Under the Sea

I come from a large family of educators. Hard working people with strong values who believe that learning is a lifelong endeavor, that we must be open-minded, compassionate, and tolerant. That we must teach, mentor, and guide others as we not only bestow knowledge, but also evolve, redefine, and transform our own way of thinking…constantly challenging paradigms, looking at things from different perspectives, and in courteous and gentlemanly fashion, debate opinions, beliefs, and schools of thought as opposed to just accepting the status quo, or blindly accepting information as fact or doctrine.

The photograph in the picture you see before you is one of my favorites. It is of me and my father during a family beach trip when I was just a boy. As I was looking for Captain Morgan’s treasure snorkeling, my mask kept fogging up, causing me to surface and momentarily halt my meticulous scanning of coral and rock along the clear, ocean floor. Seeing my frustration, my dad patiently came over to help. He showed me how to ensure a proper seal and fitting, but he also taught me that you could spit onto the glass inside the mask and spread the saliva (preferably not with your fingers), to prevent the moisture build-up. I watched intently as he dipped the mask in the water after coating it and then had me put it back on.   

I never questioned this unconventional problem-solving method because it hadn’t been the first time that he’d shown me how to troubleshoot on the fly. Miraculously, my mask didn’t fog up anymore, and I was able to get right back into the game, gazing at tropical fish, looking for seashells, and of course, the hidden treasures awaiting my discovery.

As is the case with most of these teaching moments, in hindsight, I realize how much more my father was really imparting than just that singular lesson. It wasn’t so much that one could simply prevent a mask from fogging up with spit, it was also, beyond the surface, a series of life lessons that I would eventually carry with me for the rest of my life. In the moment my dad took to show me a life hack, he embedded in my mind a way of thinking and looking at the world. He showed me that oftentimes there are unusual or unthought of ways of problem solving…essentially, how to think outside the box as it were. He demonstrated, that even out in the ocean devoid of tools, you can solve a problem using your immediate environment, or even your own body, but that you have to look, be open-minded, and willing to accept that your answer might lie where you least expect it.

This picture is on my dresser for the specific reason to remind me at the dawn of each day to remain open-minded to new ways of thinking, to challenge conventional paradigms, to seek and impart knowledge, and to be compassionate and patient with others who may be struggling. This photograph serves as an aide-mémoire to always look in unexpected places for a solution, to help others whenever possible, and that even out at sea, without tools or technology, you can defog a snorkeling mask, and that oftentimes, the greatest treasures in life are not buried in the sand or even found under the sea at all, but waiting to be discovered within us. 

Olympic Trials part two: Leaping towards finality

Many years had passed since I had given up my aspirations to be an olympic bobsledder, and amazingly I still hadn't pushed my little sister into oncoming traffic, nor had I bled out or gotten rabies due to her unparalleled penchant for biting. In fact, we had been getting along better than usual...enough even to stand each other's presence long enough to play a game; to my little sister, a game of tag. In my eyes, however, training for olympic hurdles.

I have a lean build. Long wiry legs, but endowed with enough fast-twitch muscle fibers that I've always been fast and graceful...not unlike a gazelle, sans the face paint or gaudy head dress of course. Even at the age of 12, I knew that olympic hurdlers and I had something in common, and while becoming an olympic bobsledder was a noble pursuit, the lack of ice in the tropics, or appropriate equipment, would make it a challenging journey. Consequently, I had decided that I could hurtle myself to fame and fortune without a sled.

As our little "game" of tag progressed, I realized that I had egregiously underestimated my little sister's own fast twitch muscle fibers, and found that she was consistently within reach of my shadow...a distance I was determined to lengthen. I ran into the den, leaping over a futon, initiated a shake and bake maneuver around the entertainment center and my Dad's disheveled yet sophisticated network of extension cords and cables, and then I darted towards our older sister's room at the end of the long hallway.

I had to think fast, and I figured I could leap over my sister's bed and that would be enough to solidify my superior quickness and improvisational skill. I could see the finish line and one last hurdle to navigate. My little sister was so unbelievably close behind that I could feel her breath upon my neck. As planned, and like a antelope leaping over a fallen comrade, I cleared the bed, but sensed it hadn't created enough distance and the only way to finish this for good would be to entrap her in the room. After all, who can chase you behind a closed door? As I bolted from the room, I swung the door quickly in order to stymie the little speed demon's pursuit, but instead of the familiar sound of a slamming door, I heard the unmistakable sound of wood impacting a human skull.

