Genesis

I’m supposed to be doing my Calculus assignment. I’m not sure why I wanted to compile this, but it seems like I’m stuck at a point where I am unsure of where I want to push my future towards. I’ve been googling about mid-life crises and whatnot and apparently there’s a quarter-life crisis that might hit people my age. I doubt I’ll live beyond the age of 100, so I’ll self-diagnose my current mental state and issues because of a mid-life crisis.

I’ve been forced to read novels and whatnot in high school, and I never really cared for them since I had my own shit to deal with. Why read about someone else’s issues and conflicts when I have a fuck-ton of them in front of me now? It wasn’t until recently when I tried to probe my own mind for the earliest memory I can dig up. 

I was 4, and I was trying to sleep in the back seats of my dad’s blue Oldsmobile. My asshole brother Daniel is rolling around and kicking the shit out of everything, so naturally, I’m awake, staring at the freaking bright, orange streetlight. I look around, and there are a couple of other cars parked nearby, but no one is sleeping in them. I want to ask my parents why, but they’re both asleep.

I know that was the farthest back in time I can go back because my brother was there. I can’t seem to push further than that, because I cannot seem to get to a point where he doesn’t exist. Or a point where my big brother exists. Michael, who was taken away from my parents since my mother was deemed unfit to care for him. You see, my dad is a gambling addict. He was about 40 when he impregnated my mother at the age of 15. He was a roommate of my grandmother and managed to lure away my mother. While my mother was pregnant, my father would have my mother wait for him in the casinos. However, since my mother had my brother, and obviously babies weren’t very convenient in casinos, he had her stay in the car. Or in the motels my dad would pay for a couple of days, overstay, until they were kicked out. The day my brother was taken away, my mother called her social worker for milk out of desperation.

My mother was diagnosed a couple of years ago with some sort of mental disability where she supposedly suffered some sort of trauma and never got over it. She’s got the mentality of an 8-year-old. Fucking great. I’m not sure what kind of trauma, but I’d imagine it’s something she saw when she came over here as a refugee after the Vietnam War. Or maybe she was just born that way. Anyhow, she says that my dad didn’t help, my older brother was crying for milk and sustenance, and out of desperation, she called her social worker. Why did she have a social worker? I’m not sure. But it may have to do with the fact that she had a baby at the age of 16. Or maybe my dad was getting welfare benefits for him and told my mom to lie about who the father was. Which kind of explains why my dad couldn’t fight to be my brother’s guardian. It would have meant facing statutory rape charges or welfare fraud charges. My brother was taken away and given to foster parents to raise. The only thing I know about him was that he was born two years before me, in 1985. When I think of him, and how much different my life would have been if I weren’t the eldest, the idea of having someone older to depend on sounds awesome. Then I think about the confusion he must have faced, questioning his true origin, and it breaks my heart. I don’t know if I should be glad that he avoided growing up with my parents, or if I should be concerned of the potential upbringing from the shady and untrustworthy foster parents, whose main goal is usually just to pull in an income for fostering as many kids as they can.

Calculating the chances of the two, I think he’s better off with his foster parents. At least he’s got a chance at the perfect foster parents and upbringing. With my parents, you’re fucked, and you know it. We lived out of my dad’s blue Oldsmobile, and knowing how irresponsible he was, I’m sure he had no insurance, no registration or driver’s license. I remember this because every time we were in the car and a patrol car was nearby, he’d tell us to hide, since the car had no child seats. I remember living in different motels and hotels throughout Rosemead and Monterey Park, etc. He would pay for a night, promise to pay for the next two, and leave on the third. Eventually, I was a burden, and they found out somehow that they could stick me in public school as a form of free baby-sitting. 

When I was being dropped off by my parents for my first day of school, my parents said they’d come back for me, so I shouldn’t be worried and cry. So, I wasn’t worried, and I didn’t cry. I remember being the only kid that could not speak Cantonese or Mandarin. I was bullied and picked on because of it. I was the only kid whose parents didn’t pack him lunch. It’s fine, my parents forgot, and I’m not hungry anyway. I was also the only kid who was not picked up at the end of the day. I was ushered into the main office, to wait for my parents. School gets out at about 12pm or 1pm. Yes, I can tell time, I watch Knight Rider. At around 7pm, the office staff leaves, and they leave me in front of the school. Fucking great. I’m sure they told me something, but at that point, I was too worried to listen. When the last office staff left, I finally broke down and cried.

It was about to turn dark, and I decided to walk towards the motel we were staying at. I don’t know where I’m at. I just know I made a left into the school, so I’ll make a right. I walked until I saw the main street I recognized. I looked right, then left - the Norm’s restaurant sign! I remember passing through it, so I walk towards it. Then across the street from Norms, a furniture store! I’m getting closer! I found the motel, went to the room, and no one was there. There was a doorknob cover lock and I think our stuff is still inside. It’s not the first time this has happened, but when it does, I know it’s a sign that we are going to sleep in the car again or go to another motel. I’m cold, hungry, and my parents are nowhere to be found.

