Tuesday, May 30, 2006

My pink Ipod told Me:

Ipod: "I am hoist by my own petard" as I clipped it on my belt.

Me: "I know, we all are"

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Too Late For My Own Good

In 1979, my grandparents, parents, brother and I moved from Connecticut to California. This move happened so long ago that I am the only one that does not remember the trip. This is odd, since I was already 4 years old.

According to my father, 4 years of age is old enough to be responsible for remembering my own life. Thanks for the advice!

Knowing the events of my early childhood is entirely the discretion of others. But I like fact that I remember less of my childhood. In therapy, others are going to have to spend a lot more money to cover those extra years. Instead I’ll use the extra scratch to travel the Atacama desert and drink Chilean wine.

Looking back, this lapse in childhood development seems congruent with my personality. At many points, I delay my transitions into the next stages of life as long as possible. I am 30 years old and still a student; I let loose in my pants up until my 20s (alcohol induced); did not learn to cook until graduate school; balanced my check book for the first time in 05; my father and mother left the house before I did (I was 23 when I locked that door); not remembering anything before the age of 6 seems rather likely.

My family tells me that I can’t delay real life for too much longer, I need to grow up. Thanks for the advice!

The thing about this trip across the country is that I regret having no memory. According to my family source, my grandfather showed his character and it proved to be extraordinary. I only learned this about him later in life.

The plan was to drive across country in two cars. My grandfather and father would each steer a truck, and with the help of CVs they would form a family convoy. My father’s handle was ‘Moondog’; my grandfather’s I do not know – I’ll have to ask him before he dies. We’ll call gramps ‘Pop’

Pop decided to drive through Memphis to stop at his brother’s house. His brother was a well-to-do southern man. Not only had he inherited substantial wealth from his father, but his wife, so I am to understand, was worth millions as well.

As Moondog and Pop pulled up to my to the Uncle/Brother’s house, we were greeted coldly. My grandfather was told that even though we were all family, it was best if my mother, brother and I not enter the main house. Being from Colombia (on my mother’s side) we had all inherited skin and hair that was too dark, and that these features would contrast with the rest of the house decor. We were advised to sleep in the shed. Thanks for the advice!

My grandfather was furious at this treatment. We all packed up and rushed off to a motel. For years Pop and his brother did not speak. I never knew the source of Pop’s sibling tension but it seems that this incident is one main component to the family’s squabbles.

Luckily for me I do not have to worry about some of these. I cannot remember them.

Side note: I was not until my late teenage years that I felt the poison of racial prejudice. It seems that my active participation as a minority did not happen (to my knowledge) until late in my life.

But then again, I always go through those important transitions well after I am supposed to.