Although the sounds was distinct and identifiable even at my age, the reality of what had just happened really didn't sink in until I heard the screaming. And not the I stubbed my toe, or even cut my finger kind of screaming, but the "oh my god I'm bleeding profusely and may not make it to see my next birthday" kind of screaming. As I doubled back to investigate, I saw what appeared to be the bludgeoning of a baby seal. Our older sister, who had been showering, was summoned by the screams, and stood before us dumbfounded and dripping wet.

Before I could entirely process what had transpired, my sister's head had been wrapped in quickly soaking towels and was carried away to the hospital leaving a trail of blood droplets along the shiny marbled tiles, the image of white towels turning pink to be forever seared into memory. I was left behind to mop up the mess and to ruminate, once again, over the fact that I may have killed my little sister...for real.

Needless to say, my olympic dreams were thwarted for good, and now I watch them on tv knowing the true extent of the difficulties one must overcome to accomplish such a feat. I don't know if I'll ever reconsider olympic aspirations, but at least for the meantime, writing is pretty safe. At least for my little sister anyway.

Bloodshed at the 1984 Olympic Trials

Because my little sister and I were closest in age, we generally were forced to entertain each other against our will. From time to time, boredom would overcome our desires to push each other off of a cliff and we would be civil enough to play a game or two, but usually our loathing was too much to suppress and we'd end up fighting, me armed with superior intellect, and her with sharp teeth.

One day my best friend Robert and his little brother David came over to play. Our driveway was at an impressive incline, which made for perfect high-speed descents in my flashy new wagon. After a while, my little sister wanted in on the action. She was obviously unaware that girls are not allowed on all men, Olympic training bobsled teams and I was certainly not budging on a hundred year old policy. In an act of misplaced female activism and defiance, my little sister marched to the pole near the bottom of the driveway and in silent protest, blocked the wagon's path. 

I issued multiple warnings as Robert and I prepared for our next run, but little sis held fast in her sacrificial stance. I figured that once she saw the wagon speeding towards her, that she would naturally move out of the way, but I truly underestimated her resolve and passion for bobsledding. True to my word, Robert and I pushed off and quickly jumped in the wagon, hunching down to maximize acceleration. Fatefully, I was at the helm, steering the red bullet as it raced down the slope, all the while expecting the deviant holding on to the pole to bale on her useless tirade at any second. Before I knew it, the handle flew from my hand and the wagon, seemingly possessed, careened towards my sister as it picked up speed. 

I fumbled to regain control, but the handle fell forward and away from my grasp, and was now shooting straight out like a spear, and a split second prior to impact, I was made aware of its target...my sister's hand. This wagon was not made from plastic, but of rugged, unrelenting iron, and it pierced through her pudgy, 4 year old flesh and sinew like butter. Before we knew the reality of what had transpired, shrieks of murder ringed in our ears and the sight of a thumb hanging on for life by a sole strand of tissue, was indelibly seared into memory for eternity. Our mother, well versed in first aid, immediately came to the rescue. Unfazed by the sight of blood, or the dangling digit, scooped up the wounded bystander, wrapping her hand in ice and towels, and rushed to the hospital.  

My initial response was, "I told you so", but after the bloodshed and horror, I was truly remorseful and upset. The whole time she was gone, I hoped that her thumb could be reattached and that the Olympic trials would eventually resume without any more hiccups. I now know the answer to the question posed by many physics teachers, "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?" In the end, the little brat returned bandaged and well, and so began a deep seeded hatred that gave birth to years of my little sister's vengeful wrath, and eventually another story of when she had to be rushed to the hospital after another one of my brilliant ideas.

About a Boy

When my sister asked me to be a guest writer on her blog, my initial thought was that she must have gone crazy, obviously forgetting my penchant for sarcasm, innuendos, and fanfare. Not the first choice for mommy-blog material. Even though I often push boundaries or flirt with impropriety, I also venture into the contemplative caves of the mind, and peer deep into the reflective pools of my subconscious, asking questions, turning over rocks, and creating ripples. I suspect this is where she wants her readers to go...and not waking up naked with a hangover, next to a monkey smoking a cigarette.

