Although I say that I grew up in Los Angeles, California, I secretly identify with growing up in Aguascalientes – I spent all of my childhood summers there. So much of my family history comes from Aguascalientes.
My grandmother on my mother’s side grew up on a hacienda in Durango, Mexico in the early 1920s. After my great grandparents lost their home and surrounding land during the Cristero War in the 1920s, they re-established roots in Aguascalientes. My grandfather grew up not too far from Aguascalientes, and it was there that he met my grandmother.
“Every gun makes its own tune.” — Blondie, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
“Ross” (*see disclaimer at the end) had almost been hunted down in an old hotel in Jerusalem, drank beer with a midget in Berlin, and slept on the deck of a boat on the way to Crete. He’d traveled the entirety of Route 66 and taken photos of every ghost motel and café. He nearly moved to Mexico to marry a girl. He owned an assortment of World War I rifles and vintage handguns. He’d read everything and met everyone.
NOTE: This article was originally published in LatinoMetro on June 7, 2012, three years ago today. Daniel and I later joked that I had unintentionally written myself into the article. Little did I know that I had literally written myself into his life. We’ve now embarked into a new chapter, where we collaborate on creative projects, as well as the great project of living life on this earth.
Several years ago, I ran across the written work of Daniel Reyes, when I started to get serious about my own blog – Chronicles of Undercover Mexican Girl. I was curious. Who was out there? Was there anybody else like me? Were there any “Latino” writers trying to make sense of their cultural identities, re-capture childhood experiences, document present-day adventures?
(Warning: Do not read this if you have an aversion to loose, dead hair. There are graphic images.)
Every morning before I take a shower, I comb out all the loose hair on my head, as I lean over the bathroom sink, to make sure it doesn’t make a mess on the floor. I have somewhat thick and wavy hair – and I have a lot of hair. Currently, it’s just past my shoulders, so a single hair pulled straight is anywhere from six to eight inches long.
I’ve been writing since I was a little kid. That might sound cute, but I wrote because I was a lonely child with a bad case of anxiety and shyness and only one or two friends at a time, sometimes none. Or at least, that’s how it felt. I was convinced I’d be alone for the rest of my life, growing up to be a lonesome spinster with long white hair and only a garden to keep her company. Sometimes, I still feel that way.