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Audio Story Script

What stories are we allowed to tell? I would argue this question is as old as what constitutes literature and is especially provocative in our current socio-political climate. Everyone has a story inside them, but what stories are you allowed to tell? How far are you allowed to share them? With fiction, this is a complicated question. It can lead to angry fans who claim you did not portray a culture or gender correctly. It can lead to backlash from individuals who find an experience too narrow, even if it relates to your own experiences. However, creative nonfiction comes with its own problems as well. In some ways, the questions are more intense because nonfiction writers are bearers of truth. They discuss real people and real stories, which creates ramifications about everything they write. So, the ramifications don’t just land on them, but on other people as well. The truth is enough, but when is the truth too much? When do we hold back? When do we plow forward? What are willing to give up to have our stories told? The truth is not simple. It is complicated. But, sometimes a story just needs to be told. We decide what stories we are allowed to tell by deciding what is most important to us in our pursuit of the truth.

My family was raised to slip things under the rug. We did not tell our stories. Everything had to remain in the family, whether it was hurtful or not. Of course, that meant I never felt a compelling reason to write nonfiction stories. After all, it had taken me a long time to just talk about my family to a therapist, much less to anyone else. My own family sees an issue with my honesty, thinking it has no place in the world. However, those stories are a part of my identity. My family is my entire life. They have shaped every part of me, both good and bad. They gave me stories to tell. However, I would never dream of hurting them. So, for a long time, the stories stayed inside me. However, I am a storyteller. I could not escape my stories, which had to be told. And despite my family’s apprehension, they were as much a part of me as them. I had a right to tell them as well. So, how did I decide whether it I could tell this story? I thought about my audience and about closure. I thought about what my words would bring to the world. The truth was, the stories about my family are stories I am allowed to tell because it is a part of my journey to heal. Not being able to tell those stories for such a long time hurt me, kept me from reaching my full potential. Not being able to tell those stories made me hide behind fiction, avoiding nonfiction for its personal nature. Not being able to tell those stories made me afraid, but telling those stories filled me with a sense of power.

So, ultimately, what stories are you allowed to tell? Well, the answer for that is the same as for what constitutes literature. There is no answer. You just have to decide what you are willing to do for the truth, what you are willing to sacrifice. Make yourself uncomfortable, but know that once a story is out there, you cannot take it back. Do not ruin the relationships that most matter to you, but trust yourself. You are the only one who can tell this story as it relates to yourself. Trust yourself. If a story needs to be told, it will find its way out one way or another.

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Graphic Memoir Analysis

My ability to draw is nonexistent. I have amazing writing ability, but I do not have the ability to craft anything vaguely resembling a human being or even a rock. I have tried crayons, pens, markers, paint, pencils, and oil pastels. At some point, I decided that this particular creative form of expression was not for me and continued to use writing as a method of exploration. The challenge with the graphic memoir was the drawing itself, because even though it did not have to be complex, I needed it to express the feelings within my story pictorially. So, once I decided my story was about my upbringing through boy bands, I realized I needed to embrace childlike elements for my story, so I could convey properly the sense of wonder I felt through the music of the boy bands I so deeply adored.

“Comics is a visual medium” (Hart 103). I am not a visual person, at least, not through drawing. I can compose something with photos others have taken or use editing software but crafting something from scratch was impossible for me. So, the idea that my story was primarily going to be told through pictures was daunting. So, I decided to do the hard part first. What was medium was I going to use? What pictures was I going to draw? Those were the questions I needed to answer first.

As Hart claimed, the “act of drawing is a way to relive the story, to put yourself as a creator back in time with new eyes and new tools” (Hart 19). The simplest way for me to embrace that time, or to “explore [the] emotional landscape” (Hart 20) was to use crayons to compose my drawings. At an arbitrary age, we start using color pencils instead of crayons because they are more precise. They make it easier to color within the lines and to make everything cleaner. There is significantly less smudging with color pencils. However, with the transition we lose that childlike wonder, that imprecise nature that makes crayons fun. So, I decided to make my art work in that medium. I am looking at the memoir from the perspective of an adult, but the crayons helped explore the innocence I had back then.