While my sister and I do share a love for baseball, movies, books, and dogs, we couldn't be more worlds apart. For instance, we both talk about boobs...me for my adoration of them and her for their ability to sustain life. She lives on the East coast, and I on the West. She is family oriented and domestic, while I live the whimsical, risk-taking life of the hopelessly romantic bachelor. She has four amazing sisters...and I win have been blessed with five.

I don't suppose most guys are raised in such an equally nurturing, yet hormonally volatile environment. And truth be told, while I never got to watch what I wanted on T.V., or use the bathroom without a wait, I was bestowed a unique perspective into the female psyche. I'm certainly not going to sit here and tell you that I am a guru in such matters, but I am privy to the source of many female-specific behaviors that usually stupefy my less intelligent, neanderthalian brethren. Okay, well perhaps I don't have the actual answers as to "why" they do what they do, but I do have a fairly fool-proof crisis management and survival guide, which I personally think is more practical anyway.

Growing up with five sisters is kind of like being raised by wolves. You're allowed in the den and are considered family, but they can still tear you up if you get out of line. I'm not exactly sure where I'll go with my post, but I've lit the fire, and within the cauldron, something mysterious brews...

Field of Dreams

Oftentimes, the best lessons in life we learn without even knowing it. Mr. Miyagi began teaching Daniel Karate by making him wax his cars, paint his house and fence, and sand the floors. Similarly, my Father taught me some of life's most valuable lessons by teaching me how to play baseball.

 

My Dad taught me how to properly oil and shape a new baseball glove; carefully and meticulously working the oil into the new leather, forming a perfect pocket for the ball. Many hours were devoted to punching my fist into the cradles of new gloves to ensure the perfect feel and wear. Life is eerily similar. If you work hard enough at something, life can bend to your will. I learned that the most rewarding things in life need to time to be cultivated.

He showed me how to wait for the perfect pitch, how to hit curveballs, throw a sinker, and 3 different types of fastballs. He showed me how to cut off a throw from the outfield, cover a base, sacrifice bunt, and steal bases. He also stressed that you don't always have to try and smash the ball, just make contact. You'd be surprised how far it goes when you just make contact with the sweet spot of a bat.

Timing is everything. Sometimes showing restraint in the present will produce the perfect set of circumstances in the future. Life inevitably throws you curveballs, I know how to wait them out. Life comes with its hitting slumps, I know how to keep swinging through them. When one strategy isn't working, have two other fastballs you can throw. There are moments when you have to step in and take over a situation, cover your buddy's back, sacrifice yourself for others, or take a risk. When I'm trying too hard to make something work, I know that sometimes just the right amount of effort or finesse, will garner the desired results, often exceeding expectations.

 

I remember my Dad liked to say that there will ALWAYS be somebody faster, stronger, and better than you. You have to work harder, work smarter, and although you might not always beat him, eventually you will. I learned that I didn't like losing, but that it's very much a part of life, and the smart ones learn from it.

He instilled discipline, work ethic, commitment, and courage. Being the coach's son, I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I learned the value and responsibility of working hard to hone skills. It takes courage to stand in front of an 85 mph fastball. I learned that occasionally you get hit, and although it's painful, you can capitalize on misfortune. Life too can sting, but you have to dust yourself off and get back in the batter's box no matter what. And sometimes, you have to take one for the team.

 

From watching my Dad trek across the baseball diamond to argue a call with an umpire, I learned that you have to stand up for justice, fairness, and equality. I learned that there are times you have to question authority/government and that you have a voice. If nothing else, every time he got in an umpire's face, it demonstrated the quintessential example of commitment and loyalty. In life you have to be fully committed to your cause, your family, and what you believe in, others will loyally follow.

 

He conditioned me to be coachable. I remember he would also say that everyone you come in contact with in your life, potentially has knowledge or insight that could be useful and applicable to your situation. Different people have different vantage points, experiences, skill sets, and knowledge. Stay open minded, listen to what they have to say, consider their experiences and learn from them.

We played catch, pepper, hit batting practice, caught fly balls, and threw countless pitches. It still baffles me to this day, how after all of that, he was simultaneously molding my character and preparing me for life. I had to work hard at some things, while others just came naturally. As I get older and reflect upon these memories with greater frequency, I begin to understand the importance of the bond between Father and Son, and more importantly, how monumentally significant even the most trivial of activities spent with your Father can influence and shape your life.

