Chapter 2:

Part 2

Heavy


Winston is a dear friend of mine. I am less closer to him than he is to me. He is the only friend who was around when my grandmother passed away since I knew him in elementary school. Throughout the past year, he’s worn a strange smile on his face. He asks me what is wrong. This contrasts what has happened with him a year previously…

My first year in middle school was a lonely one. I was never an outcaste, however I was never much of a prominent figure within this school. I still am not prominent to this day. I met some people who I can talk with casually such as Dante, however I only had one friend from my previous school; that was Winston Lindell.

It was sometime during the fall, I believe it was a late October day. A day of the week where I plowed through the monotony of school in order to begin my trek home. However, my trek home came later than usual. That day I made a decision to buy something from the local liquor store down the street from the middle school. It was and still is a hotspot for student activity. Many kids from my school hang out there before and after the day.

That decision meant that I was a few more minutes late to begin my walk home. I did not buy much from that grimey place, I only got a bag of limon flavored lays, however the crowd of students made sure that it was a longer line than usual. Thus, that is what cost me the most of my time.

Walking through the broken neighborhoods of my city, I did not pay much attention to the industrial detail that I have begun to notice now. The streets have not changed much in a year. The same potholes dot the light asphalt roads as regular cars swerve around to avoid them and foreign ones accidentally run right over them. The tree roots which destroyed sidewalks were still destroying sidewalks even a year ago.

There was one residential street that I knew was notorious for its violence. It still is notorious for its violence. That was the street that Winston lived on, and unfortunately it is the street he still resides on today. You enter this neighborhood once you cross the train tracks, those tracks are a transition from bad to worse. The area around the middle school is significantly safer than when you cross the tracks.

Crossing the tracks that very day, I witnessed a scene. The young Winston was the victim of a jumping where three older boys were brutalizing his young body. It was an older white boy who shared similar features to Winston and two older Latino boys who wore nothing but white tank tops and loose fit jeans.

I witnessed the scene from a distance, I didn’t quite understand what the hell was going on.

“He must’ve been targeted while walking home,” I said to myself.

Upon closer inspection of the landscape, I soon realized that he was being beaten in front of his home. At first the group of boys kept him standing, they would exchange punches to the gut and everytime he would bend over in agony the white boy would lift him up by the hair. I soon found myself standing just across the tracks watching from a distance. I stood there for a significant amount of time.

What was I supposed to do?

That was a kid I knew, a kid who knew me. The one who I spoke the most with, the one who knows me better than anyone else in this world–despite not knowing much about me still. I had to act, but I knew that my very life could be in danger if I did such a thing.

Did I not care about my life that day?

I walked faster, faster and faster. I did not let the contents of my backpack slow me down. The heavy textbooks and notebooks made no difference to me. Back then I was afraid, maybe less afraid than I would be now, yet I was still afraid.

My life was on the line, yet I still walked faster.

Getting up to the group of boys they immediately noticed me, “What the fuck are you doing here runt? Get lost!” The white boy said to me quite instantly. I was stuck in place.

The difference in height between me and these boys was staggering, they felt like giants. They felt like monstrous creatures who can do what they wish due to their size. The white boy had a toothpick in his mouth and he beamed upon me an expression that struck terror within my heart.

I could not stay silent for long, “Why are you messing with him?” I pointed to Winston who had a little stream of blood coming out his left nostril.

One of the Latino boys then stepped forward in front of me, “Do you want to be next?” He spoke to me with a thick accent, “Or do you want it worse than him?” With those words he lifted his tank top to reveal the handle of what can be assumed to be a handgun tucked into his loose jeans.

My heart sank heavily within my body, my legs began to tremble with immense vibration. I thought it might have been the end for me, I thought that I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

I did care about my life back then.

“Get lost!” The white boy pounced toward me as a warning. I stepped back in fear.

“Why are you hurting my friend?” With a sudden burst of courage, I ignored the gun that was presented to me, I ignored the violence within the white boy’s voice. I ignored the world for a second.

