The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5

"Adversity introduces a man to himself." — Albert Einstein

Curb Balls

I recall when life was uncertain, but let me begin with a moment of joy: November 20, 1999, the day of my high school graduation. It was a day I had long anticipated, filled with pride and a sense of accomplishment. That moment felt like the culmination of years of hard work and dedication, a beacon of hope and a promise of a bright future. But little did I know that just 22 days later, on December 11, 1999, everything would instantly change.

That morning, I woke up feeling disoriented, and a strange sense of unease settled over me. I noticed that I was lying in bed the opposite way; I remembered falling asleep. It was as if someone had turned me around, though I couldn't explain why or how. It felt odd and unsettling, but I tried to brush it off. Mireya, the homeowner of the rental house we were staying at, told me my mother had left early for errands, leaving money for my lunch. It was strange; my mother wasn't one to go without a word, especially on a Saturday morning. The urgency of her departure puzzled me.

I looked at the clock and realized it was nearly 11 a.m.—an hour I rarely saw while still in bed. My daily routine had always been rigid: I woke up at 4:30 a.m., caught the bus by 5:30 a.m., and joined the line for morning prayers by 6 a.m.

But that morning was different. It felt like I was in a fog. I wondered if someone had given me something to make me sleep so deeply. To this day, I still don't know.

As I sat down for lunch, I rechecked the time—12:30 pm. I watched the seconds tick by, each feeling heavier than the last. When the clock struck 12:35, something extraordinary happened. I saw a human and ethereal figure move down the hallway and out the main door. It paused beside me, and I felt a gentle kiss on my cheek. In that instant, an image of my mother in a casket flashed through my mind. I shook my head, trying to dispel the unsettling vision, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Agitated, I went to a neighbor's house next door, feeling a growing dread. Within minutes, my cousin arrived, her face pale with worry. She told me that my mother might have had an accident, possibly a heart attack. The words didn't seem real; I was confused, my mind racing to catch up with the reality I was being pulled into. We walked to my cousin's house, about ¾ of a mile away, every step feeling like an eternity. When we arrived, I waited anxiously; my heart was pounding.

Then, my aunt walked in. She didn't say a word; she nodded. At that moment, I knew—my mother was gone. The realization shattered my heart into a million pieces. "No, no, no," I whispered through my tears, barely able to comprehend what was happening. But something inside me hardened a defense mechanism that allowed me to push forward. "Let me change; I'll go wherever," I said, trying to regain some semblance of control. People around me looked at me as if I had lost my mind, unable to understand how to quickly move from heartbreak to a fade of normalcy.

But that's how I cope. In the most challenging moments, I find a way to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other until the total weight of the pain finally catches up with me. I was only 17, still trying to make sense of the world, but I found the strength to keep moving forward, even when it felt like my world was crumbling around me.

Later, I discovered that my mother's time of death was recorded as 12:35 pm—the exact moment I had felt her presence. Standing by her casket, I was consumed by a desperate need for peace. I longed to speak with her, to have one last conversation with God, seeking forgiveness and solace. It was a moment of quiet desperation, a plea for understanding and closure.

But as I tried to find peace, rumors began to swirl. People whispered about suicide, claiming she had ingested formaldehyde. Her body had been found far from where she should have been, in a place that made no sense to me. The conflicting stories only added to my confusion and pain. I couldn't understand why she would be in that location or what had led to her final moments. Days later, a woman recounted how my mother had appeared at her door out of nowhere, asking to use the restroom. Moments later, my mother had collapsed, foaming at the mouth. The authorities ruled her death a suicide, but I could not—and still can't—believe it.

Stories circulated about an argument she had had earlier that morning about money owed to her. The people who witnessed the argument said that after the argument, she left quickly, catching a bus to find out who knew where. But none of it made sense to me. My mother was gone, and no amount of speculation could bring her back. The weight of the rumors, the accusations, and the confusion became unbearable. I knew I needed to leave town to escape the whispers that followed me everywhere, accusing me, blaming me, as if I had somehow contributed to my mother's death. People hurled insults at me as I walked down the street, but they did not know—how could they?

