581 Letters
After school. Mom’s car. Hi, Mom. We talk, laugh, argue. 405 Freeway down south. I hate you. Exiting off Carson Street. Left. Right on Acarus Avenue. Home. Open door. Hi Ashley. Hi Grandma. Hi Jordan. Okay, fridge. Orange juice. yes. Walk out of the kitchen. Walk into my room.
I lock the door. I go into my bag. Take out my pen and notebook. I sit on the bed. I look towards the cream walls in front of me. I picture her in front of me. My grandmother, Leeta. She passed away in April 2014. I write to her every day since her passing. I wrote many letters telling her how my day was or how much I miss her. 83 weeks. 581 days. 13,944 hours. 836,640 minutes. 581 letters. Without her. I look down at my paper and write.
He Deserves to Live
This is what I know today—my Uncle Jose is finally being treated right.
As a human.
He’s not from here. He came from Zacatecas when he was young.
He has no insurance.
His failing kidneys didn’t seem to matter.
Took five diabetic attacks before a doctor even glanced at him.
It didn’t matter that he’s a dad or a father figure to me, his niece.
No money—they overlook you.
No insurance—you might as well be invisible.
Nothing
At the age of 17 I was diagnosed with Alpha I Anti-trypsin, also known as liver disease. My mom said it was nothing.
At the age of 16, nothing, led me to a state of depression and anxiety. I found myself stranded behind thick bars and two-feet wide windows that wouldn’t allow air in or out. Cerritos Mental Hospital, where you left what you couldn’t handle or understand. It was a week of hell.
At the age of 15 my family was breaking apart, from cheating on her husband to being abused. It seemed so easy to want to help, but my mom said, “You know nothing!”
I feel as if I'm still being punished for his crime.
I was seven years old, a second grader at Miramonte Elementary School in South East Los Angeles. My mom dropped my brother and me off every morning before school in the school’s childcare facility. We also played there after school until she picked us up. I didn’t mind staying until 5 or even six o’clock for Miramonte Elementary felt like my second home.
A teacher, I’ll call him Mr. Alexis, was new to the place. He was Mexican, in his late 30s and he had a big, black bushy mustache. At first he seemed like a cool teacher. I thought of him as my second dad. In time Mr. Alexis became comfortable with the school and all the kids.
