Mi Familia

Table of Contents

An Introduction

It is a truth universally acknowledged that one does not choose their family. This shuffle of humans living under the same roof is arguably one of life's toughest challenges to determine if you can make it in this world as a socially acceptable human being, or end up a serial killer that will probably end up with a Netflix show. Fortunately for most, it's the former. Although in grade school my Mother did encourage me to write reports on serial killers, so I'm not really sure where that puts me. I'll let you determine that as you read on. This is a story about my family.

How They Met

To give you a quick synopsis of how we all ended up together, I'll start with how my parents met. My Father immigrated from Cuba in 1968 when he was 9 years old 1. I sometimes ask him about his life in Cuba and the story that sticks out the most is when he used to climb up mango trees to hide from his Mother, proceeding to eat enough mangos to make him dreadfully sick. He flew to America with his parents and two brothers. He's a middle child if that means anything (it does). My Mother grew up in Texas. Her Mother was only a teenager when she had her, so she was raised by her Grandmother. She has always described her Grandmother as being very strict, and very Mexican. One memory my Mother usually recalls is when her Grandmother would grab her elbow and briskly walk them across streets. She must have adapted this trait because when I was younger and crossed streets with my Mother, she would also walk very quickly - except she wouldn't grab me, or actually give me any kind of warning that she was going for it. The next thing I knew my Mom was in the middle of an intersection (with no crosswalk) and I'd be half running/half praying I didn't get hit by a car to catch up with her.

Anyways, by the time my parents were both about 10 years old, they were living in 1970s Chicago. My Father mostly rode around in his little bike gang, where his designated nickname was "Blo-mar"2. He was also frequently chased around the playground for his lunch money. Most days he could outrun them, but only most days. Otherwise he did the chasing when trying to catch one of many rabbits in Rosehill Cemetery.

My Mother was living back with her Mother, and helped raise her five younger siblings. It seems she got the short end of the stick. As the oldest, she mostly has stories of what her younger siblings would do. One of my uncles had this terrible, make-you-want-to-scream habit of sticking sewing needles in his ears and pinto beans up his nose. Hospital trips were frequented, and not surprisingly, he ended up being pretty goth in his early adulthood. There are other cringe-worthy stories she's shared with me, but I won't get into them here. Let's just say she's seen some shit.

Both my parents attended Waters Elementary School. One fateful day at recess, my Mother and Father happened to cross paths... and then continued to walk past each other. My Father transferred out of Waters soon after and they would not cross each other's paths for another 17 years.

It was at Pat’s Bar on Rockwell Street - one of those very Chicago dive bars that has the Old Style sign out front. The sign of a truly classic dive. It is pretty much guaranteed there will be sticky floors, a musty smell, a jukebox, and plenty of cheap beer. Your waitress will most likely be an 80 year old Ukrainian woman, and if she likes you, she'll give you shots of Peppermint Schnapps while insisting you start making babies3. Those dives have a certain charm that is hard to ignore. On this fateful night, my Father's cousin and my Mother's brother were attempting to play as matchmakers. Thus, they were the culprits of this "chance" meeting. My Father arrived, ready to dance and mingle (as one does at a 1985 dive bar). My Mother, not so much (as one also does at a 1985 dive bar).

My Father's first impression of my Mother:

"She wasn't smiling, and she wasn't done up at all. Her hair was all wet and she was in a bad mood."

My Mother's first impression of my Father:

"There he was, this Cuban all done up like he walked off the set of Saturday Night Fever. He looked so full of himself."

They were two incredibly different people: a disco fever Cuban and a moody Mexican rocker chick. Yet they somehow ended up in each other's arms, awkwardly dancing with each other. By awkwardly, I mean my Mother was actually stepping on his feet. He never forgets to mention that - like it was a crime to be such a terrible dancer. Do you want to know what their first song was? "Do You Want Me" by Human League! Can you imagine going to dance with some stranger your family threw at you, who you most likely will have to see again because it's their friend, and your first song is straight up, "Do you want me baby?". Well clearly, they did.

1People always ask me if he was on a boat. No, they flew on an actual airplane, first class actually.

2My Father was let off easy compared to the nicknames of his other bike gang members. Also, my parent's names are Omar and Monicka.

3 She works over at Rose's Lounge in Lincoln Square. Thanks for all the Peppermint Schnapps Rose!

The Accident

I was definitely an accident. I know this because my Mother has told me on numerous occasions. It started with a fight, soon followed by a nasty breakup between my parents. After a few weeks of moping around (and listening to The Human League on repeat), they decided to get back together. I was therefore the product of makeup sex. Close call! My Mother discovered she was pregnant when they decided to take a lover's trip to one of the most romantic places in the world, Disney World. The first time she threw up, she thought it might have been caused by going on the "It's a Small World" ride, and she just wasn't prepared to listen to that song on repeat for the entire boat ride4. But the second time, she knew it was not because of a nauseating boat ride. She went to my Father to tell him the news:

"Omar, I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I can get an abortion when we get back home."

"Wait, what? No! We will get married and this can be our honeymoon."

That's probably not exactly how it went down, but I do know she wanted to get an abortion and he stopped her. Another close call! Also, yes, DisneyWorld was designated as their honeymoon trip. He didn't propose to her then. He waited until they were back home, and he bought a ring with his cousin. They decided they would propose to their girlfriends at the same time. Great idea guys. I love to picture this proposal at a mall. My Father got down on one knee in the food court, and asked for my Mother's hand in marriage. As spectators "oohed" and "aahed", my Mother took the ring from his hand, and then threw it right back in his face.

"GASP!"

"Young love..."

"Rad!"

Apparently, it was not a ring that met her standards5. Normally that may have deterred my Father, but dammit man, this woman was carrying his child! With deep breaths and surely the loss of a few tears, he sold his pride and joy - his car. The second time he asked, with a more suitable ring, was when she said "Yes". I enjoy watching the video recording of their wedding for a couple reasons. Mostly because I can sum it up like this: Miami Beach, Police Sirens, Four Guests, Yellow Pants. It was almost like watching a silent movie. But instead of silence all you can hear is the wind, waves, and police sirens. And it wasn't my Mother's wedding dress that caught your eye6, it was the bright yellow pants she bought him in Disney World7.

It was a beautiful, warm day on August 17th, 1987 when my Mother decided to go to Sears. As soon as she stepped inside, her water broke... three weeks earlier than expected. Here I come! Due to my impatience, the doctor had to perform a C-section. The result was a very tiny, and a very hairy baby. My Father took one look at me and said,

"She looks Mexican...".

He was convinced my Mother had cheated on him. Him and I didn't come off to a good start, but he always tells me this story:

"I wasn't sure you were mine at first. But since you were premature they had to give you all these tests. When I saw them put a needle in your foot and you started crying, there was this defensive anger inside me that just came out. It was being a father. It was then I knew you were mine."

Two months later, my cousin was born. She and I dominated our parents' lives for the next two years in our frilly white dresses. There is proof of this in the countless scrapbooks my Mother has created over the years. In September, 1989, the "not accident" was born. My brother was one of those adorable, chubby babies that always gets their cheeks pinched. He was not hairy and still isn’t. Why didn’t I get HIS genes? The earliest memory I have with him is trying to pick him up when he was a toddler, because he was clearly my new doll. But he was too heavy for me, and I would always end up crying in frustration.

The next two years were filled with cute toddlers stumbling around in the two flat my parents rented in Albany Park. My Mother was a stay-at-home Mom and her job was to record us all day. They have so many home videos of us all and I am so grateful they saved these reels of our history. Although sometimes the videos are interrupted by some late 80s commercial and it really demonstrates how far we’ve come in style and taste8.

Life isn’t perfect though and can be even scarier than those commercials. Two years later, in December 1991, my Mother faced death straight in the face when she had her final accident, my youngest brother.

