But watching my little sister grow up has been its own comedy special. She talks back, rolls her eyes, lets out a whole “UGHGH,” and walks away untouched. Me? In her same situation, a whole TV would’ve flown. 200mph. Clean shot. And I’d just be sitting there like… wow. Evolution. Difference is, I am a boy. She is a girl. The culture shows the difference. Yet she doesn't get it.
We live in a modern neighborhood now, a bigger house. Pros and cons? Oh, definitely a pro for my mom, she can now throw household appliances across much longer distances, like it’s an Olympic sport. She yells our names knowing the echo will make all of us immediately sink into our beds. Not me though. Jokes on you, I already left the moment you said my name in that tone. Pro for us? We’ve finally got enough space to book it, assuming your lungs can handle the sprint. Walking from the kitchen to my room feels like a full cardio session. By the time I get there, I need water, electrolytes, and possibly a paramedic. And somehow, it’s still never quiet. No matter how big the house gets, the background noise of a Mexican household just scales up with it, like surround sound chaos. Now there’s more space for my little sister’s attitude to bounce off the walls, and more square footage for me to plot my next escape when my impulsive sass wins and I need to run for my life. Fast.
And the stereotypes? Yeah, they check out. Bulk beer at every baby shower or birthday party? Accurate. But why is there more beer than juice or water? Why is beer the priority? I'm pretty sure it's more expensive. Somehow the budget always makes room for tequila. And I just sit there wondering how people can drink cans of beer all day, on a party schedule, and still eat like nothing. Me? I get full off water. And I love water. To those who say "all water tastes the same," I hope you can at least tell the difference between what's Colombian and what's Mexican.
“¡Para arriba, para abajo, pa' la izquierda, pa' la derecha, pa'l centro, y pa' adentro!” And of course, there’s the sacred ritual, a phrase we shout to calibrate shots of tequila, whiskey, vodka, whatever’s in rotation. Not me though. I was the one going feral in the corner because the Capri Sun pouch didn’t have a straw, and it was the last one. Or worse, it did, and I stabbed straight through it. Now I’m holding a leaking pouch, contemplating my existence, and still haven’t taken a sip. To this day, if someone yells “salud,” I’ll cling to the nearest cup like it’s instinct. You calibrate your tequila shot. I cling my juice pouch.
In high school, I worked at Best Buy as a sales advisor. After that, I stayed in customer service. And let me tell you, I’ve seen things. From uncensored photos on someone's phone to a customer asking me what computer is best for watching porn. I may have been 17. And pornography questions were something I experienced more than once, to the point where I was asked to transfer videos. Adult videos. I was 17. And yet, customers are some wild creators out in the wild. Customers would come up to me and assume I was Asian or Tongan. How? Why? Asian, I’ll understand, but Tongan?? Others would approach me with Google Translate open on some señora’s cracked Samsung Galaxy S12. You know the one, wallet case, screen protector peeling at the corner, trying to translate “can you help me.” Because why else did you approach me? But I would say, “Buenas, yo hablo español, jefe.” They hit me with, “¡Ahh! ¿Por qué no dices nada? Yo aquí como loco.” Sir. You didn’t even give me a chance. You just flashed your bright phone like a badge and expected me to read your mind. I was dodging insults and Samsung phones.
To the people who thought I was Asian, still not over it. I once helped a customer mid-shift while my coworker struggled with a Spanish speaker. I stepped in and said, “Espera, vuélvelo a decir.” Then his friend, the one I had just helped in English, turned and said, “I thought you were Asian.” Okay? And I thought you didn’t speak English. Guess we're both surprised.
And the moment people find out I speak Spanish, when they hear me speak it and tell me that I sound Mexican (whatever that means), or say that I sound like I’m Colombian, but I’m not out here saying they sound like they have a stick up their… hehe. I may sound like it. I do have an accent. I can’t hide from it. And I am proud of that. It’s who I am. It’s how people differentiate me from others. But then there are the ones who say, "you sound like a no sabo." Okay, well you don’t even speak English well, so what’s really the issue here? (I’m joking.) And for the ones that always say, “Say something!” Like… what do you want me to say? You won’t even know what I’m saying. Sometimes I consider saying, “my dog pissed on me,” just to see what happens. Or going full Sofia Vergara accent and listing every STD I know with a sexy accent. Because yeah, it’s not even curiosity anymore. It’s giving “Spanish is my kink” energy. Respectfully. Or colonizer.