I tried to find my visual style within this project, focusing on my “innate visual voice” (Hart 57). I was not going to be precise, so I focused on more childlike drawings, simpler drawings. However, while they were imprecise, that did not mean I did not practice them to make them as clean as possible. I also tried to figure out the stylistic shifts as mentioned by Hart, which included “[h]eavy lines, light lines, no lines, bright colors, dull colors” (Hart 57). I wanted some precision in my organization, especially since the pictures were more chaotic. Also, having a set number of panels, even if self-assigned, helped organize my thoughts, both in the writing process and the drawing process.

I realized I instinctively wanted to use red in most of my panels, save for the symbolic picture where I hit rock bottom because there was no color in my life then. Everything was black. Red is a color of life, associated with blood, passion, and energy. It was not a romantic or hormonal passion, but a passion towards something in life. That is something that disappeared with depression, passion or enjoyment in things I once adored. So, the red represented how alive I felt with such a simple thing. It was the brightest color in my pictures, so I included it in the few panels they were not originally in. This was the “visual motif” (Hart 121) Hart referred to, which I found.

 Contrary to most things, I began with the drawing process first, picking specific symbols to my journey and translating them into words. The words were still easier than the pictures. In fact, I had too many words. I needed to figure out which were the most vital to my comic, which were the elements of my journey. I already knew which boy bands had shaped my journey: the Jonas Brothers, McFly, One Direction, and assorted Korean pop groups. I just needed to figure out which were the most important. Due to Hart’s comments, I tried to figure out which of these boy bands had the biggest effect in my life’s journey. Which one had caused the biggest change within me?

The change in the characters, or what they learned, is vital to any story (Hart 50). There is no story without conflict. I was not sure what the conflict was within my story. The clearest answer I can come up with is my eternal struggle with anxiety, which is hard to label when going back to my teenage years because I lived in deep denial. I did not have the language to describe what was wrong with me and people just labeled it as teenage angst.

Hart’s advice was to “just work honestly through observation and practice to tell our story” (Hart 63). So, I did not focus on it being the perfect depiction of my story. I have talked about my anxiety before in class and this was just another facet. It was a focus on something that made me happy in my day to day life. According to Hart, “nothing matters except you have to tell this story” (81). Why was this story so important to me? It was a justification for my obsessions, but also, it helped show the comfort in the little things. How sometimes, those little things can keep you alive. So, that made it a story worth telling.

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Entrepreneurial Journalism: Rationale

Harry Potter has defined the literature of a generation. Originally established in 1997, the original book series did not conclude until 2007. The series spanned seven years of Harry Potter’s life and was pegged as a hallmark for child literacy. Students wanted to read the large books and they were able to grow alongside the title character. The influence of Harry Potter has expanded, creating new franchises. There are the original eight movies, the Fantastic Beasts movie franchise, the Cursed Child musical, and much more. That is not even including the fan fiction or the amusement park attractions at the Universal Studios. However, one niche that is underrepresented within the Harry Potter franchises is the scholarship that has come out of Harry Potter. Harry Potter scholarship is becoming legitimized, particularly as the children who grew up with the series become adults. Unfortunately, despite the literary value of Harry Potter scholarship, there are not many spaces where Harry Potter scholarship can be fully explored, causing a void that needs to be filled.

