Father’s Day: Remembering my dad’s fight for my life
My father and I are nothing alike. As my sister explains, he’s a “red personality.” He’s hardworking, strives to be the best and leads with a streak of stubbornness.
I, on the other hand, was diagnosed as being “blue”: modest, honest, constantly seeking acceptance and always trying to keep things simple.
So when people ask why I do certain things, like taking a physically demanding job at Amazon as a seasonal associate for instance, I struggle to give a straight answer.
Perhaps I want to prove I am physically capable. Or maybe I want to show that I’m just as hardworking and stubborn as my old man. Those answers would suffice, but they never roll off of the tongue quite as easily.
The truth is, my dreams and ambitions come from feeling like I’m living on borrowed time—a short lease that was extended thanks to my father’s strong character.
I sometimes hear my dad tell family, friends and guests about the multitude of problems that accompanied the premature birth of his first son.
I, on the other hand, was diagnosed as being “blue”: modest, honest, constantly seeking acceptance and always trying to keep things simple.
So when people ask why I do certain things, like taking a physically demanding job at Amazon as a seasonal associate for instance, I struggle to give a straight answer.
Perhaps I want to prove I am physically capable. Or maybe I want to show that I’m just as hardworking and stubborn as my old man. Those answers would suffice, but they never roll off of the tongue quite as easily.
The truth is, my dreams and ambitions come from feeling like I’m living on borrowed time—a short lease that was extended thanks to my father’s strong character.
I sometimes hear my dad tell family, friends and guests about the multitude of problems that accompanied the premature birth of his first son.
Former Salinas Journalist reflects on special mother
The Salinas Californian, May 12, 2012
The most vivid memory I have of my mother came in 1995, the year my grandfather passed away.
His death brought my mother from the United States to Nicaragua on emergency leave. She was in the process of straightening out her legal status and was well aware that if she left — even if it meant tending to her father's funeral — that would hinder the process.
She didn't care.
She wanted to bid a final farewell to Carlos Alberto Alonso García, one of the most important men in her life.
She boarded a plane and returned to the country of her birth.
The day of the funeral, I couldn't believe what I saw. My mother was beautiful. A woman who walked with subtle pride and dignity. I thought she was someone of high importance. I couldn't believe I was her son.
She still leads the life of a quiet leader, but her hidden gift is that she's not afraid to be witty, funny and crack a joke or two even in a time of hardship.
She was dressed to the nines. And there I was trying to call her attention so she could see what I thought were cartwheels executed to textbook perfection.
"Mom look. Mira, Mira."
That was the only time I had to fight for my mother's attention. I don't blame her. She had more pressing things to do than to watch me contort my body trying to make cartwheels.
With four children, a husband, a job and her own professional aspirations, my mother never showed favoritism. I suspect she has her favorite, but there's no real way of knowing.
Unlike my father, her traits are ones I can't successfully emulate.
The woman finds time to raise kids, guide her husband, cook, clean, go to school and work while still making time for the occasional but well-deserved trip to Macy's.
Sorry dad, your quejas — complaints — of a trip to Macy's in the name of budgeting won't fly here. My mom is Superwoman. She does it all without breaking a sweat and makes it look easy.
I can't tie my shoes and talk at the same time. Everything my mom does is with unparalleled love, a smile and an honest heart.
Sixteen years after my grandfather's funeral, I attended another.
This one was a wake for a 14-year-old Salinas resident who was shot and killed in November 2011.
Her body was found in Chualar. I was there to cover the vigil and interview friends and loved ones. While getting a quote from the girl's father was difficult, the task of getting a quote from the mother was one that proved impossible.
I couldn't get myself to walk over to her. Her pain was too much to bear.
I learned that afternoon that no pain comes close to that of a mother mourning the loss of her child.
Mothers truly know best — offering the kind of love that I can never pretend to understand. I walked to my car eager to celebrate life. I wanted to call my mother and tell her I loved her above all else.
But I was at a loss for words. So I tell you now, mamá, I love you. No need to reply. I know you love me more than I can grasp.
There are no guarantees in life but I'm optimistic that I will bury my parents.
Except, my mother was so young when she had me that when she passes, I'll be so old, fragile, weak and near the grave myself that I will have to solicit the help of others to handle the farewell arrangements.
That day, I'll hold back the tears by doing cartwheels, celebrating the life of the woman who gave that very thing to me.
Luz Marina López Alonso, you are my lighthouse, my light of hope in a blanket of darkness and my moral compass.
