2003-04-02 : 7:57 p.m.
Exiled from a proper goodbye...

Written on: 3-31-03 11:43 p.m.

Do you know what�s the worse part of growing up as an exile? Or the child of one?

You never really understand, where it is...what it is... you come from. And the home that get�s built around you... is never really a home... a solid, complete home. Because you are always reminded of the fact, that something... �the� something... is missing... and will always be.

Now...Do you know what�s the worse part of growing up as an elite, small group, of a particular exile; that has no particular reference or common place to anyone or anything around them?

You have no cousins.

You have no uncles.

You have no aunts.

You have no nieces.

You have no nephews.

You have no grandmother.

You have no grandfather.

And there is no reference for this... for the unions, birthdays, weddings, funerals, outside of movies and TV.

And there is no reference for the lack of... because quarrels, family disputes, �growing apart�... never have a chance to ferment.

That is what growing up an exile is.

You leave. And when you do... (you find a way to make peace with it)- because it will in all likelihood, be for forever.

And even when the wind changes course, the tide subsides... time has also gone by. And many more times than not... it might as well have been forever. Because when you return... you don�t recognize, you don�t remember... and your visits are to graves... victims of fate, or the simple tick of their own clocks.

My mom�s dad. My grandfather...

Last came to my view when I was sixteen. Ironically enough... ten years ago... to the day.

My family... every which way you count them, by way- my fathers or mothers... were not remotely under any circumstances wealthy. For the most part, far from it. And that would be just part of the reason for lacking visits... or building of most, if any, relationships with any of them.

While Pinochet ran his dictatorship fists across the country... my parents...

Particularly my father... would not... could not... step on his land... for seventeen years.

For seventeen years... he would not lay eyes on his father and mother. Nieces and nephews would be born to his sisters and brothers... and he...I...and my baby brother, would all be introduced for the first time.

Seventeen years to the day he left...later.

My father would only see his father again once more after that... before he�d pass away.

But my mom�s dad was a little different.

He would not be kept from his one child, and grandchildren... whom were not at his disposal...residing in their homeland. So instead, this grandfather would diligently save his money... any my mom would send home to... and use it, to come see his daughter... my brother and myself.

For years... every time he�d make it over... I�d be so excited and equally nervous, the night before his arrival. It didn�t matter if I was eight or fifteen. It never changed.

See, I was always so worried he�d have me figured out. So much time would lapse in between visits... that I�d worry...worry endlessly... if he�d do what I�d do.

Wonder what I was like.

Wonder if I had changed.

And if all that meant, maybe he�d forget how to love me.

Silly I know. But it was all I knew and understood for a long time... from a young age.

But it never failed... each time he�d grab me by my face... and practically yank my head off, as he pulled me towards him and hug me so hard, I wouldn�t be able to breathe.

Only to be met by the biggest soppy lips known in existence, with an added itchy mustache... that would soak me better than my dogs incessant licks in the morning... and give me bugger itches, than one inch Floridian mosquito bugs.
Ay! The man would kiss me so hard, that as a kid, I was always positive, I�d come out of it with a permanent indentation somewhere on my face. And as a kid, I�d always run to the bathroom right afterwards, to clean off the yuck and check my face. Sure the proof of the smothering would be there.

You have to understand, this was a mammoth of a man. 6' 4" at his peak... stunning superman blue eyes... and greyed hair... still sleek and straight, from his younger, blonder years.

Even as I got older, it was a bit of a spectacle... I just got better at bracing myself.

But boy did I love it.

Because every time... I knew my brother and I were loved.

No... I knew...

I knew it... without a doubt.

He never hesitated to tell me how much he loved me... and would playfully hug me and smack my face a bit... when I wouldn�t respond readily.
See... he never stopped telling me... he never stopped pointing it out... until I gave him an equally stern response, telling him...
I believed.

And ugh! Boy, he fought me.

He was the first man to ever do so.

And only in my adulthood... and many screw ups later. Do I realize... that with out that...

The trouble... the effort... to make me understand...

I otherwise, don�t feel loved. Or rather just don�t believe it.

Because he loved me. He fought to see us... and saved to call us.

And my grandfather is the only relative I have ever had...

Ever...

To tell me he loved me... and the proof was always there...

He�d call, he�d holler, he�d scream... for pictures to be sent, for voices to be heard... for the equal validation, that you understood... It was truth.

He was the only one... that insisted I�d be independent, who�d remind me to be inquisitive and never stop learning...
Yes... always get what you can from wherever you can... all the time.
He was the only to remind me... that the truth of my existence would be define by my present, my current outlook of the future... and the story, the history that put you there. And that it wasn�t my right to know about anything or everything.. It was my privilege... as was my sight and my mind. And finding out about it all... was my responsibility. To myself and those around me.

