Saturday, January 15, 1986… It was a dark, cold winter evening in the Back of the Yards- neighborhood of Chicago. About a week past- on January 6 – we had celebrated my little sister’s birthday and El Dia De Los Reyes (Three Kings’ Day). For some Puerto Ricans, this day is more significant than Christmas. They believe that the 25th of December is a prelude, and the actual start of the “12 days of Christmas,” which ends on January 6 – the day the kings arrived bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. My family- mom, dad, sister and I – were sitting around our wooden dinning room table eating a typical Puerto Rican dinner comprised of carne frita, arroz blanco, habichuelas, y tostones (fried pork with white rice, beans and fried plantain slices). As I write, I can see my plate – the reddish brown sauce of the beans running into the white rice, the crispy pork pieces cooked to perfection, and the fried plantains sprinkled with garlic and salt. I can smell and …

Most of us have had a season in our lives that we would refer to as our awkward looking – or flat out – ugly stage. Some of us are so fortunate enough to have hard evidence- school pictures, year books, family albums and home videos – to show for it.  My artifacts have survived- relocating from house to house, places where dust bunnies and moths call home- attics, basements, and storages – and even the eight months of Chicago weather when they were in the trunk of my car. Years ago, my mom graciously and lovingly put together an album that contained all my childhood and teenage pictures. I take pleasure in browsing through the pictures of my younger years. But, when I get to my preteen years I cringe. I flip through the album quickly, until I arrive at a more pleasant time- my late teen years. During my preteen years, I was without a doubt an ugly duckling. I had tight, kinky curly hair that I had no idea how to control …

I was sitting at the dining room table with wide-ruled paper, a corrected draft of my writing in front of me, and a pencil – which I faithfully had chewed on all day – in my hand. My pencil looked how I felt – chewed up and disposable. Night after night, I sat in that dreadful chair. I HATED doing my homework.  Regardless, there I was again having to rewrite another excruciating assignment. My second grade teacher’s red ink dominated my paper.  In the midst of all of the red, I could barely see my writing. It was being attacked by my teacher’s vicious red penmanship. The letters I formed, the words I phonetically spelled out – d a t (that) – and the sentences I created – I thought made perfect sense to me – were not pleasing to her. My paper depicted how I felt. One word – Defeated. I never had a chance. When it came to homework, it was my dad’s responsibility to help. Back then, I wasn’t aware of this, …