“This is your friend?” The white boy then pointed at Winston, I nodded yes, “Look at that,” he addressed the other two, “Winny over here has friends.” He put his arms out in exaggeration of the discovery, “Grab that one.” He pointed toward me.

My fight or flight response kicked in and I tried to run, but the Latino boy who threatened me with the gun soon put me in a headlock that I couldn’t escape.

“What do you want to do with him, Marty?” The Latino boy asked the white boy as he held me tightly. I almost felt as if I was being choked, however the headlock brought more worry as to what they might do to me in such a vulnerable situation.

“I want him to watch.” The white boy, who I presumed to be Marty, then looked at the already battered Winston.

Grabbing the toothpick from his mouth, Marty suddenly lodged it into Winston’s left shoulder with a quick but violent stabbing motion. Winston wailed at the action. Without letting Winston have time to cope, Marty socked Winston with great force to the face. Winston fell to the ground and Marty, along with the other Latino boy, proceeded to kick Winston in the stomach and back. Exchanging blows like it were choreographed, the two had no remorse for Winston in that moment.

I tried to escape the grasp I was put in, but I was unable to break free, I could only hear the grunts of Winston on the ground as he was being brutalized by two older boys. They were chanting while hitting him, many times calling him a ‘bitch’ or ‘pussy,’ they never showed a single ounce of remorse for the actions they partook in.

After what I would guess to be many minutes of this torture, a car drives by. It was an open top car with two other boys already sitting in the front seat. When I saw that car, I thought maybe I would be caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting. To my fortune, the boys in the car were friends with the boys beating Winston.

“Marty!” The boy in the passenger seat called out, it was an Asian looking boy, I never could tell exactly what I thought he was.

Marty took a sudden look back and spit on the ground. He turned his full body to face the car, “What do you want?” Both boys stopped hurting Winston at that moment.

“We found the fucker who took Big Thump’s wallet!” The boy from the car cried out while placing his hands to his mouth imitating a megaphone.

Marty then looked down at Winston, he looked straight at me, and then exchanged looks with both the Latino boys he was with, “Pepe,” he looked at the Latino boy that he shared kicks toward Winston with, “watch these two, Noche,” he looked at the Latino boy who was holding me, “come with me.”

The two boys hopped quickly into the car and the car drove off. I then jumped down to where Winston was laying on the floor. He was gripping his stomach tightly and I knew that he wasn’t doing well.

“Can you move?” I ask him softly.

“You boys are to wait here with me until Noche and Marty come back.” The Latino boy who was watching us said to us. He did not sound as threatening as the other two, and he kept his hands off of us. He simply towered over us like a guard tower. I don’t believe he was going to let us out of his sight.

I helped Winston up and I helped him lean against the brick wall that this all took place in front of. He had tears in his eyes and he wouldn’t say anything yet. He had a hard time keeping his eyes closed and I looked on his left shoulder to still see the toothpick in his flesh. It was lodged very deep, I knew I shouldn’t touch it at that moment.

Our luck came about though, an elote vendor rang his bell as he hauled his bicycle filled with all his goods down the streets of this neighborhood. This caught the attention of Pepe, the boy watching us, and he gave us a single look before darting to the vendor.

As soon as he made it across the street to head to the vendor, Winston grabbed me by the collar and whispered to me, “Let’s run for it.”

So we did.

Without hesitation I grabbed Winston by the air and we ran toward the train tracks which was the opposite way from the elote vendor. Winston was significantly slower than I was because of the beating he had gotten, but he placed his life into the effort of running at the absolute fastest his body could handle at that time. The sounds of our shoes beating the concrete as we ran toward the train tracks alerted Pepe to our actions. He turned around a few seconds after we initiated our escape and then turned back at the vendor with a brushed look on his face.