He explained to me that politics was not a choice... and your involvement in it was not voluntary. Not letting yourself understand, that apathy and lack of interest or participation, was in itself a choice and a political statement. That no choice... could have as great of an effect as taking the risk and making a choice.

And more often than not... not making a stand and working for it, in however small a fashion... made you part of the problem.

Because what you think... may resolve you to think your getting a better nights sleep. But it�s as baseless, useless, and hollow... as the most murderous villan on the planet. (And on a side note... I remember him using superman as an example... he didn�t just sit around and think, did he?)

There are only two choices... action and in-action. He told me one gave your empowerment and the other, was a mere show of fear.

He made me understand... that just because I couldn�t see something, it didn�t mean it was there. It just meant it was that important... that it �deserved� the effort to look. Which meant, the world... and what happened across the way...oceans away... was just as important... as was watching the immediate back of a best friend. And both, were equally significant. Because it was the show, the effort of this... that projected truth... who I was. Who I wanted to be.

�You have to understand... just because you don�t see a tangible result, it does not mean you haven�t affected something. Your right, your gift to choose... does not afford you the automatic right to always bare witness, to everything that is good. Because the power to choose anything, at any give time... does not exist for the sole purpose to give you a sense of satisfaction from result. The world doesn�t revolve around your desire... it revolves on your choice...�

And he lived the proof. He did.

And tonight... as I sat here... just about to write about Fletcher, and in response to some questions, inquiries, comments- of a few emails that had me thinking, and warranted expression on these pages...
when my mom called.

She would tell me, the papers I need in order to get my new passport were on route. (For my impending visit to England.) Only to then find out, the papers were sent to the wrong address... which pissed me off to Nth degree. Because it all tacks on to time I don�t have.

Yeah... time I don�t have...

�Ale??�

I�d respond in a huff, �Yes mami.�

�I�m leaving tomorrow.�

�What?� I�d ask.

�Your father was able to get the money together, and get me the ticket... but it�s very last minute..and I have to leave tomorrow.�

I could hear the dryness in her voice. Something wasn�t right. �What? To Chile?� I�d ask.

�Yes. So I can see your abuelito.� (Grandfather.)

See... my grandfather is getting old... as all grand parents do. But the man had conquered so much... four heart attacks, quadruple bi-pass surgery, an accident with a motorcycle, and prostate cancer. For the second time... so I had assumed, or rather led to believe.

I always asked how he was... and always got the same response. �Oh good, but oh you know...he�s getting old.�

And again I asked. �How is he?� And again I got the same answer, � Oh good, but oh you know...he�s getting old.�

And then it hit me.
I had been reminded. Through the feel in my gut... and the hesitation of my mother�s voice... all which I had just waved over before. Never having payed attention to. And I was reminded of Danny (G.) And all the times I�d talk to his mom... to him... and as he lay dying, I�d get that similar round about answer.

The kind of answer, a victim would normally choose to make, as if to spare the added pain that can come with the truth.

So this time I asked the right questions...

�Mami... is the cancer back.�

And the truth hit me, like a punch in the gut, that forcibly cuts off all your breathing.

�Ale... � she hesitated. �It never left.�

I swallowed. See, my mom won�t tell you... (when she thinks it will do more harm than good... typical tactic from my grandfather... typical behavior that Danny had pulled.) But she wouldn�t lie. None of them would. You just had to ask the right question. Or risk never knowing, and spending months, if not years... being angry and regretful for not knowing.

As it had been for me, when Danny died.

And then it occurred to me... how my grandfather doesn�t call any more... how he has trouble moving... and needs help. All excused to age y�see...

�Mami... it�s the prostate cancer?�

�Umm... no?�

�Mami... what kind of cancer is it?�

�The spine.�

�Cancer in his spine?�

�Yes.�

�And...�

�And it�s spreading...� And then my mom just spills it all out... faster than a tall glass, filled with slick marbles to the rim... She gives me all she has.

And the ambiguity of all her previous answers finally make sense to me.

And in that same swift momentum... she tells me she has to go... and she�ll call me soon, from Chile... because she doesn�t know how long she�ll be gone. But she would promise to call me before I leave...

Before I leave?

And then the wave just mutilates me... and in the same breath I say goodbye, click the phone off, I fall, and just exert the full extortion of what I had done..

I can�t tell you how much I love his boy... this beautiful boy from England. And I know... we NEED to see each other... for anything to be sustained. However remote the health of such a relationship may seem to outsiders...

It is needed.

But the wave... the wave... this guilt... the exact same guilt I had after Danny died. Because I really had not made it a point to see him at all opportunities, I had not asked the right questions, and instead of making the active choice to be aware of things at all times... I chose complacency, and accepted vague, �easy� answers to my life...

And lost SO much in the process.

Time.