At Southwest Popular/American Culture Association’s annual conference, a panel was held discussing the future of Harry Potter Studies. One of the main issues discussed at the panel was there was no way to find all the scholarship that was written about Harry Potter, no way to weed out the redundancies. They published frequently, but only within books, which not everyone had access to. There was a lending library at one of the universities, which students could find through Interlibrary Loan, but many did not know it existed. The papers on Harry Potter scholarship never made it outside SWPACA or their annual Harry Potter Conference at Chestnut Hill College. So, many people had no way of knowing what had been written about before because there was no database for it. Many presenters also submitted their papers to other sections, not realizing SWPACA had a section for Harry Potter Studies. All these barriers have kept Harry Potter Studies from becoming a truly legitimized academic field as it keeps them from publishing new material within scholarship. These barriers keep Harry Potter Studies from recruiting new scholars and circulating their papers. It keeps others from realizing the benefits of the scholarship they have to offer.

Creating a database or website is vital to the continuation of Harry Potter Studies and to Harry Potter scholarship. J.K. Rowling keeps expanding the world and therefore new scholarship will be created. A database would increase the circulation of the material, allowing scholars to cite the works within their own works. This benefits Harry Potter scholars in two ways. The first is that the more citations the scholars receive, the more legitimate Harry Potter scholarship becomes. The second is that they are able to see what kind of papers utilize their citations and form connections to other Harry Potter scholars. The field is growing and joining the movement at its beginnings will allow anyone who help expand the field be at the forefront.

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How Boy Bands Saved My Life

I don’t remember much about my childhood anymore. I think I was happy, mostly. Except even then I sobbed whenever I made a mistake, a foreshadowing of the anxiety disorder I would one day develop, so deeply consuming that it would haunt me in everything I went. Around puberty, I started to crumble. There were many reasons, not the least being simple biology. My parents fought frequently and I needed something to drown them out, to help me escape for a moment. I needed to be able to find peace in the chaos of my house. I needed to find freedom.

I found my salvation in the form of a boy band. I did not pay much attention to them in the 90s as most of my childhood was in Spanish, but the Jonas Brothers captivated me with their perky songs and attractive faces. Joe Jonas was my first celebrity crush, the person that made people realize I was not ‘broken’ because I was late to develop an attraction to a guy. I stayed devoted to them as a distraction. It was much easier to focus on their scandals than on my father’s affair or my mother’s pedophilic father. Pop stars were not close enough to hurt me.

Once the Jonas Brothers lost my attention, I moved on to the British Invasion. I fell in love with a band called McFly, which played instruments and told raunchy jokes. I was drawn to them by sheer loneliness, as my best friend had abandoned me and my parents still fought all the time. I needed something of my own that had nothing to do with acting as a second mother to my sisters. So, I clung to McFly and their catchy tunes and charming personalities. One of them developed a drinking problem, but he got better. I could get better.

True love came in the form of One Direction. I abandoned everything I had ever known before the second I found One Direction, a British boy band. It was the first boy band my sisters also liked, giving us a sense of community. They were there for me when I had my first panic attack, playing during late nights when I had others. I stayed up to listen to their British interviews because it gave me something to look forward to. For the length of an album, they could provide me an escape.

One Direction, much like my former best friend, had terrible timing. They broke up when I needed them the most, just like my best friend lost contact with me when my family started having financial problems and I had found out about my parents’ less than stellar lives. One Direction had not been used to drown out screaming, just the voices in my head that told me I was worthless, that I was not going to be alright. What was I supposed to do once they were gone, once there was nothing new to offer? What was I supposed to do without them?

I went to graduate school. It was my first attempt. I was in El Paso, thousands of miles away from home, from my family, from anyone I knew. There was a sea of people that looked like me and I still did not feel like I fit in. Donald Trump became president, I had several episodes a day, and I began to doubt myself again. The voices would not stop. I had been in bad places before, but I always managed to pull myself back up. I could not really do so this time. I was at rock bottom.

A roommate introduced me to kpop. I had grown up knowing what it was, but I had never really listened to it. But it was comforting. I had grown up around a lot of Asians and Asian culture. It was a part of my identity. Developing an interest made us grow closer. The voices would not shut up because they were trying to tell me something important this time. I was making a mistake. I was not supposed to be there. That was not my path. But the world sent me kpop so the very painful message could hurt a little less.

