August 2, 1998, at 11:20 p.m., was the day my mother gave birth to me. I was born in Loma Linda, California and have lived in a few towns in the state. I think it was because my sister was suspended from the schools she went to. Now that I think about it, we weren't just moving around California, but pretty much anywhere along the southern border of the United States. You name any place and I've probably lived or visited there once. After spending two years in California, we headed to Las Vegas, Nevada. I remember when I started preschool, even though it wasn't very interesting. When it comes to my first elementary school my mind goes blank, but my second school was Bruner Elementary. The only reason I remember it is because my favorite 2nd grade teacher was there. I loved 2nd grade, but not because of the school. It was because I made my first friend. I was very devastated to learn that we would have to move to New Mexico that summer. Acoma, New Mexico is where I lived for 8 to 10 years. Acoma is an Indian reservation, where everyone knows everyone, and if you were a foreigner or an "Americano (white person)", you had no one's respect. I guess that's why I was bullied between 3rd and 4th grade, but I'm 50% Native American, and on the other hand, I guess it was because I was fat when I was a child. The summer I turned 11. , my parents had separated. I had chosen to be with my mother for two reasons: 1. My father was an alcoholic and 2. I never knew my mother, mainly because if she had spoken to me, my father would start World War III in our house. . Then we lived in Bluewater, New Mexico for two months. The sixth grade was very friendly to me. I had met my fourth best friend. After my mom got a job... in the middle of a paper... that's bullshit and found out we had to move, because my cousin, who we lived with in Texas, told my mother's ex-girlfriend. where we were. We ended up at another shelter in Florida. Finally, after five months of living at the shelter, we were able to move into an apartment. Just when things were starting to improve, I found out that my father had died because of his drinking. I cried for a few moments. After a few days, I was almost angry. Angry at the people who thought this man who would talk to his own children for over four years was a loss to our family. I loved my father and still do, but he was not a perfect man. I was actually relieved because after four years of my life, people on my father's side had started to care about me. Today, I no longer feel like a stranger to my own family. Now I'm happy and I'm grateful for every peaceful second I breathe.