The most vivid memory I have of my mother came in 1995, the year my grandfather passed away.
His death brought my mother from the United States to Nicaragua on emergency leave. She was in the process of straightening out her legal status and was well aware that if she left — even if it meant tending to her father's funeral — that would hinder the process.
She didn't care.
She wanted to bid a final farewell to Carlos Alberto Alonso García, one of the most important men in her life.
She boarded a plane and returned to the country of her birth.
The day of the funeral, I couldn't believe what I saw. My mother was beautiful. A woman who walked with subtle pride and dignity. I thought she was someone of high importance. I couldn't believe I was her son.
She still leads the life of a quiet leader, but her hidden gift is that she's not afraid to be witty, funny and crack a joke or two even in a time of hardship.
She was dressed to the nines. And there I was trying to call her attention so she could see what I thought were cartwheels executed to textbook perfection.
"Mom look. Mira, Mira."
That was the only time I had to fight for my mother's attention. I don't blame her. She had more pressing things to do than to watch me contort my body trying to make cartwheels.
With four children, a husband, a job and her own professional aspirations, my mother never showed favoritism. I suspect she has her favorite, but there's no real way of knowing.
Unlike my father, her traits are ones I can't successfully emulate.
The woman finds time to raise kids, guide her husband, cook, clean, go to school and work while still making time for the occasional but well-deserved trip to Macy's.
Sorry dad, your quejas — complaints — of a trip to Macy's in the name of budgeting won't fly here. My mom is Superwoman. She does it all without breaking a sweat and makes it look easy.
I can't tie my shoes and talk at the same time. Everything my mom does is with unparalleled love, a smile and an honest heart.
Sixteen years after my grandfather's funeral, I attended another.
This one was a wake for a 14-year-old Salinas resident who was shot and killed in November 2011.
Her body was found in Chualar. I was there to cover the vigil and interview friends and loved ones. While getting a quote from the girl's father was difficult, the task of getting a quote from the mother was one that proved impossible.
I couldn't get myself to walk over to her. Her pain was too much to bear.
I learned that afternoon that no pain comes close to that of a mother mourning the loss of her child.
Mothers truly know best — offering the kind of love that I can never pretend to understand. I walked to my car eager to celebrate life. I wanted to call my mother and tell her I loved her above all else.
But I was at a loss for words. So I tell you now, mamá, I love you. No need to reply. I know you love me more than I can grasp.
There are no guarantees in life but I'm optimistic that I will bury my parents.
Except, my mother was so young when she had me that when she passes, I'll be so old, fragile, weak and near the grave myself that I will have to solicit the help of others to handle the farewell arrangements.
That day, I'll hold back the tears by doing cartwheels, celebrating the life of the woman who gave that very thing to me.
Luz Marina López Alonso, you are my lighthouse, my light of hope in a blanket of darkness and my moral compass.
A holiday tale of love, generosity and Holden Caulfield
USA Today College Blog, Dec. 23, 2010
Shh, I’m going to let you in on a secret. I just placed an order for Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree.” It’s for Adriana, a gifted, fledgling writer at age 11. Yes, I am fully aware that the reading level may be a little behind her, but let me explain.
A year ago, I was composing a Christmas tale. I stayed stapled to my laptop for hours, smoothing the story’s rough edges. For the most part, my MacBook was my bubble.
The piece, which I titled “Catcher in the Rye,” was about Adriana.
I failed to finish shaping it into something I dared show to my cynical editor, but I never pushed the “delete” key. As I watched Adriana grow in height and spirit this year, the message grew clearer with each passing day.
Another Christmas approaches. I’m trying to resurrect my composition. Pecked away, I sense Adriana stealthing up behind me, looking over my shoulder. Though she hasn’t read this one, I feel her critique flow into my ear as it often does in other assignments.
“Ah, man, no wonder he’s a writer!” she flatters her big brother’s effort to an otherwise empty room. She begins reading my words aloud:
I see my 9-year-old sister counting her change, trying to add up all her coins.
Not knowing why, I ask,
“How much do you need?
“Twenty dollars,” she says.
“Why do you need $20?”
She is reluctant to tell me. I resort to big-brother wile. I persuade her to reveal her secret. “I want to use the money to buy people presents,” she relents.
“People” is code for “la familia,” not just parents and siblings, but everyone. Uncles, cousins, and aunts you name it.
I reach for my wallet to give her $20. She pushes my hand back and tells me she wants to find ways to raise the money herself.