And then came high school. Somewhere during all that chaos, I made contact with the juvenile justice system and was placed in a program called Alternative Juvenile Detention. While still a student. And boy, oh boy, oh boy, did my counselor have to slap that on my file like a warning label. Authorities were making sure I was going to class and coming to school to check on my attendance. (I still didn’t go.) I had four free periods, so what was there for me to lose? She had me in check. Her, the admin, and my parents. I was behaving. I legally had to. That was the whole point of Alternative Juvenile Probation, because if I messed up again, I was getting booked. It kept me in line. I didn’t have the option to mess up, not with everyone watching like I was a walking court date. I was on strict lock down. Driving? You’re not going alone. Riding my scooter? Absolutely not. And I get it. My parents were scared. Scared I’d ruin my future. One wrong move, and they were involved in this with me. They were legally responsible. Even when I turned 18, I was still under my parents’ legal custody. Their names were still on my court papers. Work? You already know they had me on full surveillance. I wasn’t risking anything.
Part of the process included a referral to counseling. And I took it. My mom accepted it, I mean, she had to, before it would be ordered by the court. But she showed up too. We started going before it was even court-ordered. I turned 18 in the middle of the entire probation and had the choice of a counselor provided by the state. By the time my final hearing came around, everyone in that courtroom already knew who I was, what had happened, the unfair treatment that led to me standing in that courtroom, and what I was trying to build out of it. But I was given a second chance.
And somehow, after all that, my mom stayed sitting beside me. A mother walking through a system she never expected, standing by a son she refused to give up on. Not a common experience.
That counseling changed everything.Eventually, I graduated. Not by accident. Not because I suddenly became a perfect student. I graduated because something bigger than me forced me to face myself, and I made it through.Getting diagnosed with ADHD helped me understand every breakdown I had ever gone through. It gave me clarity. It gave me direction. When I turned 18, I could finally make my own medical decisions. And that’s when I got on ADHD medication for the first time.Starting Adderall was the best unexpected decision I ever made. Until I was told I had a fast metabolism and had to double my dose to make it last more than four hours. Skinnnny.
Add in some teenage romance, where you're young and being dumb for someone you love, but it came with trauma too. Being the person that taught me about love, but also being the one to teach me about heartbreak. Teenage drama from social media, because we were immature, yet I was dragged into it. Courtroom trauma. Dealing with so much at 17 years old. And a sprinkle of amphetamine salts. That’s me. That’s who I grew from. I grew from a struggling Hispanic boy in a spiral of unstable emotions, to someone whose legal history made me the reason why I am here right now.
Don’t let your history define you. That juvenile file doesn’t define me. That ADHD diagnosis doesn’t define me. Even my best or worst days don’t define me.Look where I am now: an Honors student, a double major, working toward two high-level degrees, and building a future that no one handed to me. I took that history, and I wrote something better.This is my life. Or at least, what I could think of. But it’s me. It’s raw. And it’s real.
But I left out one thing: I’m terrified of bugs. Doesn’t matter what kind. Doesn’t matter the size.Flies? I swoosh them away. Butterflies? Stay away from me. Ladybugs? I’ll walk past you, but if you fly? I’m dropping and rolling. Bees? Depends. I once chilled in the trunk of my car next to a wasp. We had a moment. Then he flew away. I thought it meant something. Spiders, though? Anything bigger than a regular tarantula? No. I’m not throwing a shoe and hearing it ask me for the other seven. I’m not throwing a book and watching it flip through chapters. I’m not throwing a remote and it flips to La Rosa de Guadalupe. Because if I scream, I’m scared it’ll scream back.
Rats, though? Rats are cute. My mom’s terrified of them, though. If she sees me holding one and screams, I’m screaming too. Thanks.And yes, I will absolutely get into my truck from the passenger side if there’s a ladybug on the driver’s side door.
Welcome to my story. Told in rolled tortillas, court slips, medically prescribed attention, and just enough trauma to keep it interesting. I’m still that same kid with the busted Capri Sun, but now I’ve got goals, two majors, and a little more control over the straw.