My Life: Chapter 1

I’ve never thought that my story was particularly exciting, certainly not worthy of writing an entire book documenting its events. I’m probably like most people my age, just trying to find their way through this thing called ‘life’. However, I do believe that everyone should spend some time writing out their own personal biography. I think they will find that their lives are a bit more interesting than they initially thought…

I don’t remember much about my life before the age of three, which is probably pretty common. I vaguely remember being at the hospital while my brother James was being born, holding him on my lap while all of the grown-ups kept a nervous eye on me in case I decided to drop him. I was born and grew up in Houston, Texas. We lived in the suburbs on a quiet street of one story houses and well-kept lawns. Paso Hondo. That was the name of our street and that’s what we called that house, the ‘Paso Hondo house’. We moved around quite a bit, so referring to houses by their street names became a common occurrence. I can remember sunny Saturday mornings out on the driveway helping dad wash the car or mow the lawn. I loved the smells and sounds of water on the hot concrete as it sizzled down to the street. It was on this street that I first learned to ride a bike without any training wheels. My dad patiently held the seat and ran me down the street, almost as if he were launching a porcelain kite. I would ride up and down that street, most of the time barefoot.

From what I can remember, I liked having a younger brother around, although I probably pretended that it annoyed me. Someone who looked up to me, who copied my every move, and who wanted to be with me constantly. I do remember, however, getting into trouble once because apparently I had bit James on the head. I don’t recall exactly why I did it, but my mom once told me that she heard him screaming in the other room. When she walked in, I was sitting innocently in the corner and James had little red teeth marks on his head.

When I was about 5 or 6, for some reason once I found entertainment in taking a toy wooden saw and sawing the mortar between the fireplace bricks, although I knew it was probably something the parents would disapprove of. I blew the dust that had built up and it immediately spiraled up into my eyes. I remember crying and my mom coming in to find out what was wrong. I had told her that I had just seen some dust on the fireplace and wanted to blow it off so it would look clean. This is the first time in my life I remember outright lying to someone’s face.