about family

For four years and some days, I was the darling of my parents and of my paternal and maternal families. Then was born my sister – a brown-eyed blonde Teuton – a being that would later on in time resort to tanning products so as to give herself some ‘color’. Not only was she my opposite esthetically, but in every other aspect. My deficiencies were and are her excesses and vice versa. My sister and I, we have a special relationship. After all the years of hatred, though I suspect it was not mutual, we have come to appreciate and love one another. She was the desired object that I welcomed arms-open only to later become the bain of my existence.

I was born in a third world country; the word poor has always been part of my vocabulary. My mother and father eloped; my paternal grandfather punishsed my Father by bequeating his property to my Uncle. My parents struggled in poverty, creating this romantic story where their love was opposed to the will of their parents; neither would renounce their stand; stubborness abounded. Eventually, each was reconciled to their respective families under the auspice of my birth; it didn’t hurt that my paternal grandfather had died before I had come into the world.

As we were growing up, she was the reliable sidekick in my crazy adventures; she was the quiet and supportive comrade, the willing accomplice to my mischief. As I trecked across empty paths, waddled across forests of swaying weeds, she was always behind me. She loved me; I found her a nuisance – she was too cute.

When I was stung by the scorpion, it she hadn’t found me, I would have died. I could have brought myself to loving her as a child, but I couldn’t. It was she who rode with my father on his horse; I had to ride with my mother.

Now, that I am somewhat grown up, I realize how much I love my sister because though she is my exact opposite, she shares in many of my qualities, which, because of our age difference, are not fully ripe.

I have a second sister … but our lives are separated by time and space. With her I have not shared any memorable experiences. With her I never had the opportunity to raise rabbits in order to learn ‘responsability’. If I were to say “Peggy” to her, her eyes would not become watery and sadness would not indundate her heart. She is not part of our story. She is much-too-young. Experiences create bonds; ours are weak. My firsrt sister was a gift to me. My second sister was … a creation of her own.

My Father is a weird character. He is a stubborn man. He is the man that married the woman that loved him and somehow, because of his ignorance, because of his immaturity, was never fully able to make things work as they should have until he aquired the maturity age instills in man; and even to this day he has difficulty. My Mother is a patient woman.

He is incredibly skilled and talented; he can build almost anything. He excels where I fail. He is pragmatic and I am an idealist. He wanted our mother to raise my sister and I Catholic, though he was of another faith – still he wanted us to have something to believe in; children need something to believe in, something to fall on. Once, having been angered, for that seems to have been the only feeling my Father ever produced in me, I said to him: “Haven’t you heard Father? God is dead! God is for the ignorant, for those weak of mind, for those that can’t think on their own!” And as I soon as I finished uttering the last word, I was consumed by an intense fire – my face was burning up and my soul was consumed by hatred. He simply looked at me, disgusted: “You’re insane!” he screamed. “You have no manners, for all your education you have none!” Such wounding and hurtful words came from the lips of this ill-educated and unbaptized man! “Could I have come from such a man?” I thought. I had always wondered and dreamt that I was like Oliver Twist – only time was separating me from my real family.

With time he has come to realize that I am going to be the person that I want to be, whether he likes it or not. As a child, he was rather independent. Why would he expect his son to be some obsequious babe that would not allow himself to be weened off from the safety of his family? From my father, I inherited all my bad traits, e.g., my stubbornness.

My Mother is amazing. She is that strong matron figure that brings to mind those fantastic Roman matrons that decorate the colorful existence of the Republic. She was, and still is, that strong woman that raised two children practically on her own. The pious woman who attempted but failed to instill her religion on her children; on me because I was too idealist, too independent-minded and on my sister because she was too ingénue, unable to grasp the tenets of the religiō just like our Father.

She is one of my favorite characters in my life; she is the romantic that foolishly gave up going to live and study in Europe so that she could elope with the man she loved, i.e., my Father. I know that I wouldn’t have been born had she opted for the former, yet I wish she had chosen it, for her sake. Yet, I know that were I in the same position, I would follow the same path. Adn this is why I love my Mother and find her intriguing. Most people I find utterly contemptible, but my Mother is one of those beings that is worthy of my praise and admiration. I am indifferent to most things, but when it comes to certain things concerning this wonderful being, I cannot be.

From an early age, I realized that I cannot let things bother me; that indifference towards the petty is better than asphyxiating my soul with anger and hate.


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