As part of my recovery journey, I was referred to a counselor with the hope that professional guidance would aid my healing process. However, my first and only session ended with a remark that shocked and deeply offended me: "You may follow your mother's steps." This prediction undermined my individuality and cast a shadow over my efforts to carve out my path.

I was taken aback by how a counselor, someone who barely knew me, could make such a sweeping and unsettling prediction. It felt as though she was dismissing my unique identity and personal journey by reducing me to statistics or a genetic predisposition. This was a misjudgment and a denial of my capacity for self-determination.

While statistics and genetics can offer insights into patterns and tendencies, they are not the sole arbiters of our destinies. Our lives are not just a matter of chance or predetermined by external factors but are shaped by our intrinsic values, inner strength, and choices.

This belief in self-determination is what I call stubbornness in the world's best sense. This stubbornness drives us to defy expectations and assert our agency in shaping our lives. As a good Southerner might say, “You ain’t telling me what to do.” This attitude reflects a refusal to let external judgments dictate our paths, a determination to rise above challenges, and an unwavering belief in our ability to forge our destinies despite what others might predict.

After my mother passed away, I stayed with my aunt for about four months, a period that brought both gratitude and unexpected challenges. During that time, my aunt generously gave me an allowance to help me attend my first year of college, which I appreciated. She kept meticulous records of every expense in her notebook, a detail I did not pay much attention to then but later realized had significant implications.

When I eventually received the life insurance payout from my mom, my aunt presented me with a bill for everything she had spent on me during those months. I did not mind paying her back; I was genuinely grateful for her support during such a difficult time. However, I was caught off guard when she added, "Here's the bill for what you owe me. I didn't include the cost of food, but I can charge your dad for that later." Those words stung deeply—a stark reminder that financial transactions can sometimes overshadow the bonds of love and care, even within the closest families. The idea of being charged for food by a family member, especially when I was a young orphan trying to find my way, left an impression on me. Nevertheless, I accepted the situation for what it was and paid her what I owed, choosing not to harbor any grudges. But the memory of that conversation has lingered, a subtle ache that never entirely faded.

Later, when I moved to my maternal grandmother's house, the dynamics shifted again. My other aunt, living there then, required me to contribute a fixed amount for groceries—300,000 pesos a month, roughly equivalent to $100 today. They assumed that my mother's pension, which I received if I attended school, would support me. This pension, however, was less than $200 a month and was set to end when I turned 25, adding immense financial pressure during those years.

During this challenging period, a good friend, lawyer, and mentor named Jaime Anacona became a close, confident, and spiritual guide. Recognizing the difficulties I faced, Jaime helped me navigate one of the most significant decisions of my life—transferring my mother's pension to my father. Since I was preparing to leave for the U.S., it made sense to pass the retirement to him. I had wrestled with this decision many times before, as I felt conflicted; on the one hand, I saw it as a gift from God, but on the other, I struggled with the belief that my father didn't deserve any of that money. However, I chose to honor my mother's memory, knowing that she would have wanted to help my dad later in life; after all, he was the man through whom I gained life. Jaime's guidance was invaluable, and my father continues to live off that pension to this day—a testament to the power of mentorship and the complexities of family relationships.

Years later, after I arrived in the U.S., another layer of family history was revealed to me, adding an ironic twist to my sacrifices. I discovered that my mother had also owned a share of my grandmother's house, which I had been paying rent to live in during my college years. The story went that at one point, my grandmother's home was on the brink of foreclosure due to unpaid debts, and my mother, sacrificing her opportunities to buy a home, chose instead to save my grandmother's house by paying off the debt. As a result, she was added to the deed, making her a co-owner of the property.

This revelation came to light when I was asked to sign papers to transfer the property to my Aunt Margui, who had reclaimed it. She argued that after 20 years of caring for her mother, she had earned the right to at least half of the home. She and one of her brothers had decided to buy the property, dividing it between themselves. The justification for offering me a mere 5 million pesos—about $1,300—was that I was now considered wealthy, living abroad in the U.S., and thus had no need for a home in Colombia. The irony was not lost on me, and I found myself in a position where I had nothing to lose but also nothing to gain; actually, I did have something to gain, peace!. So, I signed the papers, using the money to cover my airfare and stay in Colombia. Without going into any more details, I will let you, the reader, draw conclusions about that chapter of my life.