My favorite job ever...

I get to work at 6:50 a.m. Park my car and walk through the massive empty lot to the dock that stretches two football fields in length. As I get closer to the main office of the dock, I see workers from the night shift flying by on their forklifts, cheering that their shift is almost over. I walk up the stairs and clock in. As I wait for a forklift to become available, I'm told that I better get my shit together if I wanted to keep my job. This is my asshole supervisor. A true shit-head at heart, and a man bound and determined that I was his nemesis. I didn't care if I lost my job or not at that point. Part of me wanted to stay just to piss my supervisor off, but then I realized why I was working there in the first place, $15.75/hour. A young man that wants to make money will put up with a lot of B.S. for $15.75 an Hour.

The head foreman gives me my check sheet, a list of bills (freight) that need to be moved from one trailer to another, and tells me to get my shit together. The day is already off to a great start. Fortunately I'm assigned a trailer at the east end of the dock. In such a miserable place, this was the one part of the dock that had a view. You could clearly see the sun and the many fields and trees that were in front of it. The catch to the beautiful view, these trailers had a lot of heavy freight, sharp poles, and hazardous chemicals. That's what I get for being "young and strong," as my much older co-workers would say.

The day was long and tough as usual. Lots of lifting, stacking, sweating, checking and overlooking. At one point, I didn't know what I was going to do with all those boxes. Then I realized, I could just leave it for the other guy coming in at 3:00. My supervisor would walk to my trailer quite often to "make sure I wasn't fucking anything up." He was such a sweetheart.

After lunch I told myself that it's all downhill from here. I continue my lifting and stacking. I heard the older guys telling jokes about 10 yards away. Sitting on their forklifts and telling jokes. And to think I was the one getting yelled at. Those same guys helped me get through those tough times. They were some of the funniest people I will ever see and talk to. As funny and odd as the 3:00 a.m. regulars at Waffle House. The stories they had about the same jack ass foremen were truly great. The one about my favorite supervisor shitting his pants on a forklift was my personal favorite. You see, those men understood what I was going through because they were in my exact same position at one point. At the bottom of the pole, but they stuck with it because they had to provide for their families. And the money was pretty good too.

The House Where I Was Born

I was born and raised in Las Pilas. Las Pilas is a very small community located in the state of Aguascalientes, in Mexico. It consists of 25 families, one small school, a grosery store and a church. Upon arriving there the first thing that you can admire is the lake and its great waterfall. After you fall in love with the place, you would be delighted with its people and its great traditions. In the north side of this community you can find my parent’s house. The house where I was born!


The house where I was born is squared, has four walls, two floors and a garage.
The house where I was born contains a kitchen, 3 bedrooms and 1 bathroom.
The house where I was born was built by my father with great effort and love.
The house where I was born saw my grandfather cry when he used to tell us stories while he was at war. It also saw him die.
The house where I was born saw my birth and my departure. I grew up in three of its rooms, the last of them possibly still occupied by my cousin Luis and his wife Mary.


The house where I was born has a nice terrace where I used to kill imaginary space monsters, where I used to imagine crossing the mountains like a flying bird, where counting the stars with my mother was fun, and where night was day with my father.


The house where I was born is a set of bricks, cement and plaster that gave shelter to my parents, my sister and me. For a bank may be just clay, cement and plaster. For me there is a story in every corner, it’s a reminder to each step that was taken. It is a touch in each tile, a place where I find the people I love most in this world.

The house where I was born consists of four walls that do not say anything, but save everything at the same time.