This story is pretty crazy, but during the birth of my brother she died. That beep-beep, heart machine had the flat-line. Since my Father was in the delivery room, the way he describes it makes it seem like a scene straight out of The Shining. Specifically, that elevator opening with the river of blood scene. Somehow, she was miraculously revived and rolled off to intensive care - where she spent the next 10 days.

During this, my Father was handed my new brother. Like me (but obviously in a way worse situation), they didn't come off to a great start. Understandably, after what he had just witnessed, he was convinced my Mother would not make it through this and considered giving my littlest brother up for adoption. Thankfully, that didn't have to happen because she survived! The earliest memory I have with my youngest brother is when my Father brought him home while my Mother was still in the hospital. The best way I could describe it, looking back now, is that my Father was defeated. I had never seen him look so lost and I remember feeling confused that he could feel that way. Those were dark days for us all - even my memories go dark after that moment. It wasn't until my youngest brother was bouncing up and down in his baby doorway jumper when the memories started rolling in again. For now, everyone was alive and healthy. Most importantly, we were all together.

4My Father, for reasons unknown, recorded this entire ride. The best I can describe it is that it feels like you're in that scene in Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey, where they find themselves in different personal hells. This would be one of those personal hells, where you are trapped in a time loop of dolls singing the same song over and over again.

5Props to her for even knowing what a good quality ring looked like. I could have been given a ring pop, and naively thought "Ooooh, so red... so big".

6She was starting to show by the time they got married, so her wedding dress didn't end up fitting her. She had to borrow a dress from her sister-in-law.

7I speculate this may have been revenge for taking her on that boat ride.

8I know everyone says the 80s style is coming back, but we’ll never wear it like they used to.

Family Values

Families fight, and we were (are) no exception. Our parents were constantly screaming at each other, at us, the dogs, and even neighbors. My brothers and I were constantly fighting over toys, who actually won Monopoly9, and proceeded to try to murder each other on the trampoline. However there was one night a week that put all of our hostility on hold: Movie Night.

In our family, this was one of our most cherished events. Our basement was set up like a theatre with the huge three piece sofa, a recliner, an intense surround system, the biggest t.v. you could buy in the 90s, and even little curtains for our glass block windows. It was always a double feature, and sometimes if we were up for it, a triple feature. During the first movie, we'd eat popcorn or maybe even dinner. Then we'd break before the second movie to go make our specialty sundaes. These sundaes were epic. We'd scoop huge bowls and garnish them with nuts, sprinkles, cookie crumbs, whip cream, and a cherry on top. Once we had our masterpieces in hand, we'd plop down on the couch and start the next movie.

We weren't picky when it came to movie genres. Give us rom-coms, historical fiction, fantasy, horror, drama, biography - everything. My parents also didn't believe in censorship and we'd see whatever movie they had been wanting to see. At a very young age, my brothers and I were introduced to a variety of movies, including all by Quentin Tarantino and movies inspired by Stephen King. We saw Stephen King's "IT" when I was about 5 years old. My brothers, Roger and Richie, were respectively 3 and 1. When I asked my Mother what she was thinking when she decided to play this movie for her children, this was her response:

"It was just a movie I had been wanting to see. It had a clown, but I didn't expect clowns to be that scary. I honestly felt really bad afterwards, so I thought I would take you guys to Toys 'R Us the next day to boost your spirits up.

We all exited the caravan - you were walking beside me, I had Roger on my hip, and Richie in the stroller. We were approaching the store when you grabbed my shirt and Roger tensed in my arms. I looked up and there was a seemingly-friendly clown out front handing out balloons. Suddenly, Roger started screaming bloody murder and tried wriggling out of my arms. As other parents stared at us (including that clown), I had to drag everyone back to the car and go back home.

I think I really messed up your brother."

She did. As an adult, his number one fear is still clowns. You'd think this would be a lesson learned for my Mother and now she would know better than to let us watch scary movies. Think again! Scary movies were the hit of our household, and it's not like we became immune to them - we were absolutely terrified. The ones that still give me nightmares are Nightmare on Elm Street, Candyman, and Puppet Master10. However, our parents seemed to misunderstand our quiet, tense fear for stoicism and decided to start a scare-tactic trend that lives on to this day.

There are countless memories of hiding in closets, scratching at walls, whispering into dark bedrooms, telling scary stories, and playing with Ouija boards. One memorable night involved my brothers, cousin, and I watching Pumpkinhead. It was a dark summer night, and although we were uncomfortably hot, we were entranced by this hideous looking creature on the screen. Our Mother was organizing storage in the next room, which must have included Halloween boxes. Without us realizing, she put on one of the most terrifying Alien masks we had and disappeared into the night.

As the Pumpkinhead demon rose from the ashes of Hell, an Alien started pounding on the windows from behind the TV (she had absolutely perfect timing). We all screamed and held onto each other tightly because we realized monsters are, in fact, very real and they are coming for us. At least until we saw that the Alien was wearing a Tweety bird t-shirt. Thinking back, I’m not even sure how my Mother reached the window - she must have grabbed a ladder. I'm telling you, our parents were very serious about scaring us.

Those are areas where we really bonded as a family - making sundaes big enough to get us sick, movie marathons, and trying to give each other heart attacks.

Let me leave you with a story that almost did just that. I hate to admit this, but I was very much an adult when this happened. You think that being an adult means this phase is over? Not a chance. The worst part is, this wasn't even planned. It is like we are building up this expectation to be scared every day we are not. If we don't get our fix, that next hit will be that much harder. As an unfortunate result, I am more prone to being jumpy these days.

A couple years ago, I tried catching up with "The Walking Dead". I was just finishing up season 3 when I decided to spend the weekend at my Father’s. His little secluded house was in a town called Beach Park where, despite its name, there are no beaches. My Mother was also visiting from Florida, so needless to say, they were excited that I was staying. Being the perfect daughter I am, I arrived at the house, said my “hellos” and went straight to the guest bedroom to watch "The Walking Dead".

I say guest bedroom, but at this point in time my Father was still working on most of the house. Which meant there was plastic tarp hanging down from the ceiling, floors were lifted in order to be replaced, and some rooms did not have doors installed yet - including mine. Used to the scenery, I comfortably plopped down on the bed and started up the show. This was when "The Walking Dead" was actually worth watching. But honestly, I wouldn't know. It was the last night I watched the show for reasons I'm about to share.

I was a few episodes in when I first heard it. I perked up at the small window in the bedroom. It was outside. I couldn't see anything but the black of night, so I told myself it must have been an animal. I mean, the backyard practically opens up to a forest, so it wasn’t rare to spot a deer or fox every once in awhile. I shrugged it off, but soon afterwards I heard it again - a scraping noise this time. I paused the show and stared at the window. My heart started beating a bit faster. I didn’t want to get up and take a closer look outside for fear of what I would see. Zombies? No, don’t be silly.

Ears perked and heart racing, I stared at the window in complete silence for, no joke, about 5 minutes. I finally started to loosen up but then I heard it again! This time at the front door! At this point I was completely convinced someone was trying to break into the house, and they were going to murder me and my parents. That was clearly the most logical reason (especially after recently reading "I'll Be Gone in the Dark" by Michelle McNamara). I snatched whatever item I deemed a weapon, which sadly was the remote control, and ran into the closet. Like most other rooms in this house, it didn’t have a door. I looked down at the remote in my hand and realized how ill-equipped I was! I would not be able to protect myself from this serial killer. I needed help - I needed protection.

Knowing full well I was risking my life, I slowly crept out of the closet. My head was thumping as my heart threatened to explode out of my chest. I stood there for a moment listening- there it was again! With legs like jelly, I bolted and ran into the adjacent room my Mother was staying in. THIS ONE had a door. I shut it behind me, breathing heavy, eyes bulging out of my sockets. My Mother was sitting up in bed watching a TV show (thankfully not about Zombies). She casually turned to look at me (I was still clutching the remote), saw the look on my face and asked,

“Um… is everything okay?”.

