I WAS ONLY FIVE the first time my parents dropped me off at my abuela’s house in San Antonio, TX. Bet you didn’t see that coming, huh? Yes, I’m part Hispanic. The gray eyes and light skin throw people every time. Abuela called me her little güero. You see, my grandfather—my papa—was a big, tall, gray-eyed man of Norwegian and Irish descent, and when he met my tiny little Mexican grandmother, it was love at first sight. At least that’s what he told me and anyone else who would listen. So I had obviously inherited his and my father’s Caucasian complexion instead of my grandmother’s Mexican and Native American coloring. Hence güero—her little light-colored boy. Don’t mistake it for a slur; it was definitely a term of endearment.
One of my favorite pastimes as a little boy was looking through her old photo albums. The pictures of the two of them always made me giggle. Him so tall and her so short—“vertically challenged,” he used to call it. They ended up being more my parents than my own, and it broke my grandfather’s heart.
My mother was their daughter. Their only daughter. One thing I remember about her is she was beautiful. Her exotic features turned heads everywhere she went from the time she was a little girl, my abuela always said, and she believed that was my mother’s downfall. They also had five strapping boys—my uncles, Alejandro, Matias, who were older than my mom, and then Samuel, Javier, and the baby, Gunnar. With Gunnar, my grandfather got his way and gave him a “strong Norwegian name.” Don’t confuse that and think that it meant he loved any of them any less. He just had to have his way with naming at least one of his sons… or so he always said.
Anyway, I digress. My father was a wanderer. A dreamer. A “wannabe musician.” He was handsome but had no real ambition, content to travel here and there playing for enough money to get him to the next gig, sure that he would be discovered and “make it big.” He was more interested in smoking weed and dreaming than anything, but I guess he loved my mother because after they met at a college party—where he was playing with the band he was with at the time, not going to school—she got pregnant, so they eloped, and they’re still married to this day. Not that I ever see them.
Becoming parents may have been the reason they got married—yeah, little ol’ me was on the way—but they really had no interest in actually fulfilling the role. So I saw more cities, in more states, in the first five years of my life than most people see in their lifetime. Then again, I also saw a lot of things a kid my age shouldn’t have, but back then I didn’t realize my life wasn’t normal. It just was. But once I turned five and they got in trouble for me not being in school, we found ourselves on my grandparents’ doorstep.
There may be a lot of things I don’t remember about my childhood, but that day? I remember a lot of that day. It was the day my life changed irrevocably.
Alone in the living room, I sat watching some cartoon over the tips of my little scuffed white-toed Converse sneakers. It was impossible to tell you what I was actually watching because I couldn’t really hear it over the yelling coming from the kitchen. Trying not to listen, I sat pulling and playing with the frayed holes in the knees of my stained jeans. My heart was pounding because I didn’t know what was going on. The next thing I knew, my father was storming past me, without even a glance my direction, before he slammed out the front door. Then my mother raced past, her flowing white shirt billowing behind her. Unlike my father, she stopped short, as if she had forgotten I was sitting there.
“Momma? I’m hungry.” It seemed I was always hungry, and I hated to ask for things because it always made my father angry, but it was just my mother, and when it was just me and her, she was a little more like a “real” mom. She rushed to me, kneeling in front of me and framing my cheeks with her hands. She smelled funny, like she always did, but I was just a little kid and back then I had no idea the “funny smell” that always permeated their clothing and the very air surrounding them was weed. It’s no wonder it’s my go-to now when things get really shitty, huh? I came by it honest. Come on, chuckle chuckle.
Anyway, she kissed me and gathered me in her arms. “Indigo, Momma and Daddy have to leave for a while. Your grandparents are going to take care of you until we get back. You be a good boy and help your grandma around the house. I—” My father yelled for her from the front yard, and my mom pressed a kiss to my shaggy dark head before she jumped up and ran out the door. That was it. Gone. My parents had brought me there and just left.
Figuring I would track down my own food, I climbed down from the couch and wandered to the kitchen. My grandfather was hugging my sobbing little grandmother and my uncles Gunnar, Javier, and Samuel were looking angry with their arms crossed. My older two uncles were grown and had already left home. Alejandro was in the Army, and Matias was in the Marine Corps. They always joked that they had to join branches that went with their names. Of course, at that time I hadn’t even know they existed.
When I was finally noticed, standing scared and fidgety in the doorway, my grandmother brushed off my grandfather’s comforting arms, rushed to me, and knelt in front of me on the floor. Being so small, she was my height kneeling. Not sure why that stuck in my head, but it always has. Her arms pulled me close, and she spoke softly to me in Spanish. At that time, I had no idea what she was saying. Over the years, I would learn to speak fluent Spanish with her. Much to her great pleasure, and my uncles’ and grandfather’s surprise, as none of them spoke it.
“I’m hungry, Grandma. And I want my momma.” Tears hovered in my eyes, but I would never let them fall. It made my father angry if I cried because he said I was a “sissy.” Never knowing exactly what that meant, the tone alone had me sure it wasn’t something I wanted to be. So they may have pooled in my eyes, but they would never fall.
My mother had told me these people were my grandparents. That day was actually the first time I’d ever met them. Essentially, I was in a house full of strangers.
“Mijo, you can call me Abuela. We’re going to get you enrolled in school so you can grow to be a smart man someday, like you’re a smart little boy now. Okay? Your momma, well, she has some things to do.” My uncle snorted, and I looked at him in fear. “You’re safe, and we are so happy to have you here, niño.” No one looked happy. It was scary and confusing.
That was the first day I met her. After filling my belly, my abuela sent me outside to play in the backyard with the scrappy dog they had back there. It was a dog like I’d never seen; he was coarse with gray, red, and white hairs. He had a little white mark on his forehead, and he sat there looking at me with his head tipped to the side.
It wasn’t long before he was chasing me, nipping gently at my heels until he knocked me over and I laughed, coming up with leaves and sticks stuck all over me. He was pouncing around me and barking like he wanted me to get back up so we could start the game over when I heard the sweetest voice I’d ever heard.
“Who are you? And why are you playing wiff Buster?” She was just taller than the short, bent-up chain-link fence she was peeking over. Her little fingers were hooked through the links, and I noticed she had chipped, bright pink nail polish on them. Her golden hair was pulled up in a wild ponytail, and she had the biggest bow I’d ever seen right on top of it. It was hanging off to the side, and wisps of blonde hair blew in front of her eyes. Tawny-brown eyes with little green flecks that stared at me.
“Your eyes look like caramel apples, and that’s a really big bow. It’s really pink.”
“Fanks.” She continued to look at me with expectation. “I’m Sera. It’s short for Serafina.”
“That’s pretty. I’m Indigo.” My dirty hand went out to shake hers, but she just looked at me. When I realized she didn’t know what I was doing, my hand fell awkwardly to my side where my fingers just wiggled aimlessly until I shoved both hands in my pockets. I’m sure I sat there watching her with my head tipped to the side, just like Buster had me. She was a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. I had interacted with few children my age, so she was an enigma.
“Indigo is a color, not a name. It’s in my big box of crayons, so I know. But it’s okay. You’re gonna be my friend ’cause I saw you first. Okay?” She was nodding as if this was a foregone conclusion.
“Umm, sure.”
My abuela called me before I could say more, but as I turned to leave, the little girl next door shouted, “See you later, friend!” Her little pink-tipped fingers waved at me, and a big smile spread across her face. With the sun shining from behind her, it lit up her golden hair like a halo. It wasn’t long after that when I asked my abuela if I could use my middle name, Kayde, instead of Indigo.
Not that I can be certain because, like I said, I was only five, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Sera that day.