Antonio L Bugarin

Being born in a border town like Mexicali, Mexico, meant my path in life started farther back than most, and not as far back as others. As a child in the United States, I struggled with reading and writing. Not having parents who spoke English meant I could never ask them, What does this mean? Or what a newspaper article was about, or what the news anchor was saying. This was a major hurdle, a handicap in our lives. Instead, it was I, we, the children, who helped our parents by teaching them the little English that we had learned. As a young family with six children, we became migrant workers. Going wherever the fruits and vegetables led us, from the Mexicali-Calexico border to the Canadian border.

My parents always painted life with a different brush. We weren’t homeless; we were traveling. Spending nights at rest stops wasn't because we had to; it was fun, an adventure, we were camping. But as the years passed, the walls of fun faded; they became thinner and thinner, and the reality of life was no longer an option. Sleeping at rest stops, usually under a table, was just that: sleeping at a rest stop under a table. Often waking up to the sound of the loud freeway, to cars driving up with their bright headlights, and to the sound and smells of engines as they parked just feet away from us. Waking up to the sound of strangers walking toward us, or right next to us, was never fun. The sound of their steps as we lay on concrete was louder, more defined. I could tell the difference between boots, sandals, and regular shoes. The dense, cold fog and its early morning muffling of sound were weird to me. The stillness, the lessening of movement of objects and people, made it feel like another world. After a few years, we settled in Cloverdale, California, and it was there that I began my path to my normal life, so I thought.