“MOM. NO. I don’t think so. I’m not too sure11. I think someone is trying to break in.”

“Kayla, stop.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Well, go check.”

“No way! I’m not going out there.”

With a deep sigh, and the hero she is, my Mother got up from bed. As she did, she had a chance to take a really good look at my face and finally saw the legit fear in my eyes. Naturally, she started to get a little worried herself. She tried playing it off like I was joking around so she went to go open the door. I slammed my hand against it.

“Noooo. What if someone is out there?!”

“Well, how else are we going to find out?”

She opened the door and urged me to head out of the bedroom. Racked with fear, my body went stiff.

“I can’t Mom, you go.”

“Seriously???”

Completely defeated, I handed her the remote control.

She slowly crept out of the bedroom, one small step after another. I followed very close behind, one hand on her back. When the time came, I wanted to be ready to throw her to the murderer and run for my life. I’m kidding of course. But then again, I was dumb with fright. She kept whispering back to me, insisting no one was here.

But then we heard it.

“Screeeeeeeech.”

It was at the front door again. My Mother stopped moving so suddenly that I ran into her. I clutched at her shirt when I heard the noise. In a timid voice I didn't realize she was capable of12, she asked out into the darkness,

“Is… someone.... there???”

A tall, bulky shadow emerged - half of it hidden behind the wall. It stood staring at us.

With my hand on her back, I felt my Mother stop breathing and go still as stone. Then suddenly she let out a blood-curdling scream.

I've heard my Mother scream a lot from all the horror movies we've watched, all the roller coasters we've been on, and all the times we would jump out to scare each other. But I had never, ever heard my Mom scream like this. It was reminiscent of a classic horror movie when the character sees their lover turn into a werewolf or finds a dead body in the bathtub. Her scream was so intense that I was more embarrassed than frightened now. Surely the shadow about to murder us would freak out and run out the door!

The shadow stood its ground.

"Mom???"

"Oh my god, Roger?!"

My brother, Roger, decided to make a spontaneous laundry trip in the middle of the night. He was going back and forth getting clothes out of his car, which is why the screen door kept making noises.

What did I learn that night? A few things:

  • I can no longer watch The Walking Dead
  • I should probably stock up on baseball bats
  • My Mother needs to audition for the next Scream movie
  • Roger has probably been plotting this revenge scheme ever since he was forced to watch IT

The patience paid off little brother.

9It was always Roger. Every single time.

10That puppet with the drill on his head is the reason I still can't stick my feet out from under the covers.

11Oh, I was completely sure. I remember wanting to scream and cry at my Mother that we were about to die, but also didn't want to alarm her because I needed someone to think rationally.

12My Mother likes to joke that she has a truck driver voice - her voice is deeper than my Father's. So hearing her sound timid was probably one of the strangest things I've experienced in my life.

Sibling Rivalries

I'm really grateful my brothers were not sisters. The closest they'd get is when I'd dress up Richie, the youngest, like a girl. He just has these voluptuously long lashes that every girl in their right mind would be jealous of. When I'd push his long hair back with a head band, he'd bat his lashes and wah-lah! He was a girl. Sometimes I would dress him up like a princess and he'd never complain. I think he was just excited to have playtime with his older sister. It stopped when my Father walked in one day and saw his son transformed into Pretty Pretty Princess13. I was very proud of my masterpiece and so was Richie, but my Father was most definitely not.

Other than dressing up my brother, the closest person I had to a sister was my cousin Alexis. In fact, she was better than a sister. She didn't live with us, but she lived down the street. We had a relationship that was all adventure and fun, without the jealousy-induced, hair-pulling fights sisters typically would have from having to see each other everyday. I keep saying "was", but she still is the sister I never had. We risked that relationship by rooming with each other for a couple years, but at that point we were mostly mature adults and not inclined to throw hissy fits over a shirt someone borrowed without permission. It was definitely worth the risk.

Even though my brothers weren't girls, we still had our fair share of fighting. Roger and I mostly fought with Richie, and then I mostly fought with Richie. I told you before that being a middle child meant something - neutrality. Roger was basically Sweden. To this day, he is always trying to calm down the situation or see the best in people. As an old southern Grandmother would say, "Oh, bless his heart." Let me explain the extent of this neutralism with a story.

My Mother knew we were not getting the nutrients required with our school lunches and sundae extravaganzas. To remedy that, she would have us take vitamins - the Flintstone vitamins14. She gave me my recommended dose of two, and then four to Roger.

"Take two of these, and go give them to Richie in the bath. Make sure he puts them in his mouth."

Like a good boy, Roger went to the bathroom and a few minutes later left. Many minutes later, I was passing by my Mother and she stopped me:

"Can you see what is taking Richie so long in the bath? He might have fallen asleep."

Rest assured, my Mother didn't fill the tubs deep enough for us to drown in the bath. Baths were mostly for playtime with Hot Wheels, Barbies and then avoiding the occasional floating poo.15

Sure enough, when I walked into the bathroom, Richie was there lying in the tub fast asleep. I noticed something weird on his face though. When I looked a bit closer, I saw that there were two Flintstone vitamins sticking out of his mouth. There it was - Roger's diplomatic skills put to the test. He probably walked into that bathroom, vitamins in hand, confused of what to do when he saw Richie sleeping. He didn't want to wake up his brother from his restful sleep, but he also needed to listen to his Mother. I love to imagine Roger leaning over his brother, very carefully placing Fred and Barney in his mouth. Then standing up with a smile on his face and proudly walking out knowing he had accomplished both feats.

However, there were many times Roger couldn't help a fight from forming. That didn't mean he'd stop trying. Let's take Monopoly for example. We'd play this game a lot when we were younger. The idea of making money and owning property felt very powerful and adult to us. It was the same with that game "Life". We treated those games like fortune tellers - how we played them was most likely how we'd end up in life. If that was the case, then Roger would be Jeff Bezos by now (but a much nicer version). He'd always win these games. Not by a little either - he'd literally rake in the cash and become a Monopoly millionaire. Understandably, Richie and I would become very upset. There were a few times boards might have been thrown across the room, pieces flying everywhere, and Roger looking very forlorn. It came to a point that when tempers started to flare up, Roger would recognize the signs and start donating his money.

"Oh, I'm sorry you landed on my Boardwalk hotel the last turn. I'm sure the stay did not meet your standards, so here is a refund of $100,000."

Bless his heart, he just wanted the game to have a peaceful ending and not end up on the other side of the toy room.

I also want to point out that just because Roger avoids conflict, he is not a sucker. He obviously was smarter than Richie and I combined when it came to being money smart. In real life, he was the only one that actually saved all his money, applied for scholarships in college, and basically did what he did in Monopoly. But let's not get ahead of ourselves - he doesn't own Amazon. He also most definitely enjoys winning. Even though he'd donate us his money and give us that sliver of hope that we might actually win, he never let us. One might say that is even a bit cruel16.

Being the youngest, I can safely say Richie was the opposite. I don't blame him though, given that he was born into chaos. My Mother was recovering from her full-death experience (plus another near-death experience a year later), my Dad was trying to take care of all of us financially , and we had just moved into a house that had to be gutted out and rebuilt. My parents have admitted that while Roger and I were running around and they were working on the house, Richie was left hanging in his baby bouncer between the doorway. Every time we ran past him, he'd try to bounce after us until the rope became taut and flung him back. You may think they're exaggerating, but I've actually seen home videos of this. Either my Mom or Dad were recording the work they'd done on the house. As they pass Richie, you see him from the corner of the screen trying to follow you in his baby bouncer. Then whoosh - he was gone.

As soon as he was capable of walking and not falling down half built stairs or getting tangled in wires, he was free of his restraint. From that point on, he made it his life mission to make every opportunity count, and never leave us alone. As I approached my pre-teen years, he quickly became one of the most annoying humans in my life.