We were almost to the train tracks when I noticed Pepe giving up on trying to get his food and he began to chase after us. We made it to the train tracks and turned left to follow the tracks toward wherever they might take us. Pepe was hot on our tail, however still a good distance behind us.

Winston began to lose steam, within a minute he fell further behind me and I slowed my pace so I could catch him by the shoulder. I put his right arm around my neck and assisted him in moving as fast as we possibly could at the moment. However, for the final time that afternoon, our luck granted us a chance.

Pepe gave up on chasing us, I saw him return back to the neighborhood when I looked behind us after a few minutes. I wonder why he wasn’t so keen on catching us, why would he let us go? They would surely punish him for that.

Minutes passed, and the gravel crunched under our feet began to invade our ears. Our breaths were uncontrollable as we attempted to recover from the sprint that we initiated for the sake of our own survival.

After a while, Winston’s body gave out as well as my own, and he dropped to the floor. I squat down beside him as well. Just like that, he began weeping with the last ounce of energy he had. Violently crying he grabbed my shirt and looked at me with drenched eyes.

“I hate it here!” He pulled my shirt as I looked upon him with a sense of horror and shock, “I hate it here!” He raised his voice and placed his head into my chest, “I want to have a home! I want to have a real home!” The wailing echoed throughout the lonely stretch of land that was reserved for the rusty old trains, “Nowhere is home! I hate it here and I hate being here!” He continued to cry out to the ground below us, “I want a real family! I want a real home! I want to be okay! It’s unfair!” He looked at me with those last words.

He then pointed his head toward the sky and closed his eyes, his mouth widened, “I hate it!” He cried out to the empty heavens, as if they would ever answer our call.

I could not bear it any longer. I could not stand his consistent wailing. He broke my eardrums with his hurricane of emotions, I just could not stand it any further.

“Shut up!” I gently tore him off of me, “Just shut up! We all hate it here!” I looked at him dead in the eyes while I pointed toward the entire city, “I hate it here! You hate it here! We all hate it here! But do not tell me you are going to give up on me, nobody cares about us! We can cry all we want, we can run all we want but we are stuck here!” I let out everything I had against myself as I displaced it toward him, “I hate my life! I hate my school! I hate my city! I hate the people here!” I wailed in the same fashion as him, it felt ironic, “But I won’t give up! I won’t cry! I will survive and you will survive with me!” I pointed toward him, my breath gushing out while my heart was pounding.

Winston wiped the tears from his eyes. His expression changed. From that moment on all of our expressions changed.

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I am spending my usual time with Rosalita, but we are both quieter than usual. I knew what I had to do when my mother came off work today. If I didn’t talk to her, I would probably fall six feet under from stress. This curiosity has plagued me for a good amount of time now, and I’m ready to find the cure...but how far will I get?

How far will I get? How far did I get last time?

“Hey mom,” not too long ago I attempted to raise the question, “did you know that Mexicans celebrate mother’s day a day before Americans do?” I tried to test the waters with her, I thought to myself that a question about mothers might ease her into a conversation about culture.

“Where did you learn that?” She asked immediately. We were eating dinner that night, my mother had cooked spaghetti. She did not even look me in the eyes before questioning me.

“A friend from school told me about it.” I said softly. I had to abort the conversation however, I knew I delved in too deep.

“Well that’s something,” she states with little care, still not looking at me. It’s unusual for her to not look at me, “Make sure to take out the trash tonight.” She changed the subject.

I never felt such an antagonizing force from my mother before, it was almost frightening. The words that I stated were meaningless to her, and she had little interest in continuing to learn more. I have to be more direct with my approach to get an answer out of her. I don’t want to be more direct, however, I have no choice.

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I arrive home to start the long wait. While I wait, I spend my time planning what I am going to say. I thought of ways to counter and defend any argument. I am afraid, but I have to gain confidence. I started to practice the predicted conversation by myself.

Hours went by, and the sun went to rest. The time was constantly pulling itself closer and closer to me. I pace around the small house. I jump on the couch, sit down, stand up, walk around, and open the front door all at random intervals.