I have had other rock bottoms, other moments were the voices were so loud they made me want to curl up into a ball. But I still have kpop and its plethora of boy bands. I have something to make the day a little easier. It is the soundtrack to my recovery, the latest accompaniment to my origin story. It is the sounds of me still being here. It is the sounds of me not going away, no matter what is in my head. It is my fight song. It is the sound of happiness.

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Animal

My father taught me to never believe in friends.

People threw around those words too easily, especially with the evolving technology. Friends on Facebook, Instagram, Myspace, Tumblr, or whatever other social media site came along made it seems like there are more friends than there are. My father was a practical man. Always was, though he was not always that way. He liked telling me stories about his crazy youth, mostly to deter me from ever making the same mistakes.

One story that always stuck with me was how he once chased after a galloping horse on another horse and then launched himself on the other horse’s back. I always pictured a small brown boy, going at breakneck speed. It was fascinating considering my father freaked out when I went to bed after ten. I still have that bedtime now whenever I am in his house, despite being well above the age to drink alcohol and old enough to rent a car. Some things about parents never change.

My dad loved that horse. He loves horses in general, both riding and rearing. It was one of the few animals he did not actively talk about putting on the barbecue, which he joked about every animal, including the hamster I named after him. I highly doubt he would have eaten Chachi outside of a nuclear apocalypse, but he still made the joke. Also made it about the cat we would eventually get and the assorted rabbits that became part of the family. He just never made the joke about the horses.

Or Travieso.

Travieso and my father met on the street.

He was beautiful. Perfect for my father, despite being what most people would consider a lady’s dog. The little Pomeranian was with his sister, Chaparrita.

Back then, they did not have names yet. They were random dogs with no owners despite being purebred, namebrand dogs who were incredibly adorable. Dad always wanted Pomeranians because they resembled little lions. Or little wolves. He would have also enjoyed huskies, but the Texas weather would hardly make them a good investment. Besides, we had a small backyard and the Pomeranians were free. That was the only time my dad could have his dream because we weren’t the kind of people who could have Pomeranians otherwise. We weren’t so lucky.

My father loved that dog more than he ever loved any other animal that passed through our house.

Our dogs have a tendency to run away when they feel death is imminent, almost as is some instinct drives them away from home. Chaparrita did that. But Travieso? He died in our backyard. He refused to leave his companion, his best friend. I don’t care what my dad believes. My dad loved that dog. And he loved him.

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Silver

My mother has never been the kind to keep a secret. It is strange, considering she is also a frequent liar. She pretends to be ten minutes away when she has not even left the house. She has covered up any misbehaviors, from bad grades to unfortunate accidents with a telephone poll, to one brief online affair with a man who gave her more attention than my father. She hid my own father’s first affair from me and the reasons behind their long-term separation. My mom is a liar, not always a good one, but a liar nonetheless. Yet, she still could not manage to keep her mouth shut about my class ring.

My mom tends to spoil surprises. I am not sure why. Maybe she gets excited or maybe she wants you to prepare for the proper amount of surprise; maybe she simply wants to feel like a part of it. I will never understand, but I would have never known my dad was getting me a ring for graduating high school if she had not spilled the secret months before he dared present it to me. She told me my dad was working extra shifts to pay for it, as I was the first girl in the current generation to graduate high school, much less the first who planned to go to college. It was a big accomplishment for me, but I never wanted to ask my dad for a ring. I wanted one. I craved the validation, the substantial thing I could wear around to prove my accomplishment. But I did not ask. We had so much trouble making ends meet back then. The fact that he would do that for me was touching. It makes me more emotional now than it did back then. I understood what it took then, but I truly understand now.