I can't recall how many times I'd bring over a new friend to be confronted by my butt-naked little brother who would then proceed to chase us around the house. Who does that?!17 I was mortified. Or the countless times I'd want to go hang out with a boy I liked, grasping at the strongly appealing possibility that I really may have my romantic Austen moment, only to be given babysitting duty and commanded to take Richie with me.

"Mommmmmm....nooooahhhhhhh!"

Sometimes I'd complain enough and actually get my way. Then Richie would start to cry because his older and cooler sister didn't want to hang out with him. Whatever! I finally had a chance to live the sought out teen romances I'd been dying for!

I also took out a lot of teenage angst on my little brother. I remember making him cry for these reasons and more:

  • Telling him his name was Richard and not Richie
  • Putting hairspray in his hair while he was sleeping
  • Cutting his hair while he was sleeping
  • Pulling his hair while he was awake
  • Not letting him play with any of my Barbies
  • Not letting him come into the Computer Room
  • Scaring him
  • Beating him at a game
  • Making him do 'play' school work
  • Not letting him come with me to see "Finding Nemo"

Ok, so that last one was probably the cruelest. Why else would someone go see some kiddy Disney movie and not take their little brother?18 In many ways, I'd eventually get my comeuppance. He was not scared to hit (or bite) back, or cry enough to our Mother to make her do the punishing - which was always the worst.

Fast forward many years of arduous sibling rivalry, and give Richie a basketball. I was heading out to hang with some high school friends and as I was walking down the stairs, I heard Richie behind me:

"Hey Kayla! Think fast!"

:::Kayla turns head in slow motion:::

"W-w-h-h-a-a-t-t-t-?-?-?"

Then I suddenly felt a sucker-punch to the face as a basketball was flung straight at me, digging my wiry glasses into the bridge of my nose and basically knocking me off my feet.

Stunned to the utmost disbelief, I shot a murderous glare at Richie- a glare on par with Jules in Pulp Fiction that said:

"Do that again! I dare you! I double-dare you Mother F**r!"

Both his hands shot up to grab his hair, as he cried:

"I thought you would catch it!!!"

Then something really weird happened. I laughed, we both laughed. I laughed because, well, I was imagining someone with glasses getting hit in the face with a basketball and it was funny. Richie was probably laughing out of pure relief that I wasn't going to murder him. He never threw a basketball at my face again, but we had other moments like these that allowed tides to shift. Richie and I weren't fighting (as much), and Roger was more at peace with himself. We played games to completion, and even started experimenting with cooperative ones. It was right when this tide shifted that I went to college, with Roger following suit, and Richie and my parents moved to Florida.

I was already missing my new best friends.

13A frequently played game from childhood, along with Small Talk. That game is the reason I can spell Mississippi backwards quicker than forwards.

14I used to sneak these and eat more than the daily dose. It probably says "Keep out of reach of children". Oh, I reached.

15 I can not seem to erase the memory of my brothers and I bathing (as young children), when one of my brothers (I won't say who) decided to just poop one out. I crab walked on each side of the tub and in a half laugh, half cry, screamed out for my Mother: "Poooooo!!!!"

16Good for him.

17Apparently many little boys as stated by my male friend.

18To make out with a boy, duh.

Privacy Please

I can't really share any family stories during my college years, since we were all living apart. Richie and my parents lived in Florida, Roger was attending college back in Chicago, and I was in Urbana-Champaign. A year or two in, my Father had to move back to Chicago for work reasons. However my Mother stayed in Florida and Richie was starting college in Orlando. We were the most separated we'd ever been.

There is a certain electricity that runs through all of us when we are together, and not being close meant losing a bit of that spark. Strangely, we hardly visited one another. Money was tight, everyone was far, and with all of us in college we were too busy studying, working, and partying. I remember spending Christmas' alone in my frozen-piped Champaign apartment. One time, my parents had sent me a singing snow globe with Santa skating in circles. I made a huge chocolate cake19, decorated my room with the snow globe, and proceeded to watch cheesy rom-coms like "Love, Actually". Ok, I make it sound like my parents abandoned me, but they did visit once, maybe twice. Roger and them came for my graduation, and I believe it was during this time we had the infamous "We Don't Have a Broom?" conversation. It was at the same apartment where I spent Christmas alone and my roommate, Sarah, was thankfully (or unthankfully) a witness to this conversation.

We must have spilled something. Why else would we start talking about brooms? This is how the story unfolds:

Mom:

"Where is your broom?"

Kayla looks at Sarah. Sarah shrugs. Kayla looks back at Mom:

"We don't have a broom."

Mom:

"You don't have a broom??"

Dad looks up from the fridge:

"Come on Kayla, you're telling me you don't have a broom?"

Roger's hand goes up to his chin with an inquisitive look on his face:

"Huh, you don't have a broom."

Mom:

"How do you sweep? You need a broom."

Dad:

"How do you live like this...without a broom?"

Roger's eyes go wide at this point. Then Richie calls my Mom from Florida while he is staying at their house. Our sibling connection must have linked up as he also spilled something. He is asking my Mom where the broom is.

Mom, on the phone and waving her hand:

"It should be in the kitchen pantry."

Richie says something inaudible on the phone. Mom looks up at Dad, tilts her head:

"There isn't a broom? We don't have a broom?"

Dad scratches his head, and asks, mostly to himself:

"Do we have a broom?"

Mom:

"No, it must be in the garage.....No? I can't believe this - we don't have a broom?!"

This "we don't have a broom" must have been repeated at length because Sarah was sitting there in the kitchen staring at us all with a huge smile on her face, Roger was shaking his head at the uncalled-for drama, and all I could do was gloat:

"Ha! You don't have a broom either!"

That is, quite honestly, the most memorable family story I have from my college years. Sorry if I missed something pretty important guys.

Even though I missed out on family moments, those 5 years did give me some personal privacy, as that did not seem to exist back home. I've already explained the little tag-a-long brother, but the other unrelenting and prying force was my Mother. Yes, this is to be expected from Mothers, but maybe not to the extent that they read your private, "keep out" inscribed, flimsily locked diaries. Ok, maybe we do expect this from Mothers as well. But it sucks!

I was an incredibly shy and private person growing up - very unlike my parents. They have always expressed their feelings publicly in places including home, the grocery store, or at school functions. In a way, I understand why they wouldn't get why I'd write in a diary. But the diary was (and will always be) a quiet, dark, and secret cave I can crawl into and express my innermost feelings with my imaginary diary friend.20 Imagine the betrayal I felt every time my Mother confessed to reading it. First, those were my personal feelings I wasn't comfortable sharing with anyone else in the world. Second, sometimes I wrote about seeing boys I wasn't supposed to see. Oops. It's not like I ever did anything back in gradeschool and highschool. I never went to a party, never did drugs, never had sex, never vandalized or stole anything, never swore. To this day, I have never given anyone the middle finger. And it's not just because my fingers are crooked! Well, maybe that is mostly the reason. I was just a naïve teenager that wanted to be liked by the cool kids. But never to a point that conflicted with my morals. As a result that can be backed by my brothers, l was never cool.

I did lie a couple times? Actually, I'm sure I lied to my parents many times as a child, and I do have a very vivid memory of lying to my parents when I was probably about 10 years old. I was throwing rocks at garage windows in the backyard. Now remember that I just said I've never vandalized - this still holds because these windows were already trashed (my Father was going to replace them). And to be completely fair, my Father was throwing rocks at these windows with my brothers and I earlier in the day. At the end of our sport, he specifically told us:

"Do not throw rocks at the windows alone."

But it was so fun to hear the crash of the glass every time the rocks burst through! I defied my Father and giddily approached the forbidden playground. I picked up a rock and ouch! I sliced my finger on chards of glass that must have flown over from earlier. I freaked out when I saw the blood. How would I explain this to my parents?! I can hide it, but what if I bleed to death or what if my hand gets infected and they will need to amputate it? Clearly, my Mother needs to heal me so hiding this is not an option. But I can't tell them the truth or they will punish me. Tears in my eyes, I approached the basement and silently lifted my bloody hand to my Mother.

