" Like many young kids in the mid-sixties and early seventies my father spent most of his time exploring, riding his bike, and frequenting his cousins across town. At a young age he realized he wanted more out of life than just the basics that were provided to him by his father. He didn't come from a bad background, but he wanted more than just to "make it." He wasn't quite sure on how he would achieve this goal but, like his father, he figured hard work would get him there.
Dad had many adventures at a young age. Any normal adolescent during the era spent most of their time outside during those days. Unlike many other Latino families ours has never accepted superstitious beliefs. My father doesn't believe in ghosts, but he illustrated to me a turning point in his life which he believes set his journey in motion. One day, during the winter, he recalls watching TV with his younger brother Edward in the living room; my grandmother was preparing dinner in the kitchen. Suddenly, he and his brother heard a man shriek. Startled, they looked towards the direction of the scream at the living room's main window. A bloodied hand slowly slipped down the glass, clinging to be recognized. My father and brother screamed in terror, hearing their cries my grandmother quickly joined them in the living room. In-between deep breaths, my father pointed towards the large living room window desperately describing what he and Edward just witnessed. Puzzled, my grandmother peered towards the window. There was nothing there. As my father and uncle caught their breath they also realized nothing remained but the shimmer of the sun hitting the glass window. Satisfying their curiosity the three of them ventured outside only to find an empty porch decorated with my grandma's empty flower pots. Swiftly, my grandmother scolded them, noting the importance of having dinner ready in time for my grandfather.