I don’t remember much of that night, as that’s where my memory fades. I am trying to remember the birth of my sister, which was right around that time, but I can’t seem to get a fix on it. Well anyway, I know I didn’t stay in kindergarten for long, the school got tired of my parents not picking me up. They would keep me until the office staff left, and I would walk home as always. Thinking about it now, what a bunch of dicks. You know my parents aren’t coming, you know I can walk home by myself, yet you somehow decide that it was wiser to keep this kid until it gets dark, then let him walk home. Fuckers.

Anyhow, the next fragment my memory can serve up revolves around a picture I remember that includes my mother, my brother Daniel, my sister Tina and myself. My mother held my sister on her lap since she was a toddler. She had this ridiculous haircut that looked like my parents got a bowl, flipped it on her head, and cut along the edge. Tina also has a spoon in her mouth, which, come to think of it, was her pacifier. How unhealthy for a toddler to have a metal spoon as a pacifier! Anyway, Daniel was off to one side, and I was on the other side of my mother. I was barefoot, and I had on a sweater with some kind of suitcase on it. Behind my mother was a heater (those old school motel ones with a gas pilot that can potentially burn down the whole room).

We eventually moved to Bell Gardens, as my dad has grown to like the Bicycle Club Casino there. I don’t know what struck him, but he had some sense to rent an apartment and send me off to school. The entire city was 99.99% Latino. Repeating of course. I was picked on when I stepped out of the apartment, and it didn’t stop until I stepped back in after school. Elizabeth Street School was the first time I felt that nervous about going to school. It’s probably because I encountered every kid singing that “Chino, Chino, Japones” song while stretching their eyes as I walked to school. It seemed like as I left my house to walk to school, one kid would do it, and as he got tired, another kid took over the next shift, and the cycle would continue until I got into the classroom. I didn’t quite finish kindergarten at the other school. So, when I got into this school, it was already into the school year. All the other kids were way more advanced than me in terms of reading and writing, and the teacher was quite frustrated with me. So, to sum up, my neighbors hate me, my schoolmates hate me, and my teachers now hate me too.

At least this school provided breakfast and lunch. The only drawback was that you had to carry around these tickets, that when unperforated, looks like a calendar. There were no weekends, and each day had two tickets - a black one for breakfast, and a yellow one for lunch. School food was awesome, especially since it was so new to me at the time. Then first grade hits. My first-grade teacher was Ms. E, she had big glasses, kind of like Gretchen from Recess. She had red, curly hair, and she was probably in her forties at the time. She’s a fucking bitch.

I remember being made fun of for wearing shoes from Payless Shoesource. Pink Power Rangers shoes, to be exact. My dad said it was cheaper than the Red Power Ranger ones, and no one cares what shoes I wear at school. I also donned various shirts with the most non-masculine animals you can think of. Dolphins, giraffes, cats, and even a freaking' unicorn. My shorts were always above the knee and my pants always exposed my ankles and socks. Even I would pick on me.

Ms. E always singled me out for a lot of things and drew extra attention to me. I feared coming to school. I couldn't read or write well, and I was constantly worried about being bullied. She would also keep me in detention during recess, lunch, and after-school a lot for simple things like not being able to read something out loud for the class or not being able to repeat the last thing she said during a lesson. It was great to not have to be around others who will bully me or not play with me anyway. 

The quiet time was somewhat soothing for me. I am not hungry, I'm not worried about being hit, pinched, punched or otherwise hurt. The only drawback to getting detention at lunch is that I'm not able to sit near the trash bins to get the uneaten food others would leave behind. I would constantly hoard food to bring home to save for later or share with my brother, sister, and mom at that time.

The quiet time eventually became chaotic and dismembering. My fear before was being bullied by classmates and what felt like the entire school. Detention eventually became an isolated place for my teacher to bully me. It seems like I deserve this since this is coming from everyone. I didn’t do anything to anyone, and I didn’t know what to do to make it stop.

Eventually second grade started and my new teacher, Mrs. Smith, came into my life. She was the mother I never had. She was one of those proper and stern black women you would fear just by her gaze if you disappointed her. However, her heart-warming smile she would express to you when you made her proud would initiate some feedback loop where you wanted nothing but to make her proud to see her in that state.

When I initially arrived in her classroom, she commanded respect with such authority that even my known bullies gave in. She had so much class, and I have never encountered such a woman in my life. She went over her classroom rules- which I still subconsciously live by. Not because I was whipped and forced to, but it made sense. It’s the bare basics of being a decent human being. Anyway, while she was explaining the rules, I noticed