There aren’t many things that I regret in my life. Among things I could have been better off doing would be singing in the Sydney Opera House and dancing on stage with some outgoing Aborigines when I first visited Australia. That – and China the following summer – was a rather restrained and repressive trip on certain levels. I hadn’t been demonstrating much of my boldness and confidence on a steady level. However, those are different stories. Also of a different story are certain sexual relationships I jumped thoughtlessly into between the year 2010 and 2011. Those, most likely could have resulted in much less head-shaking and dramatics had I chosen not to engage in them; but as I said, those are other stories.
Considering things I could have done, there is something that sticks out in my mind very boldly. It floats into my mind quite often; it flows out into the stream like a drifting fall leaf in my consciousness. It makes me miss my mother. It makes me weep for my sister. It makes me lash out at the system. It is the memory of my grandpas. Not one, not two, but three men in my life whom I called a grand-dad. Two of them were from birth – that is, they were the fathers of both my parents. One of them was named Jesse. He was, from what I have heard, a thoughtful, responsive, and considerate man. The way I tell it, he was an immigrant from Mexico who “worked in the fields with Cesar Chavez.” He climbed trees and used tiny sheers to snip off the oranges. As he grew into a man, he fell deeper in love with my grandmother. They met in kindergarten and were instantly devoted, or at least that is my understanding. I could not say he lived a life unremarkable. He read books and studied hard and grew up in the life of the resistance and la raza.