It was so heavy, everything felt so heavy.

My mother opens the door to discover me waiting for her at the dining room table.

She is surprised, “Johnny?” She questions unexpectedly.

“Mom, I need to talk to you.” I waste no time.

“What is it?” She perks her head at me and leaves her purse on the table without batting an eye toward it.

Ignoring her statement, I go for it, “Mom, why have you hidden out Mexican culture from me?” She shows a shocked expression to me. I imagine the worst things to come next. Will I have to pack my bags and leave forever?

“Why do you want to know?” She stands straight and crosses her arms, “I told you I wanted you to fit in with other kids at school.”

“That reason makes little sense mom.” I stand up in front of her firm as ever, I cannot let my guard down, I cannot stutter with my speech. ‘A man achieves his goals with his mouth.’

“That’s the reason that I have for you.” She looks away from me, barely keeping her eyes toward me.

“What are you hiding?” I question her further. I must not back down, I must not ever back down.

“I am not hiding anything from you.” She won’t look me in the eye.

“I don’t believe you.” I comment, “If you only wanted me to fit in, you wouldn’t be so adamant about keeping me in total darkness.” I lean my body toward her. She refuses to look me in the eyes.

“Did you sweep the kitchen?” She asks as an attempt to change the subject. She speaks swiftly and once again, she will not look me in the eye.

“Yes I did,” I say promptly, “stop trying to avoid me.” I raise my voice ever so slightly as my hands begin a dance in the air.

She then looks toward me, her eyes begin to gleam with droplets of water, “You don’t want to know.” She gasps toward me.

I am nearly on the verge of giving up, however, I keep my persistence, “I do want to know.” I lower my tone and speak with less aggression. I return my hands to my sides as I look down at the ground.

What the hell is happening?

“Are you really ready to hear? Do you really want to know?” She begins to shout toward me, the tears fall and I stand firm.

“Mother,” I say softly, “what happened?”

“I never knew how to speak to you about this.” She begins her long awaited explanation, “I want to start off by apologizing to you Johnny.” She looks me in the eyes, “I love you, you are my son, I am so proud of you for everything you have been through.” Her voice can no longer be kept steady. More tears flow as I loosen my stance.

“What’s wrong?” I put my hand out as if I’m reaching for her. However, I retain the urge to act on such a thing.

“I kept a lot of Mexican culture away from you because of many reasons.” She takes a moment to pause and looks at me in the eyes with a serious expression, the tears halt their advance within her eyes, “You see...many years ago when your grandmother was very young,” My mother continues to feed my anticipation with her difficulty to explain smoothly, “when your grandmother was very young she was raped.” My mother works up the courage to tell me.

I am taking a step back as the surprise and emotions hit me. What did she just say to me? I’m lost in a world of disbelief as she explains something so morbidly abrupt.

No, it can’t be. Mom, it can’t be.

I almost want to faint, I almost want to fade away into the evermore existence. I almost want to escape my mortal essence for salvation.

What the hell is wrong with me?

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“Morning kid,” the soothing voice of my dear grandmother awoke me from a night of comfortable slumber, “it’s school time, time to rise and shine.” My eyes opened to reveal the woman beaming a smile towards me.

I took my sweet time rising from that bed, I witnessed my grandmother leave the room as she entered the hallway, “I made breakfast, I made your favorite.” The sweet smell of pancakes invaded my nostrils. I could not have asked for a better smell to start such a morning.

I finally have fully exited the comfort of the sheets, and I scanned the room to discover the pair of shorts on the ground that I wore yesterday. My favorite pair of basketball shorts lay on that white carpeted floor. The room was so large, I was able to treat it as the genesis for my imagination. The room in which my soul was born.

After getting dressed, my journey down the staircase was typical. Despite the time of day, I jumped each step and even skipped a couple. As dangerous as my actions were, they were the highlight of adventure, and they were the epitome of my childhood.

