Why did we grow up so dysfunctional? I have asked myself that question over and over again. In my naiveté, I believed we were a normal family. We were the eight children of a first-generation Mexican-born Christian pastor. I was born in the early 70's and my older sister was already ahead of me by 7 years. My oldest brother was three decades my senior at my birth. Trinidad Zaragoza, my oldest brother and the oldest sibling, was old enough to be my father when I was fighting my way into this world.
In 1973, my birth year, I believe only my sisters were left at home. As a matter of fact, only my two youngest sisters were still at home. Ruth Zaragoza, 7 years my senior, and Esther Zaragoza, 8 years my senior. I, of course, came along as the last of eight. I'm not sure if I was planned or accidental. Being from a God-fearing home, I believe God has every part of our lives planned so I suppose I can say I was not an accident. I don't know if my parents would have agreed at the time.
So, I grew up the youngest of three girls. The rest of my siblings moved on to raise their own family. My two older sisters gravitated towards each other, because they were only one year apart. I was much younger and was the baby of the house. My sisters grew up and moved out. I grew up, got married, divorced, got married, separated from my husband and now live back in the home that my father built when I was five. I remember my grandfather Crescensciano grabbing a hold of my hand, helping me pick up a brick, putting cement on it and helping me place it on one of the walls of this home. Somewhere in the living room, if my mind serves me correctly. I can honestly say that I had a part in building our home. In the cobwebs of my memory I can still remember my two grandfathers and my father building our home.
As I said before, we grew up in a God-fearing home. My father had been a pastor for some time before I came along. We were the pastor's family in a Christian church in a small town called Somerton. Everyone knew our family. Even now, thirty years later, I run into people who still remember my father being the Pastor of Templo de Oracion. It's been about 19 years since my father left the pulpit. To me it feels like just yesterday, probably because my father still calls me his baby. He's eighty-four this year and I'm his forty-one-year-old baby. I have to chuckle on that one. Me, a baby? My beautiful mother has been in heaven since 2007. We were raised as a matriarchal family and when she passed away, we all lost a certain like for one another. She was the leader of the pack, the Queen of her nest, my whole life.
Then one day she was gone and her nine sheep all went astray. Everyone took their own direction and I stayed in this home with my father. Was it the right decision? Was it my jail sentence for being so liberal-minded and questioning God?
Yes, I'm a disappointment to my siblings. I was an over-achiever in school. I had no idea what profession I would take on some day. I did, however, master the art of learning. I loved school. My teachers were my best friends. I was a tomboy who played marbles and helped the boys beat up the girls. I was even swatted by the principal once. It wasn't I who had committed an offense, but by the time the culprit stepped forward, my hiney had been whacked by the principal. All I got for the pain was a sorry. I'm not sure if I disappointed my siblings because I was a rebel, a non-conformist, or because I married some pretty screwed up men. Personally, I think they disliked me and each other despite any rational explanation.
In 1973, my birth year, I believe only my sisters were left at home. As a matter of fact, only my two youngest sisters were still at home. Ruth Zaragoza, 7 years my senior, and Esther Zaragoza, 8 years my senior. I, of course, came along as the last of eight. I'm not sure if I was planned or accidental. Being from a God-fearing home, I believe God has every part of our lives planned so I suppose I can say I was not an accident. I don't know if my parents would have agreed at the time.
So, I grew up the youngest of three girls. The rest of my siblings moved on to raise their own family. My two older sisters gravitated towards each other, because they were only one year apart. I was much younger and was the baby of the house. My sisters grew up and moved out. I grew up, got married, divorced, got married, separated from my husband and now live back in the home that my father built when I was five. I remember my grandfather Crescensciano grabbing a hold of my hand, helping me pick up a brick, putting cement on it and helping me place it on one of the walls of this home. Somewhere in the living room, if my mind serves me correctly. I can honestly say that I had a part in building our home. In the cobwebs of my memory I can still remember my two grandfathers and my father building our home.
As I said before, we grew up in a God-fearing home. My father had been a pastor for some time before I came along. We were the pastor's family in a Christian church in a small town called Somerton. Everyone knew our family. Even now, thirty years later, I run into people who still remember my father being the Pastor of Templo de Oracion. It's been about 19 years since my father left the pulpit. To me it feels like just yesterday, probably because my father still calls me his baby. He's eighty-four this year and I'm his forty-one-year-old baby. I have to chuckle on that one. Me, a baby? My beautiful mother has been in heaven since 2007. We were raised as a matriarchal family and when she passed away, we all lost a certain like for one another. She was the leader of the pack, the Queen of her nest, my whole life.
Then one day she was gone and her nine sheep all went astray. Everyone took their own direction and I stayed in this home with my father. Was it the right decision? Was it my jail sentence for being so liberal-minded and questioning God?
Yes, I'm a disappointment to my siblings. I was an over-achiever in school. I had no idea what profession I would take on some day. I did, however, master the art of learning. I loved school. My teachers were my best friends. I was a tomboy who played marbles and helped the boys beat up the girls. I was even swatted by the principal once. It wasn't I who had committed an offense, but by the time the culprit stepped forward, my hiney had been whacked by the principal. All I got for the pain was a sorry. I'm not sure if I disappointed my siblings because I was a rebel, a non-conformist, or because I married some pretty screwed up men. Personally, I think they disliked me and each other despite any rational explanation.
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