My First Memory

The first memory I have of my childhood has me standing in front of a window at my grandmother's house at the age of 2.

It's dark outside and most definitely past my bedtime. As I stare out the window, I can see bright flashing orange lines cutting across the dark sky. Some fly straight, some fly in strange patterns. These aren't fireflies. These are 223s. The supersonic sound from the projectiles and the overpressure of the M16 muzzle flash was just as entertaining as a 4th of July firework display. Somehow I had front row seat to the show as I found myself standing a couple yards away from member of the Mexican PGR.

Separated by a single pane of glass - the agent had positioned himself against a wall outside the house - I could spot him in the darkness only when the night would turn to day with the exit of each bullet from his machine gun. I was raised catholic - just like 99% of my family - and what that means is that every time there is a new birth in the family it is celebrated by a “Bautismo” followed by the killing of a pig that kick off a party that can extend clear into the next morning. What had started as a day of celebration, had rapidly turned into a gun battle that had my father pinned down under a truck as the bullets flew freely thru the unrestricted airspace of my grandmother's front yard.

What happens when La Familia gets together.