I'm running through the fields of tall grass, the sun blazing down on my face. Mom says that I need to go in, it's way past my bedtime.
"But Mom! The sun's still up!" I whined.
"Martin, it's 11 pm," she replied. "We're in Alaska now, remember? The sun doesn't go down until really late tonight, and you're already supposed to be in bed. I want you to grow big and strong, and you need your sleep to do that."
I smiled, happy she took the time to reason with me, allowing me to understand that she's trying to help me.
"Okay," I repled. "I guess that makes sense."
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Thursday, February 18, 2016
To my parents: do you remember?
Do you remember that saying you used to tell me? The one that went "one 'awe, shit' wipes out a hundred 'atta-boys'?" Did you know that I have very few happy memories with you, but many, many terrible memories of pain, abuse and shame?
Do you remember the time that you spanked me for peeing my bed? Do you realize that I had just had a nightmare about finding my dead father?
Do you remember the time I was 5 years old and you spanked me so hard with your hair brush that it broke? Then you blamed me for breaking the brush, and used your leather belt on me instead?
Do you remember the time when you left us with an inattentive babysitter who didn't notice that I ate a whole pack of cheese slices and became sick? Did you know that's why I don't like cheese? Why did you never believe me when I told you about that?
Do you remember when I was six years old, and didn't want to finish my food because it was cold, so you told me to put it in the microwave for a minute, but I accidentally pushed 10 minutes, and got a spanking for it?
Do you remember the hundred or so beatings you gave me simply because I didn't get good enough grades, starting in first grade? Do you really wonder why I tried to hide report cards, when I knew I'd be beaten shortly after handing it to you?
Do you remember when you beat me for defending myself from physical attacks from my sisters? Did you know that's why I never stopped Andrea from pulling my ear, because I was afraid you'd beat me?
Do you remember the time when you didn't know which one of your children did something wrong, and no one would confess, so you took us into your bedroom one-by-one, starting with me? Do you remember that you spanked me several times with a leather belt trying to get me to confess, but I didn't do it? Do you remember that you then took Andrea into the bedroom, and without any spanking, she confessed? Do you remember that because she confessed, you decided she didn't deserve a spanking? I don't even remember what it was that she did, do you?
Do you remember throwing away my boy scout project because I didn't make the cuts straight enough? Did you know that I had no idea that I wasn't making straight cuts because I was only a child?
Do you remember the many times you collected and threw away all of my books because you said I read too much? What child reads too much?
Do you remember the time, when I was 11 years old, and you literally picked me up and drop-kicked me out of the house? Do you remember when that young couple found me early the next morning, trying to sleep in a phone booth, and had the decency to take me to their bishop, who recognized me and called you in the middle of the night? Do you know how scared I was when I came home?
Do you remember beating me with my own belt many, many time? Do you know how humiliating it was every time that happened?
Do you remember when other students saw the welts across my butt and legs in gym class, and called social services to report the abuse? Did you know that I told them you didn't abuse me because I feared that if I did, I'd be abused further?
Do you remember the time I told you "No, I won't allow you to spank me?" Do you remember that after that, there were no more spankings, and instead of belts it was fists? Do you remember lifting me up by my ears and smashing my head against the wall hard enough to put a hole in the drywall?
Do you remember how I would spend most of my time in my bedroom instead of spending time with the family? Did you know that I was constantly in fear of you, unsure if my words or actions would anger you enough to hurt me?
Do you know that you made me feel as if I shouldn't exist. Do you remember telling me that I'd be in jail as soon as I turn 18 years old, because I had a problem with authority? Do you remember calling Mexicans "stupid beaners", knowing that I'm half Mexican?
Do you know that's why I don't keep in contact with you? Do you know that these memories are why I've kept your grandchildren from knowing you?
Do you feel any remorse at all? Is there anything you did that you regret? Could you acknowledge that you abused me?
Do you remember the time that you spanked me for peeing my bed? Do you realize that I had just had a nightmare about finding my dead father?
Do you remember the time I was 5 years old and you spanked me so hard with your hair brush that it broke? Then you blamed me for breaking the brush, and used your leather belt on me instead?
Do you remember the time when you left us with an inattentive babysitter who didn't notice that I ate a whole pack of cheese slices and became sick? Did you know that's why I don't like cheese? Why did you never believe me when I told you about that?
Do you remember when I was six years old, and didn't want to finish my food because it was cold, so you told me to put it in the microwave for a minute, but I accidentally pushed 10 minutes, and got a spanking for it?
Do you remember the hundred or so beatings you gave me simply because I didn't get good enough grades, starting in first grade? Do you really wonder why I tried to hide report cards, when I knew I'd be beaten shortly after handing it to you?
Do you remember when you beat me for defending myself from physical attacks from my sisters? Did you know that's why I never stopped Andrea from pulling my ear, because I was afraid you'd beat me?