I am now grateful to my mom for telling me; I managed to drop hints to my dad that no one actually waited to graduate before wearing their class rings. They wore them through out their senior year. One day, he asked me to extend my hand; I knew what was going to happen, but I feigned surprise. I did not feign the sheer joy pouring through me as my dad placed the ring on my finger. It was silver and held my birthstone, a pink tourmaline. I always felt lucky, since pink has always been my favorite color. There was an engraving for orchestra and the year I planned on graduating.

When I graduated college and traded my silver (well, I suppose it was actually white gold, but I never differentiated much between them) ring for a gold one. I gave my high school class ring to my little sister. I was moving away and I wanted her to have a reminder of what she was working for. I told her, one day she could pass it down to our youngest sister. Maybe she would need the reminder as well.

My class rings are both currently hidden somewhere in my house, probably in some dark closet, held hostage by my mother. My mom took it from my sister, like the busybody she is, and kept them for safe keeping. I am not as upset about it as I once was, though I would like to get them back to their proper owners someday. I believe her now. She wants to keep them safe. My mother and I may never understand each other much, but she understands the significance behind them. Maybe a part of her wants to be in those precious moments. I wonder if she understands that she is, in her own dysfunctional way.

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Partner

My sisters looked exactly like me, as if my parents followed the exact same mold after me, only deviating in personalities as if to add a little variation in their lives. As the differences appeared, I started to joke they were clones, but unfortunately there had been a mistake so they were not quite as good as the original. My sisters usually scoffed or rolled their eyes. That is how we showed affection towards each other. My dad was also a teaser, so it was a method of self-preservation.

My sisters and I were attached at the hip since each of them was born. Maybe it was because we were Mexican or because my parents forced me to look after the two of them every day after school. Maybe it was because I was blamed every time something went wrong with them, like when my little sister failed the first grade. Maybe it was because I was not a mother, but I had to behave like one. I have always felt a connection to my sisters and once they became older, I stopped feeling so lonely. I had someone to share the burden with.

I went to Meador Elementary school for third and fourth grade. My sister Chelsey went from kindergarten to fourth grade. My sister Itzel went until she was in the third grade, since we had to move. It was strange walking back in to Meador, seeing the little girl I used to be and the little girls my sisters were, then watching another one age and no longer be the same little girl I once knew.

I was frequently occupied with school or work. I moved to the dorms at the University of Houston to live away from my family and earn some independence. I wanted to be someone outside of my sisters, despite how much I adored them. Instead, I missed them. I missed watching them grow up and having the support they gave me. I missed having someone to hug me and tell me everything was alright. My parents stopped doing that after I became an adult, as if I no longer needed the emotional support.

Rodeo Day never changed, staying the same at Meador Elementary. Even Coach Taylor refused to leave, a painful reminder of physical education classes. She was still teaching there when I went to watch Chelsey, being home for a visit. I watched her square dance and do a line dance. Then a few years passed and I was home again, this time to watch Itzel go through the same motions. I remembered my own line dance and their square dance. An endless cycle of Sosa girls doing the same thing. Following the same patterns.

I am not sure why we are the same or why we are different. I just know I am grateful to have them in my life, each of them unique while also reminding me of myself, but better, each of them evolving into wonderful people. In that same gym, I learned I would never like physical education or be tall enough to shoot a basketball. Chelsey learned she liked sports and would go on to join basketball, then the JROTC. Itzel would learn to love to dance, having much more coordination than the both of us ever could.

My sisters and I are bonded together by blood and shared experiences. I am not sure who they will turn out to be, in which ways they will be like me or different from me. However, I look forward to the journey. After all, they saved me from feeling so alone.

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Peace

I drank alcohol for the first time when I was twenty-one. Except that wasn't quite right. There was the accidental drinking of the margarita when I was a child because I thought it was a slushee, then there was the time my father insisted I try some of his wine because he was convinced I would be curious about alcohol before I hit the legal drinking age (which I wasn't), and of course there was the blood of Christ which barely qualified.

