Not sure if I have told you guys about my upbringing. Not sure if I should..
Mom was young when she got pregnant with me; Dad wasn't in the picture. She did what she thought was the best for me, and I was raised by her Mother. I grew up calling "mom" to my Grandmother, and I knew who she was, it wasn't a big secret -it actually was very common back then, parents moving to the USA for work and leaving their kids under the care of the Grandparents. Only difference was that, I never went to live with Mom once she came back to Mexico, ten years later. There was no resentment from my part, no hatred, no need for explanations. I knew who my Mother was, and I knew where I belonged to; but that didn't stop Mom from being in my life. She was, after all, who gave birth to me.
Mom ran her life; no one told her what to do or how to behave. She was a honey badger -she gave no fucks. And she was always giving me advice. No matter what was going on, she'd always had a word for me. Then, we moved to the USA. And I still didn't live with her. I wanted to do my own thing and try my luck. I did what I had to do, I heard what I needed to know, I said enough and I also offered apologies. I moved on. And I moved in with Mom, finally.
It seemed that every thing was falling into place, we had a house, two cars, each one had their own room in the two story house. I had learned English in no time. I had a job that helped the bills and my own satisfaction. I was out as a gay male in school, and my support system was strong. Then, the spell broke or something. Things went to shit, and hell broke loose... for about seven years. I wonder if all those mirrors I broke years before had come back for revenge. My faith was tested. My patience. My strength. But I made it alive, maybe a few pieces were broken, but alive nonetheless. And Mom was with me all along. Sure, we had arguements and fights, and whatever else happened (buy my Tell-It-All novel coming soon), but we stuck around and with each other; we knew there was no one else to turn to for help. We had created our own luck or disgraces. Maybe back then, I thought of Mom as one big bitch dragging me down, and maybe she was; but in the end, she was the only one that came through when I needed help. I guess what I am trying to do is to send a message to others out there who's been in a tough position with their own family, maybe, just maybe, they were doing all the could and felt just as lost and hopeless. Things happen for a reason, I am one strong believer, and now I know it better than ever. I look back to my trail, and I am grateful for each lesson. Even the most painful ones, because they made me the stronger person I am now. Time does heal. It does get better.
Little brothers. I love you both. We didn't have it easy growing up, but REMEMBER that we have two more siblings that grew up in Mexico, and without Mom.
I'm sorry we couldn't give you what you wanted, but we did our best to provide what we needed. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry our upbringing may have damaged your perspective of reality, but I hope that some day you can look back and understand that it was the little we could scrape to survive in a foreign place. Pick up the best you guys can recall from our past, and aim for something better for your future. It is now on your hands. And Mom and I will be here to help as much as we can, but as time goes by, we get limited. It is an every day struggle. You have the strength to fight harder and do better than we did. Do it for you. But just remember that Mom and I love you.