Do you remember the time when you didn't know which one of your children did something wrong, and no one would confess, so you took us into your bedroom one-by-one, starting with me? Do you remember that you spanked me several times with a leather belt trying to get me to confess, but I didn't do it? Do you remember that you then took Andrea into the bedroom, and without any spanking, she confessed? Do you remember that because she confessed, you decided she didn't deserve a spanking? I don't even remember what it was that she did, do you?
Do you remember throwing away my boy scout project because I didn't make the cuts straight enough? Did you know that I had no idea that I wasn't making straight cuts because I was only a child?
Do you remember the many times you collected and threw away all of my books because you said I read too much? What child reads too much?
Do you remember the time, when I was 11 years old, and you literally picked me up and drop-kicked me out of the house? Do you remember when that young couple found me early the next morning, trying to sleep in a phone booth, and had the decency to take me to their bishop, who recognized me and called you in the middle of the night? Do you know how scared I was when I came home?
Do you remember beating me with my own belt many, many time? Do you know how humiliating it was every time that happened?
Do you remember when other students saw the welts across my butt and legs in gym class, and called social services to report the abuse? Did you know that I told them you didn't abuse me because I feared that if I did, I'd be abused further?
Do you remember the time I told you "No, I won't allow you to spank me?" Do you remember that after that, there were no more spankings, and instead of belts it was fists? Do you remember lifting me up by my ears and smashing my head against the wall hard enough to put a hole in the drywall?
Do you remember how I would spend most of my time in my bedroom instead of spending time with the family? Did you know that I was constantly in fear of you, unsure if my words or actions would anger you enough to hurt me?
Do you know that you made me feel as if I shouldn't exist. Do you remember telling me that I'd be in jail as soon as I turn 18 years old, because I had a problem with authority? Do you remember calling Mexicans "stupid beaners", knowing that I'm half Mexican?
Do you know that's why I don't keep in contact with you? Do you know that these memories are why I've kept your grandchildren from knowing you?
Do you feel any remorse at all? Is there anything you did that you regret? Could you acknowledge that you abused me?
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Early Memories of a New Family
Four-year-old Martin opens his dresser drawer, grabbing a clean pair of underwear.
"Stupid dreams," he mutters, rubbing his sore bottom. "Stupid Aunt and Uncle, I mean new Mom and Dad. It's not my fault I peed my bed."
Several months before this, Martin's father shot and killed his mother, then took his own life. Martin had been the first person to find the scene, and the memory haunts him most every night.
Now Martin lives with his new mom and dad, who he used to call Aunt Roberta and Uncle Brian. His three cousins are now to be his sisters, even though one of them is the same age. Roberta says it was difficult to explain to the school, but there's six months between the two, and she made sure that they don't get the same teacher. At least the other school kids won't know.
Today is Martin's first day of kindergarten, and not the last time he'll be spanked for something he had no control over. This time it was a brush. Last time it was a wooden spoon. Next time it will be a leather belt.
Welcome to some of the earliest memories of my new family.
"Stupid dreams," he mutters, rubbing his sore bottom. "Stupid Aunt and Uncle, I mean new Mom and Dad. It's not my fault I peed my bed."
Several months before this, Martin's father shot and killed his mother, then took his own life. Martin had been the first person to find the scene, and the memory haunts him most every night.
Now Martin lives with his new mom and dad, who he used to call Aunt Roberta and Uncle Brian. His three cousins are now to be his sisters, even though one of them is the same age. Roberta says it was difficult to explain to the school, but there's six months between the two, and she made sure that they don't get the same teacher. At least the other school kids won't know.
Today is Martin's first day of kindergarten, and not the last time he'll be spanked for something he had no control over. This time it was a brush. Last time it was a wooden spoon. Next time it will be a leather belt.
Welcome to some of the earliest memories of my new family.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
The Defining Moment of My Childhood
When I was 4-years old, my father killed my mother and then killed himself. I alone discovered the scene of the crime. This is the defining moment of my childhood.
I was born in Idaho Falls, Idaho to Laura and Salvador Salinas, on Sunday, August 22, 1976. I have no idea about any of my vitals; my weight, length, time of birth, etc. are of little interest to me, and I've never sought out that information.
My father was first generation American. From my understanding, his mother had illegally crossed the Mexican-American border so that her eight children would be born in the United States and thus have citizenship. I don't know if I can verify that information, without contacting the Mexican side of my family, who gave me up as a child.
My mother was 14th generation American, and white as white could be. I don't know how she met my father, how long they dated or under what circumstances they decided to get married. From what I've been told, she married him out of spite. My grandfather's strict rule led my mother to rebel against her father, and she married a man almost the opposite of what she new of her father.
We lived in Idaho Falls for a few years. My mother was a waitress, and my father was sporadically employed, although I've never known what kind of work he did. I've been told my mother was an angel who made a few mistakes, while my father was a nice guy, when he wasn't being a lazy, drug-dealing alcoholic. If you can't tell, most of my information comes from my mother's side of the family.