And here I am committing the same error. Waiting for my parents to find a way of getting me there...�if anything�, and relying on information to come to me, when it has always been my responsibility to make the active choice, to find out... all which I did not know. Because regardless of circumstance or situation, the responsibility of you�re level of awareness, for anything, lies on you.

My Tata... my grandfather... my only relative... real...relative... taught me that.

And here I was... waiting for this good sum of money to finally come to me, that my parent�s new of, to go to England.

Instead of seeing if they needed it first.

And they did.

But see people who care about you, really love you, want you to be happy... and they let you live.

Danny let me live. Because he loved and cared.

My grandfather let me live, because he loved and care.

My parents let me live, because they love and care.

And I, became inactive.

And with that... came my choice. That propelled me into that catch-22... living, living, and living... and not stopping to find out... how the world around you is doing.

And after Danny... dealing with the guilt, was the hardest thing I have ever had to come to terms with.

And now... I sit on a ticket... that should afford someone that mattered, the opportunity to say goodbye... or in the very least, gotten my mother there sooner.

But I didn�t know.. Because I didn�t stop and ask the right questions, did I?

I didn�t get to say goodbye to Danny. And that was a direct result of my choice.

And now, I can�t say goodbye to my only family... because I fucked up... again.

And don�t misunderstand, I know my grandfather is not mad or anything like it... because I know, ( as do my parents), live vicariously through me...

They are more happy than I can express with words, that I have done, am doing, everything and anything they couldn�t or wouldn�t...

But it�s not the choice I would have made. A choice that was mine all along.

And now my grandfather will never hear me say...

Thank you for telling me I was so beautiful...

Thank you for telling me, being smart wasn�t a virtue... it was sought, and developed through work...

Thank you for calling me on my birthday, every year...

Thank you for Disney World, so I could just be like the other kids...

Thank you for taking care and raising my mom and her two younger siblings, when their mother walked out on them...

Thank you for the wine...

Thank you for the pearl...

Thank you for my sense of awareness...

Thank you for your slobber...

Thank you for being the first to say... I didn�t need a man...

Thank you for making me understand the difference between honorable and dishonorable pride...

Thank you for making me aware that there is a whole world out there...

And being one single grain in infinity... made me special and powerful... not weak and insignificant...

Thank you for having so many pictures every where in your house of my brother and I... and pointing out, how you could never forget us... because we were always there...

(Oh yeah... and an extra thank you -under the table of course- for having the most pictures of me- and whispering in my ear, so I�d take notice... *wink* I know I�m the favorite...)

Thanks for tapping my shoulder and telling me that despite all the sadness and mistakes, my own father does love me...

Thank you for trying your best, to making sure my brother and I knew... just because we were here... it didn�t mean we had lost our home... it just meant, we were a little farther down the block...
for the different scenery...

Thank you for being the only relative...as always... to make sure we were okay... and hugging me and telling me, to not forget... you were there... and nothing would ever hurt us...
when my family was homeless...

Thank you for taking in people... some you didn�t really know, when they didn�t have a home, into your own... (you always did practice what you preached.)

Thank you for letting me eat your junk food stash, and not telling my mom...

Thank you for never, ever, ever, being disappointed in anything... and always honoring me for my choices...

I�m just sorry, I couldn�t tell you myself... no matter how stifled and drugged in pain, you may be to hear...

I�m sorry, I didn�t think of it sooner... and help send at least my mother, your daughter, back to you... just a bit sooner, at least for more time...

If only to give some back to you, after all that you�ve given...

I�m sorry.

I�m sorry.

I�m sorry... that a man who sacrificed everything to raise his three children by himself, from the ages of toddlers... to over coming so much, helping strangers, regardless of your own comfort... housing, feeding, those who couldn�t... Because no one should be without a home, to saving and struggling to come so far, to see a pair a kids... because his choice, his resolve, would be to be a part of their lives no matter what...

I�m sorry.

I�m sorry I�m not there.

I f only because, someone like this man... should be allowed to die a sweet calm death... in his sleep.. As his heart comes to a close with the passage of time. Not because of a disease that is crippling such a grand honorable man... forcing him to die in absolute pain.

My mother once mumbled to me... about my Tata... �I just don�t want him to suffer anymore. He shouldn�t have to suffer.�

She�s right because you have earned at least that much.

Danny deserved that much... and I hate cancer... I HATE CANCER.

Ay... Tata... te quiero mucho...

I�m sorry you have been given this end... perdona Tata.

I just know... you would have tapped me on the head...smooshed my face into bits, with love... with approval of this boy.

I just know it.

And I�m sorry... I�m sorry I fucked up and didn�t make an active choice to do something... anything... that would make you happier.

I hate cancer...

And I�m tired of going back to whatever home... to say goodbye to dirt.

I�m tired of it.

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