You are the strongest, the wisest and the most courageous woman I know, and I’m afraid that I don’t deserve you.
I remember the time we went out to see a standing ovation because my older brother was involved in it. I exaggerated how cold I was and complained until you finally gave up and took me home. You cried when we got home, but you forgave me.
I remember the time I came home hours late and had missed 8 calls and a number of texts. I made excuses for my actions and you told me to go to my room as your voice started breaking. You were so angry, but you forgave me.
I remember the time I broke a gift I had given to you only a few months after Christmas. I tried to hide it, blamed it on others and refused to be responsible for it. You picked up the shards and tried to fix it but you couldn’t. You were so upset, but you forgave me.
I remember the time I had lost the pricy gift you had given me for my birthday when we went on holidays. I looked for it everywhere, and when I couldn’t find it I eventually gave up. You were disappointed, but you forgave me.
I have many memories that I feel guilty for and they always end with you forgiving me. You’ve been there through the heartbreaks and the accomplishments, the highs and the lows, and the memorable and the forgettable. You’ve been with me since day one, and I can’t believe that I can call someone like you my mother. You raised three kids on your own, went out of your way to pave our futures and have guaranteed our happiness at the cost of your own. You taught me that a selfless person is one of the greatest gifts in life, and you’ve been giving me that gift from the moment you called me your son.
I’ll never be able to reach the selflessness you have – but as your son, I will try.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom.
Your terrible, but loving son, Bryan.”
I can barely remember a time where the strange intrigued me.
Covering everything from creepy stories to far fetched urban legends, the weird and strange have always fascinated me, intrigued me into learning more. Whole afternoons were spent researching the supernatural, and at night, I would scourge through countless links about “true” horror stories. Stories of hauntings and escaped patients of mental asylums were, and still are, a strong passion.
Horror and I have always been close companions. It’s a strange passion – the very things I love to learn about at the same time scare me half to death. Lights would be (and still are) my first destination, and I very rarely venture outside groups when I’m outside. Stories of ghosts, hauntings, serial killers… No matter how implausible I convince myself they are, there’s always that uncertainty, the slightest possibility in my mind, that there’s something lurking in the dark.
I recall visiting the video store while my parents where off to do groceries with my brother. And every single time, we would spend the entire time just reading the backs of horror movie cases until they got back. I remember every period in computing class were spent with friend on horror sites, reading user submitted stories. And while those around me have lost their interests in the supernatural, I remain, expanding my knowledge of the unexplainable. Shadow people, the mothman, wendigoes, poltergeists… these are the things I have loved to learn about since I was a child.
I really do love discussing with others superstition, myths and strange creatures. I really wanted to make a post about this only because I was talking about this topic with a bunch of people from my youth group, and it was great hearing others’ own opinions and experiences. And on that note, I’m off to do some more research and see what else I can dig up to satisfy this little obsession of mine.
For Part 1 of this “Life” post, click here.
By the end of 2003, the land of Australia was fast closing in. Dad had left a few weeks prior to our own departure, leaving us to say farewell to our family members. It’s important to know that when you live in a Spanish family, life can be a little… crowded. But alas, family is family right? We spent our remaining time in the warmth of our family – the days reserved for the odd family member we would see every once in a while, the nights being used to spend time with our grandparents.
But it was soon over. With a bag full of clothes and a handful of English phrases in tow, I boarded a plane for the first time. It was a rather ordinary flight but as you could probably guess, it was amazing through the eyes of my 6 year old self. I remember having the window-seat, and so I spent the next 24 hours staring at clouds. The excitement of being in a plane soon faded as the day turned into night; the white clouds into a dark sea. I shortly fell asleep.
I awoke as my mum nudged me in the shoulder, the newfound sunlight seeping in from the window. The plane was flying lower now, circling around the city of Sydney. It was something I had never seen before – high rises, buildings, bridges and roads stretched as far as I could see. As the plane started it’s descent, it became harder and harder to contain my excitement. The aircraft came to a pause, people shuffled their way outside and I suddenly found myself in the cold, neatly paved parking of the airport.
Dad had been waiting for us with a bright red minivan (which sadly, we don’t own anymore). We hopped on and 2 hours later, we had arrived in the middle of Australia’s suburbia – the Western Suburbs. At the time, I had a very little idea of how the world worked, how Australia worked and how long I would be staying here.
It never occurred to me that I would still be in the same suburb, 11 years later, writing about the same day.
Hi Everyone! So for the first “Life” related post on this blog, I decided to talk about my travel from my home country Ecuador to the land down under, Australia. I’ll be making the overall story in parts, so check them out every week.
The farthest back in my memory I can go to is the age of 4. I vaguely remember moments before this age, but this was around the time I became conscious of the world around me. My family lived in a four story building which my grandparents owned and much of my childhood was spent playing in the outdoor area on the second floor.
My mother, who had left our country to look for a new place for us to live, has a very little role in my early childhood memories. My grandmother instead had taken that mantle – “Mami Chenita” being what my two brothers and I called her. Our grandfather (who was adequately named “Papi Ramon”) was perhaps the person I felt most close to though. I was very similar to him apparently, a younger version many would say (I have him to thank for the green/hazel eyes). I would play away the days with my younger brother, the older one much to old to concern himself with us. Looking back now I had a very happy childhood. Yet in spite of this sunshine-filled existence, I was completely and utterly oblivious to what my mother was going through in finding a new place to call home.
My memory is very sparse between 4 – 6. As far as I think I know, mum had come back to us when I had turned 6 with our new step-father in tow. It was an interesting year – my mother had placed a larger interest in English and talked of an “Australia”. Now I had no idea of what Australia was – I think I thought it was an ice-cream flavour rather than a country. I do remember thinking I was great at English though, or at least enough to authorise me to teach my grandma the language. In any case, by the end of the year “Australia” became all that dad and mum would talk about. The wonderful land of Australia.
Australia, Australia, Australia…