So, I was twenty-one. My birthday had been spent alone, but that Friday I went to Calhoun's Rooftop, University of Houston's bar and grill. It was in its infancy back then, but my friends wanted to treat me to a burger and my first real drink.

I was eighteen when I admitted I was crazy.

Don't get me wrong, the signs where there long before that. It turns out it is easy to spend years in denial. Teenagers were supposed to cry every night and sleep sporadically and hate themselves and feel overwhelmed and never cry when something actually upset them only randomly over innocuous things and bottle up their feelings and never be a bother to their families.

That was much more difficult to argue after I had my first panic attack.

There have been others since then. I spent my entire failed semester in Clinical Psychology in a perpetual panic attack. But that first one meant something. It was a monster forcing me to confront deeper inner demons.

I made an appointment for therapy the next day. I started after winter break, told my family about a year later, and remained for a while.

I told myself I didn't need medication. Another denial.

My first drinks were awful, mostly because my friend forgot her ID so my margarita on the rocks became a watered down gloop while we waited for her to race back from the dorm with it. Still, I finished half of the slop and downed a fireball. Since then I tend to have my margaritas frozen and better whiskey, but I mostly remember what happened afterwards.

I felt calm.

The voices telling me I was worthless had stopped.

I went to my dorm. I did my homework. I wondered if this what normal people felt like.

I wanted to feel normal.

It is a cruel twist of fate that my first instance with alcohol lead to me losing it. It did not react well with any of my medications. Drinking would be left to special occasions when I could afford to skip my dosage for a day.

I never felt like that day again, but I feel so much closer to normal now than I ever did before.

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Digital Storytelling Photo Essay

Introduction: Home

I currently live 237 miles away from home. Financial barriers, responsibilities, and distance keep us from each other, except for a handful of days every month or so. It never feels like enough. They are an integral part of me, the other half of me. Without them, I feel lost, unhinged, alone. They are my greatest pain, but also my greatest support network. However, no matter where I go, I will carry my family with me.

A Galaxy

My sister created a painting for me before she left, asking what I wanted. I told her I wanted a galaxy, having always been fascinated by stars. They reminded me of family trips to Mexico, looking up at the vastness and feeling wonder, reminding me of the magic I wanted to capture within my writing. I could never capture those stars in Houston. As she was a daughter of science, she asked if I wanted accuracy, something she should not have expected from a fantasy writer. I told her no, I did not want accuracy. I wanted pink.

Her Name is Joanna

Joanna has been with me since I was a year old, likely stolen from a Target or a Walmart; the story changes every time my parents tell it. She has a mane, but I always insisted she was a girl lion. It was not out of some inherent altruism for the transgender community. I just thought boys were icky. My best companion was not going to be a boy. She has been through many tragedies, including an attempted drying by microwave, and a young girl insisting she needed a bottle and bows stitched on. She is worn and tired, but she has been alive for as long as I have. Somehow, she has survived.

Yoshi, My Everlasting Companion

Whenever I return home for visits, I play the Nintendo Switch with my sisters for hours on end. We are an aggressive bunch and it keeps us from wrestling. Usually it is Mario Odyssey or Super Smash Bros; I am not an incredibly complicated gamer. The two creatures remind me of those simple evenings, playing with my sisters. We had not had a video game inside the house since I was ten; buying the Switch was a special experience, used to rechristen our new home. I am always Yoshi on Super Smash Bros, have been since the Nintendo 64. I never played much then though; I did not have the company.

Monkey in the Middle

There is no special attachment to my monkey. I adore monkeys; they are my favorite animals. However, I was not compelled to include a nameless monkey on a four-hour trip to San Antonio, considering my new bedroom was the size of a large closet. I did not want it with me, not until my little sister, Itzel, placed it in my hands. It was a gift from her, one of many. However, she wanted this one to be the one I took, this to be what I remembered her by. And I do. She gives me the same eyes.