"What did you do?"

At this point, my Father looked over from the couch, saw my hand, and (rightly so) accusingly asked,

"Were you throwing rocks at windows?"

Like a matter of life or death, I attempted to give him the biggest puppy dog eyes a Father had ever seen and quickly responded:

"I pinched it on the trampoline springs when I was trying to get off."

Sniff, Sniff.

My Father looked at my Mom, she raised her eyebrows, and all he did was:

"Hmph."

There is no doubt in my mind my parents knew I was lying. But they let it pass because, who knows, I was probably still cute at that age. I digress. What I'm trying to say is that, yes, I did lie to my parents, but this was an exception and mostly it was just to hang out with friends or make out with a boy.

There was once an entry that my Mother read that involved me lying to her so I could hang out with a boy I was forbidden to see. I'm not sure why I wasn't allowed to see him, he and I were both the shyest kids ever and never even mentioned the word "sex". Ew, gross. But I wrote about my time with him freely in my diary:

"We were at the pool hall, and it was sooooo cool. I saw him playing pool, and he was really good. When it wasn't his turn he would put his arm around my waist. Oh.... my... God!"

And that, Ladies and Gentleman, resulted in a very, very, very angry Mother. It was terrifying, because she can yell really loud. At one point, I thought she was either going to lock me in a dungeon I didn't realize we had, beat me to a pulp, or was legit going to murder me (specifically by hanging me with my own, long hair). I felt like my life was OVER. But it wasn't - God, I was such a drama queen.21

The only other private moments I could find at home was when we played one of my favorite games, Hide and Seek. Not to brag, but I am awesome at hiding.22 Here were some of my favorite spots:

  • The small attic space above my Mother's closet. I'd crawl up the dresser and pull myself up and inside. Once you were up there, you could basically start hiding between the walls.
  • My extremely deep closet. For reasons unknown, or probably just because he could, my Father build my bedroom closet like an "L". I'd hang out in the back of the closet all the time, mostly to write, practice guitar, and to hide.
  • The roof outside my window. Definitely not safe but no one EVER found me.
  • Under a big pile of clothes. This surprisingly fooled everyone for a long time.

It helped that I was small, quiet, and flexible. I've been wanting to play Hide and Seek as an adult, but something tells me I wouldn't be quite as nimble and wouldn't exactly size up the hiding spaces accurately.

I wonder what my brothers did, or where they went for their privacy. Like me, they kept to themselves most of the time. I imagine their go-to escape was absorbing themselves in video games and blocking everyone else out. Sometimes we'd escape together in the Computer Room. We'd take turns playing a computer game, and one of our favorites was "GooseBumps: Escape from Horrorland". Surprised? No, I didn't think so. This game was amazing. You're stuck in a creepy amusement park with a girl, her younger brother Luke, and his "stupid friend Clay". The main goal is to find your way back home. During the game you fight your way through mummies, werewolves, vampires, and that big blob monster that lurked in the dungeons by solving puzzles and other fun word or memory games. The best part, although we didn't know at the time, is that Jeff Goldblum played Dracula and Isabella Rossellini was Lady Cadaver.

We'd sit in that little computer room for hours, sweating from the heat emitting from our bodies, in addition to the heat being generated by the huge Gateway computer that was the latest technology then (even though it took up half the room). Richie and I would mostly peer over Roger's shoulder as he played the game, and we would yell suggestions in his ear:

"Why are you going in the dungeon again?!" "'This way' means go left!" "No! 'over here' means go left! "Watch out for the octopus arms!"

Finally, in unison:

"The pumpkin walks at midnight!"

Of all of us, only Roger was capable of putting up with his brother and sister yelling commands in his ear.23 The game came out in the mid-90s, so it had terrible graphics. That werewolf was clearly a man in a costume, who was probably contemplating how his life choices brought him to this moment where he had to dress up as a werewolf to scare little children. Who knows, maybe he was into that. Nonetheless, we overlooked that detail and let ourselves immerse in the horror of Horrorland. There were times we'd be watching Roger play, silent, with our hands partially covering our faces - he was in the dungeon. He needed to go down there to get more coins! I don't exactly remember what they were used for. And to this day, I still don't know what lurked down in the dungeons. We'd catch glimpses of a creature slithering around a dark corner, and then before we had a chance to see it full on, we were dead. It was during one of these terrifying game scenes that my Mother started banging on the computer room window with that Alien mask on again. All three of us screamed. Really Mom???

Speaking of my Mother, I don't recall my parents ever having their personal space - maybe that is why they'd fight all the time. They both had fiery and outgoing personalities, always conflicting with one another. Yet, they had their charms. They always knew how to make us laugh as much as they knew how to make us cry. Pure talent. They especially knew how to embarrass us. Some Friday nights they'd have their dance parties in the basement, watching and dancing to 80s music videos. It was these traditional Friday nights where I was introduced to Blondie, Madonna, Vogue, Prince, The Bangles, and Fleetwood Mac. A lot of times I would watch them from the basement stairs. I enjoyed seeing them so happy and in the moment compared to those not-so-happy moments. Then they'd see me, and beckon me to come dance with them. "Ew, no." Which would prompt me to run up the stairs and back to my room to write in my diary.

"Dear Diary, my parents are sooooo weird."

It wasn't just our parents getting up in our business - there would be nights Roger, Richie, and I would spy on them and their friends. Thankfully, we didn't see anything "mature", but we may have overlooked some conversational topics not suited for children. My parents and their friends hung out in the basement, listening to music and having a beer or two, or three....okay, maybe more. But that's when things got interesting and my brothers and I would get to work. We'd set up our spy station on the level above. Our house was built in 1904 and we were only the second owners.24 Because the house was so old, it had old stuff, such as the vents. These weren't your typical floor vents- these were bigger, near the floor in the wall, and you could open and close them with a little lever. When opened, you could see clearly into the basement.

My brothers and I would use this vent to spy on the adults, and we would bring along our amazing spy tools such as the toy recorder from Toy Story. We'd hit record, and point the mic towards the people talking below the vent. We wouldn't really catch any meaning in what they were saying, but we'd sometimes hear a few curses, which honestly wasn't a big deal with all the Tarantino movies we'd seen at that point. What was thrilling, was being a spy. We were Spy Kids before there was a "Spy Kids".

The next morning, as my hungover parents dragged themselves out of bed to make some coffee, my brothers and I would be sitting at the kitchen table eating our cereal and would press "Play" on our recorder. Although our Mother was facing away from us while she poured her coffee, a few seconds into the recording her head would full on Exorcist, and with wide red eyes, she'd yell (in what sounded like demonic Latin at the time):

"ERASE THAT NOW!!!"

That about sums up our views on privacy in our household. If there was a boundary, it would eventually be knocked down. How else would we have become such a loving family?

19I ate that entire cake in one sitting, and obviously became very stomach sick. Present-day, calorie counting Kayla is absolutely appalled at this. "You disgust me."

20Yes, when I write I do imagine there is someone in the pages listening to my words. Very "Chamber of Secrets", I know. Hopefully no evil wizard spirits are trapped inside my journals and if they are, I'm so sorry you have had to listen to me for the past 23 years.

21 I wasn’t. Anyone who has felt the wrath of a Macias (especially that of my Mother) surely understands it is the equivalent of being thrown into the eternal flames of Hell. Do not ever cross us.

22 Especially my feelings.

23 In fact, he still does when we watch him play video games on Twitch and constantly message him throughout the game. “No! Go Left!”

24The original owner lived to 104 years old. My Mother had also told me that a man died in our house by choking on a chicken bone. Every time I eat fish or chicken with small bones that I can possibly choke on, I think of that man and his terrible fate.