I'll leave you with lyrics from a Kenny Rogers song that my Dad sent me one day. I think they sum things up rather well. You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you're sittin at the table. There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

Fight Club

I know that the majority of my posts exist only to entertain you, however there are instances in which the desire to share more intimate details about myself become increasingly relevant. Those emotions become even more difficult to ignore when I have clients like the one I had today.

My first client today, Rosa, was a delightful woman who had come to me once before. She is currently undergoing her last round of chemotherapy for breast cancer and next has to deal with 7 or 8 rounds of radiation treatment. This subject hits a little close to home for me since my own Mother lost her battle to breast cancer when I was about 9. After learning about my personal experience, Rosa was no longer uncomfortable about her hair loss or the instrument inserted into her breast to facilitate the chemotherapy. As a matter of fact I made a funny comment on how she should be careful what neighborhood she walks in with that red bandanna wrapped around her head, because people could get the wrong idea. She assured me that she reserves the bandannas only for more relaxed settings and that her gang bang'n days are over. She usually wears a wig or a hat when going out.

Rosa is really lucky that it was discovered as early as it was and that soon she will be cancer free. Hopefully she will remain that way. To my recollection, my mother wasn't as fortuitous. She had to get one breast removed . . . . and then the other. . . . and soon it had become too aggressive to contain, spreading to her lungs and eventually making respiration too difficult. I don't talk about these memories too often. Not only is it hard having to revisit the darkest time in my life, but I sometimes feel as though talking about it too much almost cheapens my mother's struggle. It's also disheartening to know that had it occurred in this day and age, the outcome may have been very different.

My client seemed pretty fascinated at how vivid my memories of my mother were considering how long ago she was taken from me, and she continued asking questions, which for some reason I was completely at ease in answering. I even disclosed some extremely personal details about what I remembered about her last days and even the funeral. I'm not sure why I did, or even how it came about really. It's usually the clients who find it necessary to spill their guts so to speak. We were told in Massage Therapy school about how our touch could influence people to have emotional recollections of past traumas and undergo breakdowns or full blown regressions. But they never warned us of the tables being turned. All I know is I felt compelled to share a piece of myself with this stranger. Not a complete stranger of course, for the cosmos had certainly connected us in more ways than one, but a stranger none the less.

Before I knew it our time had come to an end. It was a little awkward in parting. I wanted to hug her to express my support, but having to respect professional boundaries limits me to reciprocation and not initiation of behavior that could be misconstruedWe both had just shared things about ourselves that our closest friends may not even know, but nothing more was to be exchanged than a smile and a friendly reminder to drink plenty of water through out the rest of the day.

There is a plethora of other feelings I cope with when bringing up the past. Sometimes I feel as though my life has been wasted and I should have dedicated all my time to the discovery of a cure. I'm sure there are more productive ways to commemorate my mother's death than by buying pink bracelets and air fresheners, and participating in an occasional "walk for a cure". Perhaps as I get older I will discover other ways to offer more significant contributions. I suppose as long as my heart is in the right place, things will take care of themselves. I can only hope that the book I've begun to write will make her proud in some small way. At the very least it shall serve to continue spreading awareness and maybe even to remind so many of you just how lucky you really are.

The Fugitive

Yesterday, I found out that my sister is a fugitive of justice. I discovered her newly acquired talent last night when she called me to confess her crime. As any good brother would do, I recorded our conversation for evidence and this was her story . . . .

[my phone rings]

“Hello?”

“Brown, have you heard?

“Cris?”

“Oh my God,” I hear her hand slap her forehead. “You won’t believe what I did last week. I’m such a criminal!”

“Slow your roll there O.J., what happened?”

Taking a deep breath she began her explanation, “Well . . . . During an afternoon last week I was walking Lucy (her golden retriever) and as usual she was off-leash. We had already been out for a while and it was pretty hot, so we started to head back home through a park next to some running trails. As we came around a bend I noticed a park authority official getting down from her vehicle. As she descended from her truck I called Lucy over so that I could quickly attach her leash. Lucy miraculously came (which she never does) and as I snapped on the leash I looked up and noticed that the park authority lady had noticed and was already making her way towards me. As she made her sheriff-like approach she said she was going to give me a $350 ticket for walking my dog off-leash. I asked if I could get off with a warning, but she said that the county was done with the ineffective “warnings” and that she would have to issue me a ticket. She started writing furiously.”

