... the first man I ever admired... a man who was a Korean War veteran... a man who helped build the California railroads (my Paul Bunyan)... a man who was forced to work since the age of 11, after his father died, in order to help keep his family of 12 afloat ... has passed away... weeks shy of my return to Mexico.
He would have been 87 in December.

It kills me that I can't go say good-bye one last time... because fucking school has to ruin it for me once more.
Who the fuck has an exam during study week? ME!
Fuck you, school... FUCK YOU.

Guadalupe Monarrez, hoy se convirtió en leyenda.