My Younger Years

These are my roots and my path...

I was born in 1958, in a clinic, with real doctors overseeing my birth. Most of my brothers and sister were delivered by a midwife in Rural Durango, Mexico. I was also lucky enough to have received professional medical and dental care as a child. A true luxury in Mexico.

Born on July 27, my given name should have been Pantaleon, or any of these: Celestino, Natalio, Cucufate, Hermipo, Hermoclates or Hermolao. It was a well known tradition that, boys and girls, were given the name of a saint who was celebrated on the day of their birth.

Lucky for me, it was my sister-in-law Maria, wife to my brother Perfecto, who went to the civil registry of Villa de Guadalupe to announce my birth. When asked what my name should be, she chose Victor, the saint of the day (july 28) that she went to the registry. She also chose my Father's name as my middle name. Whether she chose victor on purpose, or because she didn't know the saints celebrated on the 27th., it will remain a mystery forever...

As a child, I grew up playing with all the boys and girls of the neighborhood. As soon as I was able, I joined. my fiends in games of the times: Encantado (Tag), Escondido (Hide and seek), Canicas (Marbles), baseball, fútbol, and many others. I remember running along the dusty streets, mostly barefoot bu also with shoes at times.

I went to Profesor Serafin Peña elementary, four blocks from my home on Matamoros Street. By all accounts I was a good student. As early as second grade, my teachers would pair me up with a struggling student. I became a tutor at a very early age. My mom demanded that us kids focus on school. It was an expectation not to be broken. I remember one day when the streets were flooded from the rain that had fallen the previous night. The water was at least 8, maybe 10 inches high. My mom called on our neighbor, Rogelio to take me to school on his horse. He gladly obliged, and I did not miss school that day!

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I was in the 7th grade when my father passed away. He had been admitted to the hospital with intestinal issues. He remained there for many days; maybe a couple of weeks... I was coming home from the school library when my nephew (same age as me), Fefo, told me that I needed to get home right away.

I hurried home with a feeling of emptiness in my stomach. As soon as I entered the house, I heard my mom crying in one of the back rooms. I knew then, that my Dad was gone. In the coming weeks, I learned that my sister Benita and my Mom had agreed that I should come stay with her family in California, for at least the school year..."to get away from the environment"... It was in this way that, in November of 1970 I boarded an American Airlines jet, and several hours later I had landed in San Francisco.

The drive home to my sister's home was a bit more that two hours. I remember stopping in San Rafael, just north of San Francisco on the 101. It was here that I experienced my first big Mac with fries and a soda.