The Story of Me (Me Trying to Explain Things to Me)
MIMA SAYS YOU should never forget where you came from. I get what she’s saying—?but that’s a little complicated when you’re adopted. Just because I don’t feel adopted doesn’t mean that I’m not adopted. Most people think they know something important about you if they know where your story began, though.
Fito says it doesn’t really matter where you come from. “I know exactly where I come from. So what? See, some people have famous parents. So what? Being born to talented people doesn’t make you talented. Charlie Moreno’s father is the mayor. But look at Charlie Moreno. He’s an asshole. Everybody in my family’s an addict. But, see, it’s not where I come from that matters—?it’s where I’m going.” I couldn’t argue with that one.
I thought that wanting to know where it all began is part of human nature. Yup. Not that I know much about human nature. Sam said I wasn’t good at judging other people: “You think everybody wants to be good.”
I have pictures of my mother holding me. Lots and lots of pictures. But looking at photographs of your dead mother isn’t the same as remembering.
She died when I was three.
That’s when I came to live with my dad.
Maybe another guy would be sad that he didn’t have a mother. But I didn’t feel sad, not really. I loved my dad. And I had uncles and aunts who loved me. I mean, they really loved me. And I had Mima. I don’t think anybody loved me as much as Mima loved me. Not even my dad.
It’s not as if my life was like Fito’s. Fito had the most screwed-up family on planet Earth. And look at Sam. I really wouldn’t have wanted Mrs. Diaz to be my mother. No, thanks. No bueno.
I had this sociology teacher who was always droning on and on about family dynamics. You know, me and my dad and Maggie constituted a family. I liked our family. But maybe there isn’t a logic behind the word family. The truth is, it isn’t always such a good word.
I wondered why I didn’t have any memories of my mother. Maybe not remembering was worse than misremembering. Or maybe it was better. But here I was, asking myself questions about her and about the guy whose genes mixed with hers to make me.
I was starting to ask myself a lot of questions that I never used to ask. I used to be okay with everything, and now I was going around hitting people. I heard Sam’s voice in my head: Nothing just happens.
Photographs
I HAD A PICTURE of my dad teaching me how to tie a tie, taken the morning before my First Communion. Dad was smiling, and I was smiling. We were both so happy. And I had a picture of Mima holding me in her arms when I was four. She had all this love in her eyes, and I swear I could drown in that love.
The pictures of my mom and me are different. See, the pictures with Mima and Dad, well, I remembered those things. Those pictures made me feel something. But the pictures with my mom? I didn’t feel anything. Sam told me that I didn’t remember because I didn’t want to. She said it would make me feel sad.
Sam liked to look at my photos. But she said it was too weird to see all the happiness in them. “It’s just not real.”
“Really?”
“Well, it is real, but it’s kind of creepy.”
“Happiness is creepy?”
“Okay, it’s nice. But most people don’t do nice. I mean, no one in the entire universe is as nice as your Mima. And your dad, I have to admit: he’s the bomb. True that. He’s actually a super-great guy. But there’s only about ten of those kind of guys walking around this town, so if you’re thinking that your sweet little family is a mirror for the rest of the world, I’ve got a news flash for you.”
If the word cynical hadn’t been invented, Sam would have invented it. And she would go around introducing everybody to that word. But she didn’t fool me. There was a lot of kindness in her. A lot. But she had her bad moments. I’d known her since kindergarten. She used to cry at the end of the day when I said goodbye. Ever since then, I’d always listened to what Sam thought—?even when I should have known better. Sam was emotionally confused and confusing. It had to do with her family dynamics. Yeah, what the hell did I know? She was really mad at me once. I told her she needed to calm down. And she told me I was an “emotional anorexic.” I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. Sometimes I wondered why I’d picked her to be my best friend.
Mima said that God gave Sam to me.
It was a beautiful thing to say. And she also said that God gave me to her. And to my dad.
I guess God did a lot of giving. But He did a lot of taking, too. Exhibit A: He took my mom. But if He hadn’t taken my mom, I wouldn’t have Dad. And I wouldn’t have Mima.
Dad: WFTD = College
THE FIRST CHAOTIC week of school was over. And only two fistfights. Let’s make this the greatest year ever!
I was sitting in my dad’s studio, half watching him paint and half looking over the final list of colleges I was applying to. All summer long it was all about getting my college apps together—?financial forms, forms for this and forms for that, looking at websites, and sending emails to admissions counselors and programs and degree plans and on and on and on. Sam was way into it.
One day she’d come over and really ripped into her mother. “She’s put a hold on my application process, that witch. She said the schools I applied to were way out of my league, and where the hell did I think I was going to get the money to pay for it all? And who the hell did I think I was anyway? I hate her. I really hate her. She told me I was going to UT, and that was final. I. Hate. Her.” Not the first time I’d heard that hate her thing.
At my house, I was trying to keep the whole process as low?key as possible. I didn’t want to move away. I was thinking I could just take a year off and hang out at home. Like that was gonna happen.
So I’d finally come up with my list. And the only thing I had left to do was get my letters of recommendation and write some damn stupid essay on why they should accept me. I had time. I put the list on my father’s desk:
University of Texas
UCLA
Columbia
University of Chicago
NYU
University of New Mexico
University of Arizona
University of Colorado
University of Washington
University of Montana
The future. All on one list. Change. Shit. I watched my dad, lost in his work. I liked watching him paint—?the way he held the brush, the way his whole body seemed alive, the way he made painting look so easy. I wondered what that felt like. “The final list is on your desk,” I said.
“’Bout time,” he said.
“You can stop badgering me now.”
“I don’t badger,” he said.