“Uhuh”, I said listening intently.

“Well, I sure as hell didn't want to pony up $350 so I told her that I wouldn’t pay and started to walk off. What the hell was she gonna do, right? Then she said that she was going to call the police and I stopped dead in my tracks. Brown, I didn’t know what to do, I started panicking. So, I turned to her and said FINE, call ‘em! And I took off running.”

“You did WHAT?” I asked as I choked on my iced tea.

“I dunno what I was thinking, I just took off. As we ran I could hear her making a call on her walkie-talkie as she attempted to follow me while holding up the cumbersome utility belt that was obviously slowing her down. I sped through some trails and after coming around a corner I ditched my conspicuous red and white top in the bushes.

“No you didn’t”, I muttered in disbelief.

“Oh I totally did, I don’t know what came over me. I ran the rest of the way home, practically dragging poor Lucy behind me.”

“I can’t believe you, that’s fucking hilarious”.

“At nightfall, I went back and retrieved my shirt from the bushes.”

“Haha, you better not walk Lucy around that park again.”

“I know, I know, I’ve been avoiding the neighborhood altogether and I’ve even been wearing a hat all week. I told some people at work and now everyone has been calling me a criminal.”

“A criminal on the run huh? Hehehehe . . . .sorry, I couldn’t resist. Let’s just hope they don’t find out about those highlighters.”

“How’d you know about those?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch”

StripTease

Howdy Y’all. I hadn’t put anything up the past couple of days, because I was in the Lone Star State, attending my cousin Big M's wedding over the weekend. It was held at an absolutely gorgeous garden-like venue overlooking a glistening lake, embedded in the rolling green hills. We were surrounded by a plethora of flowers and various plant life that swayed in the afternoon’s breeze with Sade’s voice in the background.

It was certainly a little different than most weddings I’ve attended, as everyone was casually dressed, and we were sitting outside melting under the sun’s unrelenting glare. I didn’t know it was being held outside (or that is was casual). So, I was wearing a tan suit with a black shirt and was so hot that I felt like a human tiki torch. Thankfully the actual length of the ceremony was shorter than in the bud light commercial with the auctioneer for a preacher. I never thought I’d be so happy that two people weren’t religious, or that I had forgotten to wear underwear.

For the weekend’s festivities we rented two huge houses on a huge resort, next to a huge lake(apparently everything in Texas is huge), to accommodate my astronomically large family. We had a complimentary golf cart to shuttle people between the two locations since they were a little over a mile apart. I like golf carts, but as I discovered, you should never drive them naked after 15 margaritas.

I love when the family gets together. For Hispanics this means tons of sinfully delicious food, good music, dancing, games, and stories. And of course, with so many cousins, nieces, and nephews around, this inevitably creates the perfect blueprint for my many pranks, or for someone losing an eye. This time nobody lost body parts, but one sister cut so many jalapenos that she did have to ice her fingers for 6 hours. [sniff, sniff]

We attended a BBQ on Thursday night and the party rehearsal dinner was on Friday night. It was a typical family reunion, with the elders telling stories and me trying to find out how many fajitas I could eat before exploding. I also drank so much sangria that I was running around slapping everyone on the ass saying, “good game!”

One of my cousins, who’s notorious for hooking up with beautiful women, even though he still lives with his mom, decided to go for broke and bring a stripper to the wedding who has a five year old son (and a peculiar belly rash). Now, I definitely don’t have anything against stripper moms, (God knows that my uncle Jerry is a wonderful mom), but this particular girl was definitely not the pick of the litter. I’m not even concerned with the fact that she got beat with an ugly stick. What’s entirely worse is that she is as crass and as unrefined as people get. At one point, she dipped some chips into the ENTIRE bowl of salsa, leaning her head over it as she ate, while little chunks of food fell from her mouth (she was gracious enough to put her other hand under her chin). I watched in horror as she desecrated my Aunt's holy salsa. Afterwards, she scratched her belly and I half expected her to lift her leg and let out a resounding fart (as I had a few moments earlier).

I suppose every one’s lucky streak runs out eventually, although I think my cousin might be under some weird stripper spell (or he could just be hypnotized by her gigantic breasts). Either way, he’s in for the long haul, because he decided to make a DNA deposit and now they’re going to have little stripper babies. I’m not a big fan of polluting the gene pool, but I suppose it’s better than getting syphilis.

