I have a friend. She reads some of the stuff I write and I read some of hers. As such, I come to know a little about her. She grew up in a poor Texas border town with a brother, a sister, a Mexican father and a white mother. Her dad was a sonofabitch, a drunk, things were rough, there was abuse and a mighty struggle to make ends meet. My friend has succeeded in spite of this, but she wears those hard times and those hardships like a medal. It colors who she is, how she sees things. She keeps those memories within easy reach, using them some days as motivation, other days as an excuse. One day not too long ago, she said to me in an innocent observation, “You had an idyllic childhood didn’t you?” It caught me by surprise. What I always considered normal the world often views as privileged. Her question had a note of irony as if she felt a little bad for me. The world spins in an odd way in 2018. Growing up on “tough street” comes with some sort of badge of honor, but growing up with successful stability somehow lacks street cred and is unworthy. In the end, her off-the-cuff inquiry made me feel sheepish as if in the process of confirming this fact I should also probably offer an apology … Ya I had a wonderful childhood, idyllic is an appropriate descriptor, and I couldn’t be more sorry about being born into a stable family with a gainfully employed father and for having an easy life. If it’s any consolation, I try pretty consistently to fuck it all up.

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