Mi Familia

Some people despise group texts. I don't. They are an efficient form of communication and you're less likely to be left hanging, feeling like a loner. I don't know who started our family group text or when it began, but it's been a constant chat on my phone for a good 10 years. Most phones these days let you re-name your group chats so you don't see a list of names or numbers, and I've called mine "Mi Familia". When people think of family texts, they usually defer to having limited conversations of the next holiday gathering or sending everyone their new address for Christmas cards. This is not the case with "Mi Familia".

Yes, we will utilize it for informational purposes. However, it's also our sanctuary to vomit words. You will be judged, and you may be judged harshly. But one thing we all know as a family, is that no matter what is said or done in these texts, we will always love and support one other. I may be a bit optimistic when I say that. Anything goes in these family texts and we all (even if we don't want to admit it) cherish them. For instance, at one point with no warning whatsoever, my Father texted us.

"I hope there is texting in heaven, or else I'll be really bored."

When I had read that, I inwardly expressed an "Awwwww", but couldn't decide on a sweet "Awwwww" or a sad "Awwwww". At this point, I realized these texts were a key component in keeping our family close knit as we continued to live apart.

We don't just live in our text conversations. We still call each other on the phone - albeit phone calls are very purposeful and everyone always has a different reason for their call. When I go on walks, or when my Mother is cooking in the kitchen, we usually call each other (sometimes multiple times throughout the week). If my teenage-self knew about these frequented calls, her jaw would have dropped in disbelief.

"You CHOOSE to talk to Mom???"

"Yes, Kayla, I do choose."

Don't get me wrong, there are times I regret calling her after an exhausting 30 seconds of her loudly telling a story with no breathing breaks. Yet most times, it's a relief she can be so much herself. Out of everyone in this world, she knows me the most. Therefore, the conversations are very natural. I can confidently call her a best friend. But she will always be my Mother first.

Kayla: "Heyyyyy."

Mom: "Hay is for horses."

Kayla: "......"

Mom: "I can't help it!"

Then there are the phone calls with my Father. These aren't as frequent, and when we do talk it's usually quite succinct. I love the consistent and abrupt format of our calls. He initially calls me, but then tries to end the call as though I was the one who called and interrupted him:

Kayla: "Hey Dad!"

Dad: "Are you going on a bike ride with me tomorrow?"

Kayla: "Yes, I'll be there bright and early!"

Dad: "I have a new trail we can do - it's beautiful. I went there the other day and met this guy who had an awesome bike. I also have an extra helmet-"

Kayla: "Ohhh good idea, I always forget -

Dad: "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gotta go!"

Kayla: "Ohhh.. bye!?"

When our parents are busy watching a movie or kayaking, my youngest brother and I defer to calling each other. These conversations mostly consist of the "this happened, now what do I do?" talks. I actually feel pretty pleased that he would call me asking for advice. This must be proof that I did something right as an older sister. One time he actually called me for car advice.

Richie: "Kayla. Do you know how to change the cabin air filter?"

Kayla: "Why don't you call Dad?"

Richie: "Cause it's Dad! If I asked him this question, he would just tell me to figure it out and then like, remark that I should know this stuff already.

Kayla: "This is very true."

He could have easily looked this up on YouTube, but we do have the same car, so I guess it makes sense? However, there are times when his calls perplex me:

Richie calls while I'm driving. I hang up - I'll call him when I'm home. He calls again. Oh god, this must be important.

Kayla: "Hello?"

Richie: "Kayla. What do I buy to slick back my hair?"

Kayla: "Why do you need to slick back your hair??"

Richie: "I'm dressing up like that guy from Queen for Halloween."

Kayla: "Freddy Mercury?.... Your hair is nothing like his!"

Richie: "Yes, it totally is! What do I buy???"

Kayla: "Gel, mousse, hairspray!? Look it up on YouTube!"

Ok, I could have handled that a bit more delicately. But I was driving on a highway, could barely hear him over all the other cars on the road, and did not feel like thinking about what products were best suited for his thick hair texture (especially since I don't even use product on my own hair).

Then there is Roger. The most calming person in this world. If Earth was about to be hit with a world-ending comet, we'd all be crying and wondering if our lives meant anything. Whereas I imagine Roger would still be taking his Corgi on walks, and just be like,

"Let's make the most of the time we have left guys!"

He is the positive force in our family, just as he was the mediator between Richie and I fighting when we were younger. At least for me, I'm incredibly grateful he's taken that role on whether he meant to or not. I'm sure it's exhausting, especially with all of us. So the times I receive phone calls from Roger, it's usually after he discovers I am sick or had a bad day.

Kayla: "Roger?"

Roger: "Hey Kay - heard you weren't feeling too great. How you doing?"

Kayla: "Oh, thanks Roger! Yeah, not too good. Proceeds to go on and on about how crappy I feel and how much work is stressing me out.

Roger: "Don't let it get to you. We are here to support you and I know you'll pull through. Just take work one step at a time, rest, and stay hydrated!"

Kayla: "You're the best Roger."

So we aren't shy of the phone. Like I said, the texting conversations are just a good way to communicate fast thoughts and share quick snippets of our life. Although we did recently discover the walkie-talkie feature of our phones where you can quickly record yourself talking and send it. We've already put it to good use.25

Again, no previous context whatsoever:

Dad: "Foster People. 2014. Chicago."

Richie in his DJ voice: "Yo, yo, yo, yo. What's up fam, fam, fam. This is Richie, checking in, just seeing how you guys doinnnn.

Roger attempting a DJ voice but sounding like Fred Flinstone: "Yo, yo, yo , this is Rog-Dog. Roo-roo-roooo! Fam, Fam, how you doin? Bro-bro-ski, bro-ski! I'm doing fiiiiine."

Followed by Dad's epic response: "Hey yo, yo MAMA."

And then quickly and awkwardly followed by:

Dad: "Kayla did you find it yet?"

Dad: "This is better than typing."

Kayla: "Go to bed."26

I am never disappointed by a text that comes through in the Mi Familia group chat. No surprise here, but my brothers and I also have a separate group chat where we mostly talk about conversations going on in the Mi Familia chat. We also like to giggle about private chats we've had with our parents.

Mom tries to watch us play video games on Twitch and texts Richie:

Mom: "What, what time? I am a member but I see people from all over the world."

Richie: "Lol, we played yesterday."

Mom: "I did. I went on yesterday. It was like Pac Man. Then one time I was chatting with a Swedish guy, I hung up. What time are you guys on tonight?"

Richie: "Lol, what??"

I imgaine the conversation with the Swedish guy and my Mom went like so:

Mom: "Where is the game?"

Swedish Guy: "Who are you trying to see?"

Mom: "My son. I wanted to see my son play a video game he's been wanting to show me."

Swedish Guy: "Oh wow, that's adorable."

Mom: "It just looks like a bunch of Pac Man."

25 I scrolled all the way back to August 10, 2020 to find these. Jotting down this footnote so I don't forget that date.

26 Get used to this phrase.

Musical Talents

We might one day find ourselves involved in a truly introspective moment where our listener is awed and influenced by something we had said27. The truth is, we rarely have those moments. Instead, the words coming out of our mouth are typically the products of unfinished thoughts swimming around aimlessly in our head. These thoughts, to the listener's amusement, are usually quite silly.

Just today, my colleague was looking up the word "hello" in my 1800s Webster dictionary (quite a conversation starter). This book is as thick as four "Deathly Hallows" stacked atop one another.

Anyways, he found the word and said:

"You know, I am really surprised that all these versions of Hello don't have a "w"."

I paused trying to comprehend what he just told me. I had to because he never says stupid things. But as I slowly started to realize I wasn't the slow one in this moment, he said:

"Oh wait... I was thinking of Old English."

I don't know about you, but that was one clever way to cover up stupid with smart.

