When You Wish Upon a Fish: A Birthday Memory

Sometimes, in life, there are no explanations–not at the tender age of five, anyways. And for me, I didn’t understand what being “adopted” was, but I knew I was it. Several things puzzled me at that age, like: why bears ate porridge, why my aunts all had mustaches, and why my grandmother would force me to watch Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Rogers. I hated both shows. Captain Kangaroo bored me; who wants to see an old man dressed up as a captain? And As far as the latter, when you grow up Mexican and every family event ends with a phone call to 911 because two family members stabbed one another–well, watching Lady Evelyn rock back-and-forth just doesn’t seem as exciting.

Needless to say, my childhood was an interesting one, thanks to TV. Back then, parents didn’t care what their children watched, at least mine didn’t; I was addicted to Charlie’s Angels. And because of Sabrina, Jill, and Kelly, my over-active imagination received high jolts of inquisitiveness. What am I trying to say? I was a chubby, nosy Mexican-child always suspecting people of lies. Why else would I rush to the phone every time it rang and listen in on my family members conversations? When my father gathered enough courage to tell us he’d lost money in a pyramid scam; I wan’t shocked–I knew two days prior. When my sister’s scheme to spend the night at another friend’s house was hatched; I knew it wasn’t going to work and when she got caught, she looked puzzled when I yelled, “It’s cause you did it wrong!”

So the year I turned 9 and overheard my mom and my biological mother, Sylvia, on the phone together, it won’t come as a shock that I was intrigued; I took notes.

Sylvia: I just don’t understand why you told him he’s adopted; it’s going to hurt him later in life.
Mom: We believe in honestly and the power of Pepsi in this house.
Sylvia: Don’t blame me when things go wrong with him.
Mom: I called to invite you to his birthday party. It’s your choice if you want to come. He likes Wonder Woman.
Sylvia: What?

My birthday’s were always special because my parents understood the gentle side of their son and planned accordingly. Don’t get me wrong, I never had Rainbow Bright-themed parties, but they kept it neutral, like a fish or star. So why did my mom invite Sylvia to my party? Did I even want her there? Why wasn’t I consulted on the guest list? I mean, sure, I’d want her gift; I wasn’t stupid. And I knew her gift would be the biggest due to the high guilt she must have felt for abandoning me at birth–right? Then, the detective in me came out; “Did my parents invite her so they wouldn’t have to give me anything big?” Damn them!

I don’t remember much about that party expect that I had a piñata in the shape of a sock. A sock-shaped piñata doesn’t make for water-cooler conversational pieces at school, but since I didn’t have friends, it didn’t matter.  All my schoolmates thought I was weird and refused to talk to me, unless they were teasing me, so my party guests were my cousins. There was Mike, he ate his boogers, there was Josh, the shoplifter, and Janice, who for some reason, my aunt would dress like a young hooker.

Sylvia showed up but I can’t recall her gift, so it must have sucked. My parents–on the other hand–got me something so beautiful and inspiring that it still brings tears to my eyes; an envelope full of money. I was hard to shop for–then and now–and they gave up shopping for me after I caused a scene rejecting their Snoopy-themed gifts the year before.

So why am I sharing this bizarre childhood gem of a story? Because my birthday is tomorrow, June 30th and I always get nostalgic thinking about the great memories I had as a kid on the last day of June. We didn’t have much, but we had love, parties, piñatas, and envelopes of money, which in the end, is what counts.

Do you remember your birthday celebrations? Leave a comment.