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(ok... but just the beginning)
I??m from Chile and I have been living in the US since I was nine. I was born in La Quinta Normal (the fifth district) of Santiago, the capital of Chile. My first memory is of a pink bedspread with green and pink flowers (I was less than a year old). It was a really loud clashing item that seemed to go well with the rest of the décor in the house. That is what I remember from my later memories when I was four. My mother could never believe that I remembered the bedspread or how I grabbed the blanket as I slid off the bed. She does remember finding me lying on the floor quietly with the clashing comforter.
I lived in a third floor apartment. Each apartment was two stories tall; so that my neighbors downstairs took the first two floors and our apartment upstairs took another two. I lived close to the San Pablo con Neptuno subway station which turned out to be very convenient later on when my mother had to get a job.
When I was still three my mother made me a white cowboy hat and vest which I wore proudly with my little white pants and belt with a silver cap gun. What I remember liking best was that the outfit was white. The ??good guys? on TV always wore white. Although I didn??t really know since I had a really small TV that got three channels which were all in black and white. Looking back I suppose that they could have worn off-white or yellow outfits. I never suspected them to be anything but white though. I didn??t have a sibling and I guess that my imagination more than made up for it.
My father was a strange man. He had gone to the air force when he was young but he didn??t fit the profile of a clean cut military man. It seemed as though he had entered the military to find just that man but had found someone entirely different instead. Let me be specific. He had long wavy hair which he sometimes covered with a cowboy hat; a black one with a feather not at all like my ??good guys? white one. He had a pierced ear, a tall skinny build, and I never saw him wear a tie. He was an artist that lived to write poetry and paint with oil on canvas, but at that time he made most of his money by selling jewelry for a friend he had in Santiago.
My father had this beautiful watch. One day he let me examine it when, to my surprise, I found a strange ticking noise. I had asked him to tell me what it was and he gave me a curious story about a little man inside his watch that pounded with a hammer to make it go. As stupid as it sounds I fell for it and he couldn??t be more amused by it. The amusement ended when he found his beautiful watch in hundreds of pieces. He had left his watch and I had spent the day trying to free the little watch slave with a different, larger hammer. I was angry that he had lied to me. He was in complete shock. The next time he lied was right before he left my mother and me.
Ethgar's Genres: Poetry and journals
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