My Life

August 2, 1998, at 11:20 PM, was the day my mom birthed me. I was born in Loma Linda, California, and had lived in a couple towns in that state. I think it was because my sister had been getting suspended at the schools she had gone to. Now that I think about it, we weren’t moving around in just California but pretty much anywhere along the south boarder of the United States. You name any place and I’ve probably lived or visit there once.
After spending two years in California, we headed to Las Vegas, Nevada. I remember when I started pre-school, although that wasn’t very interesting. When it comes to my first elementary school my mind goes blank, but my second school was Bruner Elementary. The only reason why I remember it is because my favorite 2nd grade teacher was there. I loved 2nd grade, not because of school though. It was because I had made my first friend. I was very devastated to find out we had to move to New Mexico that summer.
Acoma, New Mexico, is where I was living from 8 years old to 10 years. Acoma is an Indian reservation, where everyone knows everyone, and if you were an outsider or ‘americano (white person)’ you had no one’s respect. I am guessing that is why I was bullied in 3rd to 4th grade, but I am 50% Native American, and on the other hand I’m guessing it was because I was fat as a kid.
The summer when I turned 11 years old, my parents had split up. I had chosen to be with my mom for two reasons: 1. My dad was an alcoholic, and 2. I never got to know my mom, mainly because if she had even talked to me my dad would start World War III in our house. Then we lived in Bluewater, New Mexico, for two months. Sixth grade was very friendly to me. I had met my fourth best friend. After my mom finding a jo...

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...hool and had found out we had to move , because my cousin, who we were staying with in Texas, had told my mom’s ex-girlfriend where we were. We landed in another shelter in Florida. Finally after five months of living in the shelter, we were able to move into an apartment. Just when things had started to get good, I found out my father had died from his drinking. I cried for a few moments. After a couple days, I was mostly mad. Mad at the people who had thought that man who would talk to his own children for over four years was a loss to our family. I loved my dad and still do, but he was not a perfect man.
I was actually relieved because after 4fouryears of my life the people on my dad’s side of the family had started to care about me. Now I don’t feel as much as an outsider to my own family. Now I am happy and I grateful for every peaceful second I breath.