I hadn’t uploaded this picture before. Not just because I’m not too proud of the mustache-goatee combo, but because you have no idea just how sad I was when I took it, and it kinda hurts to look at. I had just gotten the worst news in the world –at least until a week and a half later when I really got the worst news in the world. I got fired from my job the day before Thanksgiving of 2024, and I had never been so much in the pit of despair as that day.
So why share it? We have the terrible habit of only sharing the perfect moments of our lives –that lovely breakfast, the moment she said “Yes”, a perfect sunset, birds– but it’s because we don’t want to feel vulnerable, or too seen, or, God forbid, human. But every now and then, it’s good to share a tear, or a frown, maybe even a little blood. Not for the attention, no. But in my case at least, it’s part of confronting everything I’ve been through since. And for which I am incredibly grateful.
Yes, even the horrible last months of November and the beginning of 2025.
L to R: Maya Hawke, Jack Quaid, Margaret Qually, Ray Nicholson
I talk to my parents every day. At least brief exchanges of voice notes, but I can’t imagine not being in contact with them daily. I haven’t seen them since 2019, when they came with my brother and his wife for a couple of weeks. I doubt they’ll ever be able to travel here again, given both the current immigration policies in the US and the economic situation in Venezuela. Also, my brother moved to Spain two years ago. And, well, they’re in their mid/eighties. I try not to think about those things too much, as you can imagine, but like all faces of reality, you don’t have to stare at it to have it remind you ever so often that it exists. But it also makes me think about certain things.
I think a lot about being my parent’s child. As I struggle to regain a footing in my life, I consider how my father has managed to go from the prosperous times when there were four cars at home, when we could visit Disney World at least once a year, to them having to make hours-long cues just to fill up a tank, and yet keep the lights on, thanks to careful financial planning. It certainly makes me wish I paid more attention when he was explaining money to me.
I think about the new generation of “nepo babies” taking Hollywood by storm. There’s lovely Maya Hawke, the daughter of Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman, already a scene stealer on Stranger Things; or Jack Quaid, son of Dennis Quaid and Meg Ryan, with a knack for some really weird TV and movie roles; or Margaret Qualley, daughter of Andie MacDowell, who was the other half of the phenomena that was The Substance; and Ray Nicholson, who couldn’t deny he was Jack Nicholson’s son even if he tried. While they have certainly managed to have a good level of success on their own, they’re also very close to their parents (Maya and Ethan have even worked together in a movie about writer Flannery O’Connor).
Meanwhile, my dad chose numbers, I chose letters. I’m closer to my mom there, what with her being the daughter of a poet, but it’s my dad’s boisterous personality that I truly stole through the gene pool. Because, in the end, that’s the essence, isn’t it? That’s what you truly have to share with your parents. That, and quality time.
I think about how I can assuage their concerns about me. I hardly sleep, I am constantly broke, I never seem to have time for anything, and I am much more grumpy than I used to. I also used to be much more closed off, and not just to them, but to everyone. I just felt that my burden was mine and mine alone. I have learned not to do that, but I still struggle, because there’s not really much they can do other than offer words of comfort.
I think, then, about the times when a word of comfort was all it took. My mom would hug me and kiss me on the forehead, or my dad would hug me and pat me on the shoulder, and that was all it took for me to turn into Superman. But now I’m in my fifties. I feel their physical distance while their spiritual one is nonexistent. I feel that I carry them like a precious gemstone. I can invoke those hugs and pats and kisses and it feels like a cool breeze after I’ve walked ten miles on International Drive in July.
I think that, if you had a good relationship with your parents growing up, it’s always a good time to be grateful for that, considering the horror stories I’ve heard about some mothers and fathers.
I’m proud to be my Mom and Dad’s child. I know they’re proud of the person I’ve become.
I took a table with a women in her forties, a younger lady of yet undetermined age, and a young man in a wheelchair. The younger lady asks for a drink, to my shock, as I did not expect her to be of age. When I see she was born in 2001 I fake cringe.
–Doesn’t it upset you that the kids that were born in the early Two Thousands are now old enough to drink?– I ask the woman.
She laughs and agrees. I take a chance at flattery (and a larger tip) and tell her it was quite nice to bring her little sister for a drink. She laughs again, telling me that’s her youngest niece, daughter to her brother. I comment that the age difference can’t be that big. They deebate a while, and finally remember that her father is sixty, or sixty-one.
–Oh, I see, he’s…
And I stop dead in my tracks. I’m doing the math, you see.
–… a spring chicken and I will not discuss it further!– I snap, still smiling, and leave with comical urgency that was only half faked. They fortunately caught the comedic bit, but I was a little mortified.
I’m 52. That’s single digit distance from this lady’s father.
Yikes.
