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.