My surroundings were meaningless in those moments. The house was my playground, and it didn’t matter where it was, as long as it was that house. I didn’t care that there was a sanitation plant down the street, nor that there was a nursery next door. The refineries and factories never bothered me. The large and small oil drills that dotted every possible location were nothing but a part of the scenery.

My grandmother’s car, a place where I could observe the world each morning with the protection of glass. The smells of the burning petroleum or the bursted pipes never passed the protection of my grandmother’s car. My grandmother was my fortress in this world, as long as I stand within something that resembles her, nothing may strike me. Nothing may hurt me.

That gentle woman never harmed me. In contrast, she laughed with me, she experienced with me, and she loved me. The darkness of the planet could never caste upon me without my guardian of a grandmother drawing her sword to face it.

Nana. My Nana. I want to be held by you once more. I want to be there for you.

She maintained a garden of eden in the front and backyards, her hard work had given birth to vibrant flowers that represented a world quite different from the trash and dirt that surrounded me. Her flowers were a staple to the neighborhood, and they were the very thing that kept the neighborhood alive. Beautiful white and yellow roses would threaten me with their thorns, however when my grandmother picked them, and stripped them of their daunting weapons, they were now a centerpiece of prosperity.

I want to be graced by the nature you gave birth to once more. Nana, please come back to me. I love you Nana, please come back to me.

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My mother notices my discomfort, “I know Johnny, it’s not easy to think about.” She says to console my reaction, she takes a deep breath, “It was her uncle who did it.”

‘Her uncle?!’ I think to myself with great disgust. How could something like this be true? This is sickening.

“She hasn’t told anyone except for me about it.” My mother continues, “That isn’t the only story that I have though. Growing up, the men of the family were always perverted. I never was a victim of anything, however my sister was…” She stops herself, she can’t seem to bear the disgusting story that she is sharing with me.

Even with my own turmoil, I proceed to interview my mother, “do you think that Mexican culture has something to do with the way that men are in our family?”

“Yes.” She gives me a straight answer; she speaks hastily and with great passion. The fire of her expression is difficult to bear, “I always hear in the news that it’s Mexicans who are rapists, they are the ones who did it to my mother and my sister.” My mother grows a more aggressive tone, “I didn’t want you to become a sick person Johnny.” My mother explains to me, “I don’t want you to ever experience something like that, nor do I want you to do that to another person.” My mother begins to weep once more.

I learned about the world way too young, but sometimes I call it my blessing.

“I won’t, I promise you that mom.” I’m torn, the inner structure of my mind is blank.

The fuel of my rage sits within me, ready to burst into flames like the funnel of a refinery. Nana...mom...why? The woman who raised me, the one who gave birth to beautiful flowers and protected me from the darkness of the world. Somebody has violated her in a way that I can never understand.

Nana...let me be in your arms once more.

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The next day.

My homeroom class feels darker than ever before. As if the walls were sweating, there is a dampness that can never be eradicated. The light shines above me as the morning sky sits outside of the door. I stare off into the emptiness, the void of existence. What is my life? Why was I born?

“Johnny.” I hear a violent whisper from behind me. I regain myself and slowly turn to face the direction in which the voice had stuck me from.

I turn to discover a bright kid. It was Winston, his deep blue eyes and blonde hair greet me with an uncomfortable amount of hospitality.

“Yeah,” I say while dazed, “what’s up?” I seem intoxicated. I hope nobody suspects I am high.

“You seem out of it,” Winston comments, “what’s on your mind?” He asks with great concern.

“Nothing much, I am just tired, I stayed up late last night.” I bear an excuse, I am not ready to ever explain what I feel at the moment.

Rosalita notices my inept attitude today, “What’s wrong?” She asks me as we sit together for lunch. The rest of my classes seemed to have gone without a trace. I cannot recall a single event that transpired thus far.

“Nothing.” I rush to speak.

“No, there’s something wrong.” She continues to claim.

I then change the subject, “Do you mind if I join your family for dinner tonight?”