"Sincere apologies - my profound knowledge of ye Old English may affect my understanding of modern English grammar - sorig."28

These moments may be rare with colleagues and acquaintances, but not with my family. We are shock full of silly phrases, misspelled words, misspoken lyrics, and simply plain nonsense. It's not that we don't think, we just don't really think around each other. Why should we? Ok, most of the time there isn't a filter, but it helps to know everyone's limits. Although there have definitely been times when those limits were surpassed, causing raised voices, spilt tears, and the slamming of doors. But most of the time, it's a laugh.

One famous trait of my Mother's is her inability to know the words to any song. This in no way stops her from confidently singing it aloud. I remember back to when she would drive us everyday to school in our little white Ford Escort. A hit song, it didn't need to be modern - it even could have been a song she grew up with - and she'd happily start singing all the wrong words.

We'd complain:

"Mooommm, that isn't how it goes."

To which she'd respond:

"Well, whatever."

I don't live with her anymore, so I hadn't thought of this annoying, yet charming characteristic of hers in awhile. But as recent as a couple months ago I had the joy of listening to her incorrectly sing a Disney song. How can you screw up a Disney song? My parents and I were driving and there was a truck in front of us packed with very ornate and French-looking furniture:

Kayla: "Those coffee tables look like they belong in Beauty and the Beast."

Mom: "They do! Be our guest, be our guest, put our napkins to the test-"

Dad:"Monicka!"

I'm not going to lie, I was a little annoyed at my Mother, but not furious. And when I saw the look on my Father's face, I thought he was about to yell something at her that would make her cry. I telepathically tried to tell him:

"It's not a big deal Dad - you should be used to this by now anyways".

Telepathy doesn't run in our family, which is probably for the best, so he continued by lifting his hand like he was holding a baton, and swung it with every word he enunciated:

"....it's 'Put our service to the TEST."

I about died. I had sensed my Mother was having the same previous thoughts when my Father yelled her name. So when I looked back at her, I initially saw relief wash over her, but that was quickly replaced with annoyance:

"Well, whatever."

It's a wonder how my parents still surprise me.

Wait a minute, I am horridly realizing we (my brothers and I) may have partially adapted this trait from our Mother. For instance there was that one time Roger moved to a new apartment, and my Mother had decorated his place for him29. She decided to grab some album covers from home and frame them to hang in his living room. There was the Beatles, AC DC, and when he came across the last band:

"Thanks Mom! Beatles, yeah!. AC DC, rock on! ..... eeeng-ses??"

Clearly Roger had never heard of INXS. I had to turn around to see what he was trying to pronounce because has anyone ever even tried to correctly pronounce that? He sounded so confused but by how long he was sounding out the "eeee", really showed how hard he was trying. I was proud at his attempt, yet ashamed he had to make one.

Then there was that one time Richie and I were walking down the street in our quaint little Lincoln Square neighborhood30. Perhaps we were singing songs, or we might have been talking about The Clash, but whatever we were doing prompted Richie to start singing softly:

"Yeah I really don't like it...Rock the Cashbox, Rock the Cashbox."

So many wrong things just happened right there, but I decided to focus on the biggest issue:

"Are you singing.... 'rock the cashbox'???"

My surprise and wide-eyed stared caused my brother to hesitate, but he eventually responded:

".......Yesss???"

"It's CasBAH!"

"No way."

"Have you been singing it like that your whole life?"31

Very unlike me, my brothers are so good with showing how they feel through expressions and gestures. At this particular moment, he raised both his hands up to tug at his hair, and screamed:

"Oh my god!!! Yes!!! What does casbah even meeean?"

"Noooo idea."

For musical stories about me, I had to ask my family for some content.

Mom: "What's that song where you thought they were singing Kayla all the time?"

First of all, it was "My Boyfriend's Back" by The Angels. Secondly, it was my Mother that made me believe they were singing my name. We basically grew up with Oldies Classics because of her, so when this song came on and they sang:

"Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend's back."

But she, my Mother, would sing it as:

"Kayla, Kayla my boyfriend's back!"

This mistake is fine and even cute for an 8 year old, but I believed these were the lyrics well into high school. Even when the internet came out, I didn't bother looking up the lyrics because I was so sure there was a song with my name in it, and I secretly cherished it. One drive, my Mother couldn't take the lie anymore, and when I was singing the song:

“Kaylaaaa, Kaylaaaa...”

"You still sing it with your name??"

"Um...yeah... cause it's my name."

"They aren't saying Kayla."

I listened closely to the radio this time, and indeed, it was not Kayla. It was as though cold water was spilling into my heart as I realized my cherished song had always been a lie.

It wasn't until college, I had a new Kayla song. It was "Layla" by Eric Clapton. I knew he was not saying Kayla, but I insisted everyone sing it that way, in which they pleasantly obliged. So nights out at our favorite college bars, someone would play this song on the iTunes jukebox. Then, as if on queue, my friends would get on their knees and sing:

"Kaaaaayla. You got me on my knees Kayla!".

I never told them to stop. Why would I?32

I've left out my Father so far because he does not forget song lyrics and does not mistake band names. He watches way too many YouTube music videos to allow for this. Instead, he enjoys quizzing the family. One of his favorite ways of doing this is by randomly texting one of us song lyrics:

Dad: "Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you."

Kayla: "What??"

Dad: "Beautiful song."

Kayla: "OH. Yellow by Coldplay."

Otherwise, he will send us a YouTube music video via text. This is usually sent by taking a video of the video he is watching, which always ends up being very blurry:

Dad: Sends video. "Classic. Never gets old."

Kayla: Squinting hard, sees something very sparkly waving hands around. 'Oooh I feel good, feel good, feel good. I feel loooooove.' "Donna Summer???"

Dad: "YES."

It's not just music he grew up with that he’ll quiz us on. Thanks to the internet, my Father is able to keep up with the music scene WAY MORE than I am. I am stuck to my indie, eclectic music on Spotify that tailors to my music taste by sending me more indie, eclectic music. Whereas my Father will go through modern pop phases like that one time he was obsessed with Justin Bieber and kept quoting Bieber songs in the Mi Familia texts. He even bought Calvin Klein underwear cause that is what Bieber wore in his music videos. If I'm being honest though, my Father (and sometimes Mother) is the one that keeps me up-to-date on popular music these days. For instance, my parents literally just introduced me to the following singers and bands:

  • The Jonas Brothers
  • Dua Lipa (to quote my Mother, "She is my new MADONNA.")
  • KAROL G
  • DOJA CAT
  • Lil Nas X

I find it so hard to stay updated with new music when we don't have a reason to listen to radios anymore, but apparently my parents have found a way.

27Which I'm sure you've felt through most of this read.

28"Sorig" is sorry in Old English. I looked it up and I'm not sorig

29She always decorates our new places, and I love it. Our Mother should have been an interior designer, especially since she always find a way to throw in our personality combined with what is "trending" on Pinterest.

30Think of Gilmore Girls’ very own Stars Hollow.

31 All 23 years of it.

32 Must be the egotistical Leo in me.

Road Trips

My family prefers road trips for three reasons:

  1. They are cheap.
  2. It's easier to bring our stuff and bring more stuff back.
  3. We have extra time to plan.

The only plan we have always stuck to is waking up at the god-awful hour of 3 am in the morning and being out of the house within the hour. At the time, I didn't mind too much because I'd setup my space in the back window seat and swiftly go back to dreamland. Other than our rude awakening, we didn't have any other plan but to get out of Chicago as soon as possible.

Not having a plan wasn't a bad thing. Actually, I think not having one and being forced into uncertainty together is what helped make us a stronger family. We got to see how we each reacted to new experiences, how we fared meeting new and strange people, and allowed us to test (even more) of our limits with each other. Therefore, I had a love/hate relationship with our family road trips.

Usually, being in a tight space with each other led to a lot of fighting, yelling, and sometimes even crying. When we were younger, my parents loved playing the Quiet Game with us. The rules were simple. Whoever could stay quiet the longest, won. That was it.33 But my brothers and I were seriously into this game. At some point, I realized my parents used it to shut us up. Instead of rebelling at this realization, I decided to use it to my advantage to quiet my youngest brother. It worked... for awhile.

