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“Pórtate Bien” Sex Education “Tu papá quiere hablar contigo.” Mom said as I walked in the kitchen. I pretty much suspected why my dad wanted to talk to me. I was in the sixth grade, and I had recently been showing a lot of interest in our new neighbor’s daughter (she was one year older than me, and quite mature). In fact, she had been showing interest in me too. Anyways, word got back to my mother that I had been seen flirting with this girl. “Wait for your father in your room.” She instructed. I walked into my room hoping and wishing that what would probably be a most embarrassing talk be postponed. Oh how I wished that the phone ring, or that unexpected company show up at the door! But it wasn’t my lucky day. I heard my dad making his way to my room. I looked at him as he walked through the door, and then quickly diverted my eyes to the floor. Just in that brief glimpse I got of him, I could tell he was uncomfortable. “Sé que andas de chiflado con la vecina. Ella es mayor que tú. Pórtate bien.” --translation: I know that you have been flirting with our neighbor. She is older than you. Behave-- I answered, “Okay.” And to my surprise, that was it. My dad walked out the door. My sex talk was over in less than ten seconds. I waited a few minutes, walked out of my room, into the kitchen, and proceeded to walk out the door. Mom stopped me and asked, “Did your Dad talk to you?” I promptly replied, “Yes.” I then saw the expression of instant relief on my mother’s face. --If she had only known what my talk had been like?.. As you can see, my sex talk was not much of a talk. Through some stroke of luck or sheer stupidity, I managed not to get in any sorts of trouble as I was growing up. I received most of my sexual education through friends and through my uncle’s medical books. I have three children, and I plan to have a talk with them (when the time is right) too. It will probably be embarrassing, but it will not be a short one like mine. This article was inspired (or should I see, I remembered this incident) upon reading an article on sexual awarenes featured in...Latinalista.blogspot.com Please read it. It's quite good. I posted a comment. |
Figuring It Out “Necesito ayuda!” My little eight year old boy yelled out to me. I quickly followed his voice to the kitchen. I found him sitting at the table--working on his math homework. He quickly showed me the worksheet he was attempting to do, and asked me to help him. “ I do not know how to this.” He said. Actually it was the instructions he did not understand. Once I rephrased them for him, he said, “ Es todo? Is that it?” And he quickly, and correctly finished his homework. As I watched him finish his work I thought, you are so fortunate (are you really?). I suddenly remembered being eight years old. I remembered being at the kitchen table. I remembered doing my math homework too. The only difference is that I could not ask for help! My parents could not read English. They could not rephrase the instructions for me. I remember sitting at the table for hours trying to decipher the non-second-grader friendly instructions . Most of the time, I would finally “figure it out” on my own. I went through all my school life figuring things out for myself. I often envied those kids who got help from their parents, but other times I was proud knowing that all my work was truly mine. All the years of “figuring things out” made me who I am today, and prepared me well for adult life. These days I help my children with their school work ---everything from second grade spelling to eighth grade algebra. Sometimes I wonder if I should let them “figure out for themselves.” How much “figuring it out” did you do? How much help should we give our children? |
Growing Up |
juav shares experiences in growing up in a Latino culture |
You Can't Stop Time "It’s my favorite shirt. I like it a lot." Those were the only words that came out of my mouth. I gave the pretty girl half a smile, and quickly walked away. There I was in my high school chemistry class, so eagerly awaiting the dismissal bell as I slowly dried the beakers I had just washed. I did not want to go back to my seat , and wait like the others. So I just took my time drying my beakers and flasks. I was not the only one with that idea. There was a very pretty junior a few feet away. She occasionally turned, and smiled at me. She was quite finished drying her equipment, but nevertheless she kept drying the same test tube over and over. I looked at the clock, four minutes until the bell, I thought. I started to put my flasks away when I heard, " You can’t stop time." "What ?" I asked the pretty girl. "You can’t stop time." She said again. " That’s what your shirt says." She than put her absolutely dry test tube away, and scooted over towards me. " You wear that shirt a lot." She giggled. I looked at my brown and tan shirt.--the one with the clocks zigzagging across the front and back, and the worlds you can’t stop time trailing them. She was right! I wore that shirt a lot. --So I lied. I simply answered with the most fake conviction, " It’s my favorite shirt. I like it a lot." I felt a tremendous warmth radiating from the extremities of my body-- I knew I was turning the most beautiful red anyone had ever seen-- I quickly walked away. The truth was that I really only had about eight school shirts. And I did not really like three of them. So the shirts I did like got used a lot. Up to then, it ....continue reading |