She looks at me with a puzzled expression, however, within a moment she lights up, “Of course you can, I’ll let my dad know.” She shines a smile on her face. However, I am incapable of returning the favor.

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It seems like today is nothing but a flash. There is little light to be shown, little moments to be remembered. Though, I still need to find answers for myself. What does it mean to be me?

Walking up the front steps of Rosalita’s home, I feel a strange sense of comfort. As I move my arm to initiate a knock on the door, I feel a strange sensation. This home, this home feels like a home. Rosalita is a happy person, although the history of her life is shadowed in violence. Is it because she has a home like this? I want to be home again.

Before I can knock on the door, it swings open with great force, “Johnny!” Roberto calls my name as he sees me. I give him a grin and I walk inside, “I’m so glad you decided to join us for dinner tonight, I can finally introduce you to the entire family. You see, my wife works too, and she gets home later than I do but she goes to work later than I do. You always leave before you have a chance to meet her.”

Roberto wastes little time bringing me into the kitchen, “Carla, this is the boy I’ve been talking about.” Roberto pats my shoulder. I see a woman, of similar build to my own mother, but with skin more aged sit in front of me. She looks toward me and bears a smile. Another warm greeting within this home.

“Nice to meet you.” I give a small wave to her.

“Hi.” She says reciprocating the wave.

Roberto then moves me into the dining room area where another man is sitting. A short man who is chubbier than Roberto’s leanness is having a beer at the dinner table. He has a bold mustache and looks toward me with another warm expression.

“Johnny, this is my brother Manuel.” Roberto points toward the man.

The man then puts out his hand and I walk forward to shake it, “Does he have any carpentry skills Roberto?” Manuel lets out a chuckle.

“No, no, he’s only-” Roberto looks at me and softens his voice, “How old are you again?”

“I’m twelve.” I answer casually.

“He’s only twelve Manuel!” Roberto and his brother share a laugh.

“When I was twelve I was working in the fields.” Manuel says continue to laugh with the conversation.

“You’re such a liar, you were too lazy to even get out of bed.” Roberto comments toward Manuel and the two men continue to laugh as I smile. It’s almost like I forgot where I even am.

I then change my expression, “Roberto,” I say with seriousness, “May I talk to you in private about something.”

Carrying the same grin he looks at me with surprise, “Sure, sure, let’s head outside to the back.” He suggests.

We are making our way to his backyard, the door is just behind the dining room and after stepping down into the concrete of the back, I feel a sudden sense of desperation.

“What’s on your mind mijo?” He asks me as soon as the back door has closed.

My legs begin to tremble, “I know this comes out of nowhere, but I want to ask you; how do you feel about sex?” I built the courage to flow through my speech.

He leans back and raises an eyebrow at me, “Sex…” he looks up to the sky, “To me, sex is the ultimate form of love.” He begins to explain, “It’s a beautiful part of our life. Two people who agree to share bodies with each other, to be closer than you ever can be. There is no other way to become more intimate with one another.” He glares at the sky as the sun begins to set, “Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know how to say this,” I look down at my shoes, I am unable to speak much further. I do not want to speak.

“If you can’t talk about it, then that’s alright.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, “Just remember one thing; sex is a beautiful thing to share with a special person. It’s okay to wait, and it’s okay to feel nervous. You’re young right now, I don’t think it’s your time to experience something such as that, but when the time comes when you are ready. Just know the beauty of doing it with someone you truly care about.” He rubs my left shoulder as I begin to look upward.

The night sky of this city does not glimmer with stars. The clouds generated from the many factories have prohibited us from viewing those stars for many years now. However, those very clouds are enough comfort to remind me that even with the darkness in this city. It’s still my home. I can continue to find my home within this place. The weight of the world may try to crush me, however, I can carve my own path.

I finally know what my life is: it's heavy...and I am willing to continue to lift its weights.

Heavy (Final)

Heavy


JayDKidd
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