Broken Spanish

Like so many writing projects, I started this blog years ago and never found the time to keep it updated. I intended it to be a place to reminisce about music, but I'm a little older now, and have other things to say, maybe. 

Who knows. 

For now, I will write for me: For the joy it brings, and for the pain it heals. 

I still love music. It's always going to be a huge part of my identity. That will never change. 

I was born at home in Silicon Valley in the summer of 1978, to a young mother and a Viet Nam veteran father. The big names in town were Hewlett-Packard, Stanford University, and a burgeoning little software company named after a fruit.

My, how times have changed.

I generally enjoy having a place to share my written thoughts with anyone who cares to read them, but social media has some downsides. I have shied away because I'm a somewhat old-fashioned girl. I deleted my Facebook account about a year ago because it's not a safe place to share my thoughts and feelings. The trolls were always ready to attack, and I grew tired of defending my territory.

This isn't a unique experience, I know.

As a high-school honor student, I dreamed of one day becoming a music journalist, and was granted a provisional admission to UCLA upon graduation from high school. My acceptance letter mentioned that before I could attend, I first needed to satisfy my foreign language requirement. 

I had taken Spanish I in high school, but hadn't taken Spanish II. The letter encouraged me to complete this prerequisite during the summer of 1996 so that I could commence my freshman year in the fall. 

I planned to do so. But as they say, "Man plans, god laughs." 

The summer of my 18th birthday, with my diploma in hand, my mother decided to abandon me in Los Angeles. 

She wanted to go live in a tent with her boyfriend in Mammoth Lakes, CA. I could go with her if I wanted, but if I wanted to stay in LA, she could no longer afford to support me. She was living off unemployment and the Social Security benefits she received after my father's death in 1988. 

When I turned 18, those payments stopped, and so did her ability to make rent. 

I eventually forgave my mother, but I can't forget. The consequences of her actions have affected me since I was born. 

But this isn't her story, nor is her story mine to tell. 

I only had moved back in with my mother when I ran away from foster care on my 14th birthday. I had spent the previous 7 years being abused in foster care with her relatives in Colorado. 

The 4 years I lived with my mom were only marginally better. 

At least she didn't beat and starve me. 

I graduated from high school in June 1996. I was barely 18 and was working at McDonald's. I'd worked part time jobs since I turned 15, and prior to that, used to babysit and clean houses to help with family expenses. 

The idea of being homeless in a tent with my mother and her boyfriend at age 18 held zero appeal. 

Since I now had to find a place to live, I had to postpone my UCLA dreams and couldn't afford to take that missing Spanish class. My heart broke in two as I folded that letter, and my dreams, away. 

The irony of that missing Spanish class is not lost on me. 

My mother's side of the family is of Spanish, Mexican, and Filipino descent. Her side of the family is Roman Catholic. She is the 9th child of 9. 

My maternal grandparents grew up in America during the Great Depression, and speaking a foreign language was verboten. My maternal family has only learned Spanish in school or at university, if at all. 

Since UCLA was off the table for me that Fall, I searched the want-ads to find full-time work and an apartment of my own. I found an ad for a call center in Woodland Hills that paid $8.00/hr. It was a huge step up from the $4.25/hr I was making at McDonald's. Suddenly, I had bigger bills to pay. 

I showed up to the job interview in tights, heels, a corduroy skirt, and button-up shirt I'd purchased from a thrift store. I was determined to make a good impression. 

The interviewer was a sweet older lady who looked like one of my high school guidance counselors. She informed me that the job I was interviewing for was to become a "Phone Actress," and I would be speaking to the men who called the 1-900 numbers in the back of pornographic magazines. 

I was a virgin until I was 18. I was still dating the man I'd lost my virginity to when I was offered that job. 

My experience was limited, but I grew up reading a lot of literature and listening to angsty British music, which as you know, is often about sex. 

I felt I could "fake it till I make it." 

I was hired. I then went out and rented my first apartment. 

I didn't set out in life to be an 18 year old phone sex actress, but life is funny sometimes. 

"Man plans, god laughs."

Working graveyard shift was surreal. My co-workers were a motley crew, but many of them were pretty awesome people. I learned a lot from them; about life, about sex, about my queer identity, about feminism, about the world. 

But before I get too lost going down memory lane, I think I'll hit pause on this story for now. 

If you're reading this, I hope I'll be back to write another time. For now, I'll just hit "publish," and see where this goes. 

To be continued...

But don't hold your breath.