I’ve had a hard time accepting middle age, ever since… well, I reached middle age. I enjoy making people laugh, I like goofing around, I don’t take myself too seriously, I like cartoons… In my head I’m basically still thirty. But every now and then, incidents like the one I told you above remind me that time’s a-ticking. Do you remember how you felt when somebody told you they were sixty? Okay, gramps, see ya at the park, don’t forget Matlock. Until we start reaching that age.
This is especially true in my line of work. The average server is in their mid-twenties. I work with two hosts that are eighteen. They could be my kids!!! That of course leads to ya boy being seen as “tio Juan”. You know, the guy they look for advice… and finds out everything because most people will talk about their lives without paying too much attention because ugh, the old man? That’s how I learned that damn, people hook up a LOT in this business.
But that of course also comes with responsibilities. It is no longer cool to talk to a lady that was not even born when you were her age in a flirty way unless you have been friendly for a while or you don’t mind being unemployed. This happened to a coworker who said some lewd comments to a lady twenty years his junior. She was so upset she walked away that same day, and he was fired the next.
I really have a hard time believing people can talk to other human beings however way they want and think they’ll either enjoy it, feel flattered, or think it’s funny. Like, when you cat call a lady on the street, what do you expect? She’ll turn around and give you her number? Or you’re a middle-aged man with a dad bod. Do you really think you’re going to bang the twenty year old cheerleader? Or nineteen year old hostess, you creepy manager you?
And I’m raising a daughter, which has its own set of concerns, considering the state of men these days. Thank God for #MeToo, which if anything has made women more aware of red flags and men more aware of their behavior. (Responsible ones, in both cases, that is.)
But here’s what’s funny about that: D. told her mother the other day, Mom, I don’t like boys, I don’t like girls, I just want to be free and have fun”. On the one hand, I was a little relieved, thinking of how many sleepless nights I have been spared from. On the other, it made me wonder whether my girl will have the luck to be loved by another person, to become this wonderful thing that is a couple, but I shook it off and I assumed that if it’s in her cards, it will come when she’s ready and she wants it. If not, she will be happy either way.
(And then, I thought that if she never has a significant other, she’ll never have kids, so she won’t live through what her mom and I lived through, and hold on one goddamn second…)
And after all, isn’t that the end goal? To be happy? I can’t wait to reach my so called “golden age” –who knows what qualifies as that now– and be content and at peace. Maybe that’s what real happiness is: the moment you look around and realize, there’s nothing you really need. You truly have enough. You didn’t settle; you acheived.
I guess I really am old.
Edit: D. has a boyfriend. He seems like a good kid. Guess it came sooner than I thought. Poor boy, he doesn’t know what’s coming…
My last post was written on our dining room table, staring into a crowded living room, a bustling avenue right outside our balcony. In a couple of hours I had to get ready for the ten-minute drive to work. I was tired, homesick, future uncertain.
This post began on that same table, but now it overlooks a backyard next to a dried up pond. Leia, into her fifth day of spaydomhood, snores on the matress we set up in the living room so she won’t go upstairs, where I hear Y. walking around and getting ready to leave. I type as I get ready to join her, to a destination I’ve forgotten, but I know we’re taking my car. My car. As in, I am paying for it with my money, and I use it almost exclusively. In fact, I’m writing this post at the dealership, giving Ozzie (that’s how I named the car) his first service.
Life has a way of changing.
Did I mention that all this happened –the new house, the new car, Leia’s spaying– in less than three months?
I’m not gonna lie, but this made me feel pretty darn overwhelmed for a minute. Where we live is called Davenport, a city some 20 miles away from where we lived. It reminds me of the so-called “satellite cities” near Caracas, mostly residential areas where people would commute to their jobs in the main city (think the relationship between New York and New Jersey, to a point). My trip to work went from ten minutes to between forty-eight and fifty-two. And sometimes I leave at midnight to come back the next morning. And in the worst twist of all, I’ve grown to hate Saturdays (I open, so I have to wake up at five so I can leave at seven) and love Mondays (my ONE day off).
But it’s my commute in my car, to our house. It is scary to have such a responsibility, but it is also something I am incredibly proud of. I got here with $200 in my pocket and we started life living in a single room with party-prone hosts. I felt so scared, so homesick, but I turned to inspiration from a very large source to get through.
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson had seven dollars to his name when he was released by the Canadian Football League and before wrestling supra-stardom came calling. So yeah, I had started out better than the most electrifying man in sports entertainment, but I doubt I have even half his discipline. That’s where I credit Y. It is because she saved and toiled and starved for so long that we’re here. It is because she sees the man I sometimes doubt I am and makes him do things.
And even on days when I feel I’m not giving enough, she reminds me that we got here together.
Life has a way of changing, indeed… so far, for the better.
I’m approaching my third month as an immigrant. I write those words, think those thoughts, and can still hardly believe it. I start wondering when I will. Maybe confronting a few things will help.
There are so many things in the world that matter, and if we look closely enough, we find the things that speak to our own unique spirits — these are the things that speak to me. This is what matter to me today.
My Mind in Letters 