All grown up

Some where along the way, (without me noticing,) my little sister grew up. That’s right, I said it, the girl went and got all growed up. I suppose, through my eyes, I’ve always seen her as my little sister, but the truth is Gnat is now 27, has successfully graduated art school as a computer animator, leads a youth group at her church, and is now tackling the most important job next to parenting, teaching. How times have changed.

Of course, she wasn’t always like this. As a matter of fact, she was more like that kid from the exorcist. I’m usually the kind to sugar coat the truth, but for the sake of literary impact, I’m going to be as forthcoming as possible. My little sister was a spoiled brat (the spiteful seed of Satan I often thought). She was Daddy’s little girl, and she knew this all too well. She constantly nagged, and always got what she wanted. And when she didn’t, she threw Academy Award winning temper tantrums until she did. To top it all off, we absolutely hated each other. Sure, there were times when we would get along (usually to prevent dying of boredom), but for the most part, we were always fighting. And when we did, I had to be quick on my feet, because her preferred method of attack was that of a rabid Pitbull with lock jaw. You guessed it, her M.O. was biting. She would latch on like a South American river leech, sinking her teeth deep into my tan integument. I would do everything short of eye gauging to get her to let go. Some days I managed to escape her cannibalistic wrath, and others I was a helpless vampire victim. Even with my superior intellect and larger frame, she always had the upper hand, actually our Dad’s hand. Whenever my victory seemed eminent, she would pull the “I’m gonna cry now and watch Daddy come over and beat your ass” card. Most often than not, he did. She would cry and whimper, accusing me of hitting her (sometimes I hadn’t even touched her,) and right on cue, Dad would come in a frustrated rage and unleash a thunderous punishment. A nice worn leather belt was usually the weapon of choice, but when that wasn’t in sight, God help you if you had left your hot wheel tracks out (kids these days don’t know shit about takin’ a lickn’). If you messed up around my house, you were getting spanked with something, and by somebody (even the maid had spanking privileges).

As the years passed, the fighting slowly diminished (as did the spanking.) She matured a bit, and we managed to be civil to each other through my pubescent years of Junior High. Through out High school, we even developed a friendship. Eventually, we both left home for college, and ended up on opposite ends of the country. From then on, I visited her on a few different occasions. We would see each other during the holidays and I also went to her graduation. Every time I spent time with her, I noticed that she had matured a little more. Our friendship grew and now we have in depth talks about relationships, family dynamics, and of course, boys (she always wants a guy’s point of view).

During my holiday visit at Fel’s house, I intended on visiting a beloved friend from high school. Unfortunately, she lived two hours away and I had no way of getting there. I had pondered the idea of asking Gnat for a ride (I certainly doubted that she’d loan me her new car), but didn’t think that she’d go for it. To my amazement she did, and was even upset that I hadn’t asked earlier, so that we could have left at a decent time. It was a two hour trip, and we had a pleasant ride talking about various topics (our childhood included), and of course, her current dating situation. At one point we stopped for snacks and I helped a woman who had locked herself out of her car get back in (contrary to popular belief, I am not predisposed to such talents because I’m hispanic, I just happen to be good with my hands). We finally reached my friend May’s house and we had a glorious visit. I was so happy to see that she had only grown more beautiful since I’d last seen her and that she was doing so well. I got to meet her amazing three year old son, who will undoubtedly become a model some day [insert acorn cliché here]. He was also very well behaved, and I marveled at the connection they shared (undoubtedly a mamma’s boy).

After catching up we all went out for sushi, and ‘lil man and I puppeteered an unfair duel between a power ranger and Lava girl. Apparently his defenses were impervious to fireballs, and Lava girl ended up with multiple sub dural hematomas and some broken bones (basically she got her ass beat). It was getting late, so we didn’t have time for the emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding that would have saved her life (where’s La Cubana Gringa when you need her?) We topped off our short stay with the opening of a few gifts, and watching ‘lil man crash hot wheels into each other. After extended good-byes and vows to never let eight years pass without a visit again, we were on our way back to Fel’s house. The drive back was fraught with deep conversation and with every thought and opinion expressed, Gnat revealed exactly how seasoned and matured she really was. I witnessed my little sister grow up right before my eyes.