I don't know if i am having a life crisis at the moment.... But i have been way too emotional lately that I am starting to rethink my lifestyle.
I remember when i went to Mexico in 2003 and my mom took me to a meat market where i witness the reality behind my american food.... the rawness from the experience led to my decision of giving up meat.
BUT FUCK! idk if that's really my issue at the moment.... but is eating meat something that will expand my political passion for racial equality?
ugh
"
I know that it's more than what I eat that keeps me from trust.
My development, my love, my partner, my body is still more than i can handle. I feel desperate for something that I have no way of recognizing once it comes to me. I can't be so selective of the pieces of love i find along the colorful road... I know i have friends, yet i don't know which ones i can be more than just friends. Really open up about my process of life, about the bruises and scars all over my body that remind me of my history.
Here is a piece that I have yet to share but have ached to tell the experience:
It was a Wednesday during the summer of 2002 when I had to purposely trap my father. After pressure from my mother, who wanted more concrete evidence about the incident, the detectives finally laid down a blue print plan to get my father to confess his wrongs. However, my sister was in no position to follow through with the plan, as she was upset with my father and that would be too obvious, so they asked me- and i said "ok".
My memory is a bit blurry but the feeling is still the most real thing i remember from the incident....
They were going to wire tap our phone lines and have me speak to my father and somehow make him confess the history and get him to come over, where the cops would then arrest him in our driveway. A small part of me felt guilty of having to do this to my father... and the larger part of me was terrified. I was so scared. There I was, a 12 year old kid, who was 5'3, in the closet, deprived of a childhood, living in a community filled with gang bangers, still recovering from the death of his oldest brother, still not knowing what love is, standing next to 6'foot men with badges and guns. There I was...
We went to my moms room, and I remember that they told my sister to leave the house and not come back for another three hours. My mother was in the living room, and I was in the biggest room in the house with two detectives prepping me. They said that I needed to call my father and tell him that I have been having physical problems and I think it was the result of the incident and I needed him to take me to the hospital. The first time I called was death.... I was shaking, my voice was trembling, and everything felt like a bad nightmare that was suffocating me.
Even though the detectives where sitting right next to me with the machines, they weren't there. No one was there except the same bed that still haunts me every day... My father admitted to what he did, and said that he would be willing to take me to the hospital and all i needed to do was make an appointment. As the conversation was closing, i had to ask one last question before i could hang up.. so i asked "why did you rape me? even though i told you to stop?" and his response was... "i thought you liked it. I did it for you and me. Me gustaba, y pasan aveces cosas que te hacen gustar el mismo sexo y no puedes haces otra cosa mas que seguir tus sentimientos... And if you want me to, i can do it again..."
I had to hang up.... I hung up and immediately started crying. I couldn't stop. I wanted my mother and they wouldn't let me see my mother. They said I had to call back and say sorry for hanging up on him. But the thing is, i wasn't hanging up because of what he said, I was hanging up to save the last piece of love i had for my father. How could he? How could he tell me that I WAS asking for it? That it was my 8 year old body and mind that asked to be raped...
I thought I did enough but then they needed me to call him and somehow get him to come over.
He called after I hung up and I picked up. I had to lie to him and tell him that I loved him... I told him that he needed to come real quick because I am feeling depressed and I needed my Domingo..... he agreed....
After hanging up for the second time, I left the room immediately and ran to my moms arms. I wanted her arms around me and for her to treat me like a child. I was a child. I was a child but I didn't feel like one... I felt like an adult that had to just suck it up and to whats necessary for his sister, and my family..... and myself.
Once we were in the living room, the two detectives came and told my mother that they needed my father to park in the driveway and physically step out before they could arrest him... they needed me to do it.
I thought the danger, guilt, fear, was over but it wasn't. It will never be as I have learned over the years... Once he pulled up, i remember going towards him crying. I couldn't help but cry. I cried and I cried. I went to car door and the moment I made eye contact with him I felt sick. So sick that I was not able to speak. I remembered the incident vividly, i remembered the phone call, and I remembered that I am still a child searching for a father that loves me and doesn't just love me for my body. After I said the first word, everything came together.
I still couldn't believe what I was doing, but I knew i HAD to do it. I told him that no one was home and if he could step outside to give me a hug..... He did.
Once he stepped outside, i remember the two detectives came rushing out of my front door with guns in their hands yelling "step away from the boy! step away from the boy! get to the ground...."
i ran as fast as I could to my mother who was outside, just behind the cops. I ran for my sister who was raped for almost 8 years, I ran for my mother who was married to him for over 10 years and had to deal with his drunk bullshit every night, I ran for my dead brother who taught me to never give up, for my gang banger brother who still roams the streets in search of my dead brothers love, I ran for the four times that fucker raped me. Those four times that I still have nightmares of, that have now become my weakness and my strength.
Once i got to my mothers arms, i turned back and yelled "how could you?!? i told you to stop?!? i hate you?!? how could you?!?!? i told you to stop?!?!!!!!!!"
....."
Those are the experiences that make me cry the most. That give me strength to not give up and push myself....Those are the experiences I will never forget, but wish i could.
