Once upon a time, when I was around two years old, my perfectly imperfect family moved to a remote neighborhood that was in the early stages of development; far away from the main city. One block from the very top of a hill on the edges of “La Flores Magon.”
My grandma, grandpa plus their twelve kids worked hard to be able to build the little house trench by trench, brick by brick, sweat by sweat. Some helped more than others, but everyone helped the way they could.
My earliest memories are feeling the chilliness and the texture of the unfinished floors, making that little house more fun to play in.
In a corner of my brain, I have a treasured and vivid memory of a strong storm that hit Mazatlán back in 1995. The winds were slapping the house strongly, so we had to wake up in the middle of the night to help secure the wood sheets we used to cover the wide opening that passed for windows. The rain created an avalanche of mud that overpowered the north door, and the kitchen floors became brown playdoh for us kids. My grandfather, being in the military, woke us all up first thing next morning to shovel everything out. It took almost all day to clean up, because the “playdoh” solidified.
It took years before the house was somewhat finished, but it was just a matter of time that the house that my family built started to build me.
In that little house, with no windows, half a roof and unfinished floors echo the first words I uttered.
In that little house my first footprints are sealed under the concrete poured years after the house walls were raised.
In that little house, on top of a remote hill in Mazatlán hides my manipulating, fake suicidal thoughts I screamed at my grandmother when I was an unhinged preschooler mad at her.
In that little house are the memories of building a little house from scraps for my sister and cousins to play “house.”
In that little house hide my screams after being electrocuted.
In that little house, I can still smell the smoke provoked by the enthusiasm of my curiosity to fix a broken lamp.
That little house held my pride when I graduated top of my class in sixth grade.
That little house's new painted walls protect the Gohan and Goku that I drew and painted in 1998.
That little house saw my first prohibited dance moves in 1999.
That little house still showcases the Virgin Mary I painted for my grandmother in 2001.
In that little house are my first smug looks, mocking laughs and first cries after taking a beating for being a mischievous little kid. And every single beating was deserved and worth it as they helped mold the man I am today.
In that little house, I played with and buried my first dogs…Harry and Potter.
In that little house, I was taught my first quote of the day, “Borron y cuanta nueva.” (Erase and clean slate.)
In that little house, I taught myself how to play guitar and gave birth to the very first lyrics of my very first song.
In that little house, an ideologist was quickly slapped by the real world.
In that little house, the smell of my grandmother's delicious cooking luckily still permeates the walls.
That little house was built in the middle of a neighborhood that became very famous in Mazatlán for the wrong reasons.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I played countless hours of my beloved sport, futbol.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I developed the courage to ask the girl I liked to be my girlfriend.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I made all the right decisions. There are no wrong decisions when life is morphing you.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I started my bodybuilding affair at age fourteen hanging from trees, never looking back.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I learned that not every human being has a good side, not even deep down.
In that dangerous neighborhood, I developed the awareness that life is not always sunshine and rainbows and the only thing you can do is work hard, fight for what you believe in and be grateful for what you already have because what you have at that precise moment in life is plenty.
If I was born again and had the choice to pick any house, I would still choose that little house in the middle of that dangerous neighborhood.
We grow up with the uncertainty of the future, the teachings of the past and the intermittency of the present and every moment was decisive of who I am today, and I am very happy with who I turned out to be.
We must be optimistic and try to see the positive in every situation that we are put in by the universe. Every day we wake up, and every minute after that is a gift. I don’t intend to waste my life being angry for more than three minutes with anyone, feeling sorry for myself for more than one second and I will always be proud of where I come from.
Occasionally, I go back to that house that built me. To remember who I am, to keep me grounded, to keep me humble. It is the only way to re-find myself after being lost out here, making the best of the opportunities that are thrown at me; using every experience from the past to seize the intermittent present and make the future less uncertain.
I love that little house that built me. Because that little house is my family in me.
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