Other ways to kill time in the car involved the child cliche of popping bubblegum. My brothers and I would see who could blow the biggest bubble from our Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape dispenser, and then one of us would stick our dirty sticky fingers in it to pop it. It always made us laugh. I loved tricking my brothers by just sticking out my tongue covered in gum. They'd think it was a bubble, but when they realized they just poked my tongue they would do that cute "ewwwwwww" little kids do when they are disgusted but secretly amused.

Alas, as we got older, we naturally delved into the abyss of the Walkman.34 When I say "we", I mean "me". What else do you expect from a teenager? I just wanted to listen to Eminem and the Spice Girls in peace. But one good thing did blossom from my teenage years - I could take over driving now! My Father typically (by typically, I mean always) did the driving because my Mother, for some reason, doesn't drive on the highway. She'll take crazy, stop-and-go city mania over gliding on a deserted road because who knows why. Although my Father was excited to share this burden, she wasn't looking forward to having me behind the wheel.

Once, when we were driving down to Florida, my Father was getting very tired and decided to hand me my shift. I remember being very nervous, but also extremely excited to have such a big responsibility of driving my family through the Carolina mountains, and hopefully not killing us all.35 After I had settled in and adjusted my mirrors, my Father stayed awake for a bit to make sure I was doing okay. When he was comfortable,

"You're doing great! Okay, time to nap."

He proceeded to fall asleep along with the rest of my family, who were in the backseat. It was all me now, or so I thought. At one point, there was a family of mice about to cross the road whilst I was driving. I remember thinking,

"Oh man, I hope they don't cross because I will definitely run them over."

They didn't cross the road.

At the end of my shift, my Father woke up,

"I feel so rested. Kayla you're a great driver!"

"It was a pretty relaxing drive. The only time I tensed up was when I thought I was going to run over some mice."

Then from the backseat we hear my Mother's stressed voice,

"I was wide awake the entire time. I saw the mice. I was praying they wouldn't run into the street because I thought you were going to swerve off the road and drive us over a cliff."

My Father and I exchanged glances, probably thinking the same thing: It's a good thing she wasn't driving.

It was typically a non-stop drive down to Florida - the tip of Florida, near Key West. We'd stay in this town called Marathon that was located right off the panhandle and had a big boat dock. We didn't have a boat but that was more incentive to make friends, which my parents never failed to succeed in.

For one of our trips, my parents met this family and we were all going to go out on their boat for a fishing and swimming adventure.36 My Mother decided to stay at the cabin to get some rest.

When we came back, she ran outside screaming,

Mom:"THERE IS A GHOST."

The rest of us in unison: "OKAY."

Mom: "I heard scratching noises all over the ceiling and walls!"

Dad: "Monicka, it was the wind, or you were dreaming."

And with that, we carried on, ignoring the wide-eyed, darting stare my Mother had the rest of the day. It wasn't until bedtime when things started to get weird.

Our cabin was one big room with five twin beds. Each had the headboard against the wall. I was the last to get into bed, but I melted in after a long day of sun, swimming, and probably 20 minutes away from a near-death experience. I fell into a deep slumber.

I woke up immediately. My eyes were wide, wondering what had woken me up. I don't remember hearing anything... but wait... what was that behind me? I heard a shifting noise behind my head and sat up immediately staring at the wall. Did I actually hear something? I did, because I heard it again very faintly. Then I can't believe I did this, but like that stupid person in a scary movie, I approached the wall. I proceeded to place my hands on it and leaned over, pressing my ear against it. If I were watching this movie, I'd not only be yelling at that stupid girl, but I'd be curled up on the couch, half-covering my face, expecting hands to shoot out of the walls to pull her into doom. That did not happen. Instead, I was hearing things moving behind the wall. I guess my Mother was not crazy.

In the morning, I told my parents.

Kayla: "There is something in the walls."

Mom: Slams hands on table and looks at Dad. "What did I tell YOU?!"

Dad: "You both are crazy."

Then at that very moment, thankfully, or else my Mother and I would live the rest of our lives wondering what was in the walls at that hotel in Florida, we heard something skittering above us. My Father looked at us and reluctantly grabbed a chair and flashlight. He stepped up and lifted up one of the drop ceiling tiles to take a peek. He looked around with his flashlight, froze, dropped the ceiling tile, and said,

"We need to get out of here. RATS."

Luckily, the hotel gave us a rat-free room right after. Later on, when we were all settled in, my Father described more of what he saw when he lifted that tile,

Dad: "It was really dark up there, but at one point all I saw were a bunch of beady glowing eyes staring back at me."

Not quite ghosts, but rats are still scary... and gross.

Road trips were meant to be family time, but as I grew older and naturally wanted to be more distant from them, my parents started to let me invite a friend on these family vacations. It wasn't hard to choose who would be accompanying us.

Throughout preschool, kindergarten, and up to the 2nd grade, I mostly kept to myself. I knew I wasn't like the other girls - mostly because the thought of speaking aloud to another human that wasn't my family terrified me. I suppose I wasn't like the other kids in general. I felt like an outcast. It wasn't until the 2nd grade I made a friend, and actually started to laugh and enjoy going to school. It makes me sad to admit this, but I don't remember his name. I do remember that he was the new kid. Our school was a private Lutheran school that consisted dominantly of white middle-class children. He was the only Asian in our class, so maybe he felt like an outcast too and that's why we gravitated towards each other. I have vague memories of having conversations with him, being comfortable, and being relieved that it was comfortable. I remember hitting our heads when we went to go pick up a pencil on the floor at the same time and laughing about it so hard. I remember getting a look from the teacher when we were talking too loud. I don't remember if it was a disapproving look for our behavior, or an approving look because I was actually smiling for once. What matters here is that I didn't care what she thought - which was a big improvement for me. I was so shy because I was so concerned with what strangers thought of me, and I never wanted to disappoint anyone. If anyone scolded me or tsked me, I would just start crying. I don't know why the reaction was so strong, but this nameless fellow outcast started to change all that. Then, like a Thanos snap, he was gone. It must have been only a few months after he started, but I came to class one day and his chair was empty. Clearly not the friend I would be taking on road trips.

I was alone again. Then 3rd grade came and I met someone whose name I do remember - Caroline. I don't remember how we met, but I like to imagine I was sitting in our school parking lot during recess playing with sticks and rocks when she approached me. I looked up and saw this freckled girl with wild curly hair and she asked if she could play with me. From that moment on we were inseparable. Even though I had transferred to a new school the next year, we still kept in touch and thus she was my companion for the family road trips.

I digressed a bit but she was the perfect friend to take on road trips - not just for me, but also for the rest of my family. She basically subbed as daughter for my family whenever I felt like being a moody teenager. If my Father wanted to ride a jet ski with me and I was too scared? Caroline wasn't. If my Mother wanted to stop along the route to check out a hiking trail, but I was too tired? Caroline wasn't. If my brothers wanted to play a game but I was annoyed with them? Caroline wasn't. You get the picture.

It's not like I was a moody teenager all the time. Well, maybe I was.

33 If I have kids, this will still be called "The Quiet Game", but I will make sure they see the movie "The Quiet Place" so they understand the true consequences of losing. "Now if you make any sounds, any sounds whatsoever, that big insect alien is going to come eat you before I could do anything about it. So really, it's your decision to be eaten alive or not."

34Gen Z, do you even know what that is?

35The fearlessness of youth is a real thing. Recently my friend and I drove through the Carolina mountains and seeing how steep they are now, I can't bring myself to drive through them anymore. Have I turned into my Mother?

36Another case of my fearlessness was going swimming in the open ocean while I was on my period, before I was using tampons. Sharks can smell blood from hundreds of meters away - I am positive the sharks were coming for me.

The Real LifeKayla Evafamily, story, memoir, blog, blogging