A Connection to the World

Discovering an HDMI adapter was one of the greatest achievements of my television viewing lifetime; suddenly, my sisters and I could connect my laptop to the television. We could watch anything and everything, annoying our father with Star Wars marathons and anime. Its job was eventually taken over by an xbox and a smart TV, but I keep it for those days we don’t have that, those days my sisters and I want to share a story together. Mostly, we criticized the stories, but we were artists; it was to be expected.

My First Convention

My first long distance trip was to Galveston, an hour and a half away. Somehow, my little sister, Chelsey, and my nephew, Ian, made it alive with me. The button is all that remains of my souvenirs, aside from memories of my sister spending most of the convention staring at knifes and katanas. She, thankfully, could not afford the katanas, but she left with a few knives. I preferred to commemorate the trip with a button, which I used to attach her tail every time it came off. For obvious reasons, I have not worn the button since then.

Jack, the Jackalope

Jack originates from the wild streets of the San Antonio Riverwalk, a gift to myself because it was my last day with my family. They would be returning to Houston and I would be alone in a strange city with no job and a slowly dwindling savings account; but at least I would have Jack. It was my final opportunity to feel like a tourist in San Antonio, before being forced to acknowledge that Houston would not be my home for a long time. Instead, I would probably grow to complain about tourists ruining the atmosphere and overcrowding the place. I was looking forward to it, but I was still scared to be left behind. The last time I had left, had not gone well for me. Would it go better this time?

Blue Rags

My dad (not father; that is the f-word of our household) works operating machinery. He frequently borrows tools from work to use at home, but also comes back with other “borrowed” items, such as hot chocolate and the rags. My mom placed an entire bag of them in my car while we packed. My father has never been a sentimental about things, always finding a reason to throw something away. He was the only person smiling while we threw things away after they were damaged by the hurricane, always a fan of decluttering. So, I do not have much to remind me of him. Except for the rags. The same type of rags he used to clean up oil spills, his hands, and the kitchen table. Sturdy, practical rags. Like my father.

A Worn Connection

The sticker is another purchase left from my first anime convention. It started to peel, so Chelsey demanded to tape it down. She checks the sticker every time I come home, making sure it is still there, though cracked and peeled. On weekends, I FaceTime my sisters. We watch television or shows on my laptop together, synchronizing everything so we can feel as if we’re together. It is much more intimate than talking about it afterwards. It makes me feel as if I am back with them.

A Book Unread

My sisters purchased the book for me as a going away present, since the library did not have it yet. I still have not read it, though I should have long ago. I knew I would not be able to put it down once I started. There is just never enough time between classes. However, as I look at the book I am enveloped in a warmth, because neither of my sisters are adults. They are young, one of them a child, but they still feel the need to comfort me, to send me a part of themselves with me. I take that as a sign that I did my part in raising them well.

Choco-Mil

I force my parents to buy me a can of Choco Milk every time I go to visit, bringing whatever is left back with me to San Antonio. It was a staple of my childhood, usually found only in Mexican grocery stores. No other brand is quite the same; not Hershey’s, not Nesquik, and certainly not Great Value. I am not sure why, considering I do not consider myself picky, except when it comes to chocolate milk. Is it nostalgia? Is it the formula? I don’t know. But it makes me think of my parents and drinking a bottle while rubbing my father’s ear, waiting for us both to fall asleep.

Rough Hands

I do not wash my dishes if I can help it; that is the job of a dishwasher. I grew up in a household where you were never allowed to use it, so going off to college, I decided to take full advantage of it. There was no need for me to buy pricey dish soap, except that is the soap we use at home. I remember scrubbing dishes and being impressed by the power behind it. I remember my mom telling me to go to bed and that she would take care of the mess, because she knew I did not like doing the dishes. I remember always seeing a clean sink. I miss her more than I ever expected to.