She loves December 25 not only for the joy of seeing an assortment of presents under the tree, but because she takes an active role in giving.
She creates personal presents for all of us. She is running around a month before anyone even thinks about toys or gifts.
I remember when I was 12, my family went to Shakey’s pizza parlor. Mom and Dad fabricated a suspenseful mood. “We have something to tell you guys… We are having another baby.”
My younger brothers and Mom and Dad cheered and hugged.
I dissented silently. “Crap. I don’t want another sibling.”
Eight months later, my Mom brought the new López family addition home in a pink blanket. I asked if I could hold it.
My mother proceeded, gently, to place Adriana in my arms. As I sat there, I thought she was going to cry.
Adriana didn’t. She stared at me with the most innocent eyes you ever saw. All she wanted was to love and be loved. No prejudgment. She let me wrap my arms around her. No tears.
Nine years ago I learned what Holden Caulfield felt when he saw the “F**k You” sign on the bathroom stall. When I wrapped Adriana in my arms, I wanted to shield her from the crassness and violence of this world. I want to be her catcher in the rye.
Of course I can’t.
“All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she’d fall off the goddamn horse, but I didn’t say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it…”
Adriana’s parents and three older brothers already know Adriana’s life is something extraordinary. But somehow, someday, we will have to let her grab the ring herself.
This year, a decade after she came into my life; I am giving her a book and the greatest of gifts, my love. She is mi muñeca, my giving tree.
Adriana wants me to teach her how to be a reporter. If she only knew what she has already taught me.
Shh, I’m going to let you in on a secret. I just placed an order for Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree.” It’s for Adriana, a gifted, fledgling writer at age 11. Yes, I am fully aware that the reading level may be a little behind her, but let me explain.
A year ago, I was composing a Christmas tale. I stayed stapled to my laptop for hours, smoothing the story’s rough edges. For the most part, my MacBook was my bubble.
The piece, which I titled “Catcher in the Rye,” was about Adriana.
I failed to finish shaping it into something I dared show to my cynical editor, but I never pushed the “delete” key. As I watched Adriana grow in height and spirit this year, the message grew clearer with each passing day.
Another Christmas approaches. I’m trying to resurrect my composition. Pecked away, I sense Adriana stealthing up behind me, looking over my shoulder. Though she hasn’t read this one, I feel her critique flow into my ear as it often does in other assignments.
“Ah, man, no wonder he’s a writer!” she flatters her big brother’s effort to an otherwise empty room. She begins reading my words aloud:
I see my 9-year-old sister counting her change, trying to add up all her coins.
Not knowing why, I ask,
“How much do you need?
“Twenty dollars,” she says.
“Why do you need $20?”
She is reluctant to tell me. I resort to big-brother wile. I persuade her to reveal her secret. “I want to use the money to buy people presents,” she relents.
“People” is code for “la familia,” not just parents and siblings, but everyone. Uncles, cousins, and aunts you name it.
I reach for my wallet to give her $20. She pushes my hand back and tells me she wants to find ways to raise the money herself.
She loves December 25 not only for the joy of seeing an assortment of presents under the tree, but because she takes an active role in giving.
She creates personal presents for all of us. She is running around a month before anyone even thinks about toys or gifts.
I remember when I was 12, my family went to Shakey’s pizza parlor. Mom and Dad fabricated a suspenseful mood. “We have something to tell you guys… We are having another baby.”
My younger brothers and Mom and Dad cheered and hugged.
I dissented silently. “Crap. I don’t want another sibling.”
Eight months later, my Mom brought the new López family addition home in a pink blanket. I asked if I could hold it.
My mother proceeded, gently, to place Adriana in my arms. As I sat there, I thought she was going to cry.
Adriana didn’t. She stared at me with the most innocent eyes you ever saw. All she wanted was to love and be loved. No prejudgment. She let me wrap my arms around her. No tears.
Nine years ago I learned what Holden Caulfield felt when he saw the “F**k You” sign on the bathroom stall. When I wrapped Adriana in my arms, I wanted to shield her from the crassness and violence of this world. I want to be her catcher in the rye.
Of course I can’t.
“All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she’d fall off the goddamn horse, but I didn’t say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it…”
Adriana’s parents and three older brothers already know Adriana’s life is something extraordinary. But somehow, someday, we will have to let her grab the ring herself.
This year, a decade after she came into my life; I am giving her a book and the greatest of gifts, my love. She is mi muñeca, my giving tree.
Adriana wants me to teach her how to be a reporter. If she only knew what she has already taught me.