The first memory of my life is a spanking. My sister Irma and I were about three and four, respectively. My parents were in the same room with us playing checkers on what I remember as a big cardboard box that was serving them as a table. Irma and I were going crazy jumping up and down on the bed (I’m thinking theirs). The problem is that we were not barefoot. We were wearing my mother’s shoes, the one with spiky (needle-like) heels, fashionable around the mid sixties.
I think I somehow understood that what we were doing was very wrong, but I was confused by my parents' quietness and concentration (apparent indifference) on their game, which lead us to believe that the destruction we were creating was really not a big deal. Oh but it was, of course it was. By the time we had the mattress on the floor and were happily feeling the heels go into the mattress filling, we saw our daddy getting up from his chair and without saying a word, spank us with his belt.
I sometimes wonder how that first rather violent awareness of self predisposed me to being self-conscious and my worst judge, almost expecting the worst from the beginning (a trend I hope I have defeated).
I spite of my parents' poverty and limited resources, I can say I had a happy childhood. There were definitely no excesses, no abundance, but we were loved, cherished and taken care of by Luis and Marga as best as they were able.
The other memory that stands out in terms of what made me consider the possibility of me being worthy and valuable happened when I was 16 and in prepa (high school) in Mexico. Our Spanish teacher gave us a homework assignment where we were supposed to write an essay with the title “The Happiest Day of My Life.” By then my teenage ennui made me question if I could even say I had had a happy day in my life, miserable and depressed as I felt on an daily basis. But ever studious and obedient, after giving it some thought I decided to write about my father’s reaction the day we found out that I had been accepted into the University of Guadalajara’s educational system when I began my high school studies. My papi’s reaction was one of such sheer delight that it imprinted itself forever into the soul of that 16-year-old girl I was back then. I still can retrieve and dust that memory when I feel like it: the whiteness of his wide smile stretched across his dark face; the high shine of his black eyes; his shout of happiness and almost incredulity (“You’re in, m’ija, you’re in!”), my bafflement and inability to understand his intense excitement about my acceptance into that imposing Colonial building. Whatever it was, it was good, I reflected, my papi is happy (ergo, that has to be “the happiest day of my life”).
It wasn’t until my adult years that I fully understood. I get it. I understand what this rather small achievement might have meant for a totally unschooled Mexican peasant like my father.
After having read my little essay in front of the class (I got an A), my teacher congratulated me and several of my classmates came to me to tell me that they really had liked my story.
I don’t remember thinking anything, rather I felt a sense of inclusion and acceptance, of achievement. I had done something that others had approved! Maybe a healthy sense of self started burgeoning then. A sense that made me believe, “Hey, I can do something; maybe this is what they call a talent”, a talent for writing about my personal experiences, experiences to which others can relate to no matter how different our lives.
I think this might be what I am looking for every time I post on my two little blogs.
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