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Juav's Latino World USA |
gowing up Latino by juav publications |
Moving: A young Latino's Experience Every child knows that moving to a new city, state, or even country can be a very difficult time in there life. And this is what had happened to me. As soon as I found out that my mom and I were moving away from the city we lived in, I felt hate, sadness, and depression. I had a girlfriend! How would I break the news to her? We had been together for about 10 months, and I couldn’t even imagine being away from her. The day of the move was approaching sooner and sooner, and my whole life would start changing from that day forward. On moving day, we packed all of our things in our suburban. The entire truck was full and stuffed with many things, which made the 32-34 hour journey even more uncomfortable. The only thing to do was to sleep or just watch the road going past me. Our final destination was to be Alabama , but some how things didn’t work out there so we just ended up going to Tennessee. Soon, it was time to go to school. I did not know what to expect on my first day of school. I was a simple 12 year old from Texas, and just going to a new school in Tennessee would be chaos. As I got my schedule for all my classes, I looked at it like if I didn’t know what I was holding. Every time I walked into a different class, I could tell everyone was looking at me; so I would just look at the floor letting my hair do its job and cover my face. And when I told them what my name was, they were in shock. Of coarse, I knew they (gringos) weren’t able to say my name right. So it took me at least 10 minutes to explain how to say it in every class; this made me so mad. By the 5th period I had enough; I went to the chalk board and wrote, "hy-ro". I could here every one whispering behind my back saying stuff like, "stupid Mexican". It really made me angry! About 3 weeks later I had got in a fight with an African-American because he made me drop all my books when it was crowded in the hallway. And he said, "what you going to do about it you wetback? Go back to Mexico!" I knew I had control of the situation. I could go up to him and start fist-fighting or just walk away in shame. So I was stupid enough to go and stand up to him. I went all in his face, and he started pushing me. So I just pushed him as hard as I could, and he fell and hit his head on a locker door. All my classmates formed a circle around us. And as soon as he got up, he swung his fist trying to aim for my face; but I moved away, and he missed. I knew he was open for a shot to the face. So that’s what I did. I punched him on the nose, and he started shooting out blood everywhere. Everyone was shouting, "get back up...kick that little Mexican's butt." And then again he swung, but his fist barely touched my cheek; it just slid past it. So then again I looked to see how I could finish the fight before a teacher could spot us. I remembered my dad telling me, "a good way to end a fight is if he swings at you, grab his arm and twist it behind his back, and make him fall to the ground. Then put your knee on his head. He can’t move no matter how hard he tries." A teacher saw me on him, and got me from the shirt and pulled me away. There was blood all over my right hand, and I kept thinking of what I had done. Thankfully the principal didn’t accuse me of anything because I didn’t throw the first punch. So they didn’t even call my parents. I was only asked a couple of questions. From that day on, no one wanted to mess with the Mexican (me). About 5 weeks have passed, and this girl and I started liking each other. I have 4 classes with her and my locker is next to hers. She is really short, about 4’11, blue eyes, and bleach blonde hair. So we eventually started going out. And I started making new friends that have the same interests as me (like skateboarding, music, how we dress, etc). I have gotten my social life back. Currently I am still living in Tennessee, I just turned 13 on April 13, and I still have my (gringa) girlfriend. I still keep in touch with all my other friends in Texas, but it wont ever be the same… BY: JAIRO DIAZ |