From the Other Side of My Bed

2. Spotless Mind

Isn't it odd to you about how deep the mind runs?
How can it take you through time in a matter of a blink?
I don't know, I think about this as I stand before the kitchen sink, slowly, lacking energy really, scrubbing the dirt off some dishes when I look up and see the picture of me and my dad, when I was just a baby, hanging right in front of me. Next to it is a picture of a duck and a chicken I used to own back in my country, guatemala.
I raise my hand, and carefully, my fingertips touch the contour of my dad's face in the picture.
Tell me why I remember when this was taken?

Oh, to go back in time.
It's just crazy how things were lined up for me to have existed.
The only thing that didn't line up was my birth taking place in autumn, when I was born in the place of the forever spring, formally known as guatemala.
Country between Mexico and salvador.
I was born in the pinnacle of new wealth for my family.
My father is a successful lawyer there, and mom was a homemaker, pious as well.
Together, they built a grand house in the residential colony of prados de monte maria, about thirty three minutes away from zona 1, the capital.
It was a yellow house with two rose bushes at the sides of the garage entrance.
The house always seemed majorly grand for a tiny, little me, yet indeed it contained enough rooms for the family and even had two living rooms. We were even fancy enough to have rose bushes inside our small, but lengthy pathway, with two large and greenest lemon and orange trees. Papa would climb like a monkey to get the oranges and never feared that I would be near the rooftop's edge. Our house was definitely not child proof.
This sense of confidence trusted in me that I wouldn't do stupid shit made me a very daredevil individual, I thank this to papa.

My country is renowned as the country of the forever spring; tropical weather, but never hot as it is here in arizona.
Everything is devastatingly green, a massive beauty of greenery and tall mountains where clouds would fall lazily on the very top of them. In the cool months, fog would fall gently on the top of the houses and everything looked like a mystery film I would watch on the wire tv, and the street lights were always between a dangy orange or yellow. From my house, far away you could appreciate the pacaya volcano, a tamed volcano which was surrounded by pacayas, an edible flower there. Only once have I seen it explode, and when it did, it was sort of beautiful. The colors radiating from it reminded me of the fireworks and it illuminated everything no matter how far you were located.
The next day we had black sand covering every inch of the streets, houses and trees.

Early morning dew would appear not only in the flowers, but in the cars, houses, bikes and the freshness of it would perfumed the morning every day on my way to school. Over there, the flowers always blossom and the people have destinations.
Don't get it twisted, my country is poor.
Very, very poor and the majority of the population is still it.
The presidents of it have always been corrupted, stealing the nation's millions and then trying to disappear to Panama (among other important figures) or eventually after being replaced by the next future crimin- i mean, president, they get locked up. But this doesn't mean we aren't like, forced to still vote and choose the least evil candidate. I hope you know I'm being sarcastic.
My country is just like another third world country, nothing new.
Everything there is doomed to remain the same, a lot of Victorian morality, underdeveloped cities, nothing modern but conservative, and the loving patriarchy.
Either way, I sort of liked this for what the general conception was, but does it mean people follow the generality? Of course not.
I don't blame them, as there is good, there's bad.
You're not always perfect.
But there are things which I wish they had changed: nameless women carrying their newborns on the streets, panhandling as they sat on the streets and little kids would be roaming around selling gum, candy, phone minutes and cigars.
Little kids doing this.
Do you understand how grave is that?
They do this everywhere because they have no choice, to be a kid in a third world country and being born into poverty means you're not allowed to be a kid, but someone who now has the same responsibility as others to contribute to the household. My dad was one of these kids.
I never admitted it because people just roll their eyes at me because of who I am, but I always feel really guilty for having advantages. If I could, I would have given them all away for others who are ten times kinder than I am.
You see there's kids everywhere selling stuff, but the best place is in la sexta.
A fantastic street which you cannot even grasp enough the movement, the life and euphoria there, mostly on saturdays.
The magnificence flowing through the fingers of street artists who paint as it depends on their lives. Crowds might sound awful to you, but there? That's where you get the most adrenaline, non-stop chatter and laughing, music dancing through ear to ear, the biblical poets and the competitive vendors screaming out there best sales made you want to be part of all.
The sound of the marimba on saturday mornings, the trees swinging left to right as leafs would fall uninterruptedly as school's bell rang and echoed through the city as the laughter of school girls would fill the air as they dispute over what kind of granizada they wanted at the vendor's spots and lustful teenage boys would try and look down their skirts as pigeons flew by and gather in front of the cathedral and the baby pink clouds would reveal a forever blue sky.
Sometimes I had to stop and need a minute to absorb it all for it to be really real, but it was. The magic there is immeasurable.
Everything over there is colorful, even the camionetas and taxis.
What we know as camionetas, you know it as the yellow school buses here in America, but we remodeled them by painting them with different colors and led lights with signs written on them the destinations the bus is going and same for taxis. The streets are old, and crowded by four in the afternoon which lasts until seven at night, with thousands of motorcycles zig zagging between cars and the commotion of cars honking and the sirens of ambulances passing by with a mix of music in the background always made you had a rush in adrenaline and euphoria that cannot be put into words.
It's a vibe..
Any place I've been in the United States, even in the poorest areas, there was still this polishness in them. Still with their perfect buildings and notoriously boring people.
In Guatemala, regardless of it being consumed in calamity, it still retains its vibrance and in there, you can appreciate the delicate condition of what it is like to be human.
When I was small and started to understand my surroundings, I would pay attention on our way back home with papa in the car as all streets are cracked up and dirty, with a dark blue mist surrounding them.
I would watch with interest some of the houses falling apart from the barancos and the cars passing next to us were usually outdated and I never saw anyone caring about what was designer or not. In fact, up until I moved to Arizona did i came to understand what was vogue and versace couture.
Most children are always parent free, roaming around in the streets past six. A mini improvised soccer game would break and after winning, all players ran toward the tiendita as they order and chug down some cool coca cola as they all laugh and roast each other and girls in groups would pass by, chattering and giggling as they would stare back at the boys and then some old, dirty men would catcall them from the stairs of their homes. Cracking open some cervezas gallo while their wives were making tamales for the next day, and then yelling for them to come in as dinner was ready, turning down the volume from their favorite novelas.