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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 had not really bothered me that I wore the same thing over and over. After this incident I worked the other three shirts into the rotation. This moment in time pretty much defined how I was to choose and buy my clothing for the next four years. I tried very hard not to own anything with patterns or prints. If by chance I did get an item with a pattern or print, I tried not to wear it often. I also developed a warped sense of awareness. Any stare caused me great turmoil; I believed "they" were staring at my clothes. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college that I shed my concerns about my attire. I was in my dorm room doing homework when my roommate’s friend--a stranger to me-- suddenly walked in. My closet door was wide opened. And this stranger had the audacity to look in my closet. Before I could object, he blurted out, "Cabrón! Tú eres como yo." -- Dude! You’re just like me-- I had no clue. Before I could demand an explanation, he saif , " You don’t have a lot of clothes either! You only have four jeans, two dress slacks, and few shirts. That’s all I have too! I thought I was the only one!" I could not believe what was happening. The fog was lifting; I could see clearly. This stranger had become my epiphany. I was not alone! There was no need to keep track of what I wore anymore; there were others like me. It did not matter now. This day and age, I still tend to wear the same things over and over. I have plenty of clothing, but I tend to gravitate to what I like and feels comfortable. I do not really care what other may say. --well, maybe sometimes-- While looking through photographs, it was pointed out to me that I had appeared wearing the same suit in three different photos during three different events.-- I made sure to choose the blue suit over the black suit for the next photo opportunity! Have you had any similar experiences? |
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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? |