At some point before I turned 3 years old, we moved to McAllen, Texas. This was where much of my father's family resided. I lived there for only a short time; a few months before I turned 4-years-old, my mother left my father. I'm unsure of the details that led to this split up, but rumors of my fathers drug and alcohol use are said to be the cause.
My mother took me back to Idaho Falls, where she received support from her family. My father stayed in Texas, but after a few months of separation, he came to Idaho with the intention of taking me home with him.
I don't know the exact details of the night of my parents death, but I do know that I had been taken to a babysitter's house. My mother never came to pick me up, so the babysitter dropped me off the next morning. I remember getting out of the car, telling the babysitter not to worry. The door was open, so my mother must be home. I have no idea why the babysitter left me, a 4-year-old child, at the front door without talking to my mother. This seems very odd to me.
I remember running into the house, and seeing my father lying in the fetal position on the kitchen floor with a warm apple pie balanced on his hip. I remember thinking that he was sleeping, and that I shouldn't try to wake him up. I don't remember any blood, but I must have known that something was terribly wrong, and I ran out of the house, crying for my mother.
I walked around the block for some time, because I had been taught to only cross the street with an adult. Eventually, a neighbor heard my cries, and notified the authorities. They found my mother in the back yard, shot once in each kidney, and once in the head. They found my father in a pool of blood in the kitchen. The bullet had not killed him, and he bled out slowly.
Thus began my life.
Disclaimer: Much of my knowledge about my childhood has been told to me second hand, by people who had an incentive to deceive me in an attempt to gain my obedience. If I learn that any of the details discussed in this blog are incorrect, I'll happily retract and/or rewrite this post.
I was born in Idaho Falls, Idaho to Laura and Salvador Salinas, on Sunday, August 22, 1976. I have no idea about any of my vitals; my weight, length, time of birth, etc. are of little interest to me, and I've never sought out that information.
My father was first generation American. From my understanding, his mother had illegally crossed the Mexican-American border so that her eight children would be born in the United States and thus have citizenship. I don't know if I can verify that information, without contacting the Mexican side of my family, who gave me up as a child.
My mother was 14th generation American, and white as white could be. I don't know how she met my father, how long they dated or under what circumstances they decided to get married. From what I've been told, she married him out of spite. My grandfather's strict rule led my mother to rebel against her father, and she married a man almost the opposite of what she new of her father.
We lived in Idaho Falls for a few years. My mother was a waitress, and my father was sporadically employed, although I've never known what kind of work he did. I've been told my mother was an angel who made a few mistakes, while my father was a nice guy, when he wasn't being a lazy, drug-dealing alcoholic. If you can't tell, most of my information comes from my mother's side of the family.
At some point before I turned 3 years old, we moved to McAllen, Texas. This was where much of my father's family resided. I lived there for only a short time; a few months before I turned 4-years-old, my mother left my father. I'm unsure of the details that led to this split up, but rumors of my fathers drug and alcohol use are said to be the cause.
My mother took me back to Idaho Falls, where she received support from her family. My father stayed in Texas, but after a few months of separation, he came to Idaho with the intention of taking me home with him.
I don't know the exact details of the night of my parents death, but I do know that I had been taken to a babysitter's house. My mother never came to pick me up, so the babysitter dropped me off the next morning. I remember getting out of the car, telling the babysitter not to worry. The door was open, so my mother must be home. I have no idea why the babysitter left me, a 4-year-old child, at the front door without talking to my mother. This seems very odd to me.
I remember running into the house, and seeing my father lying in the fetal position on the kitchen floor with a warm apple pie balanced on his hip. I remember thinking that he was sleeping, and that I shouldn't try to wake him up. I don't remember any blood, but I must have known that something was terribly wrong, and I ran out of the house, crying for my mother.
I walked around the block for some time, because I had been taught to only cross the street with an adult. Eventually, a neighbor heard my cries, and notified the authorities. They found my mother in the back yard, shot once in each kidney, and once in the head. They found my father in a pool of blood in the kitchen. The bullet had not killed him, and he bled out slowly.
Thus began my life.
Disclaimer: Much of my knowledge about my childhood has been told to me second hand, by people who had an incentive to deceive me in an attempt to gain my obedience. If I learn that any of the details discussed in this blog are incorrect, I'll happily retract and/or rewrite this post.
My Personal History: An Introduction
What am I? Why do I have so many questions? Why do the answers always create more questions?
Are answers really what I want? Do I want to know "The Truth?" Is knowing "The Truth" even possible? If I do come across "The Truth", will I know it's true? Have I already come across "The Truth", and already discarded it?
Why do I think this way? Is there something wrong with me or is asking questions the right thing to do? Why does it seem that I'm the only one that asks questions?
What is "right" and "wrong?" What is morality? Is morality a construct, or a reality? Does morality matter in the long run?
Where are the answers?
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