I was living in Mexico City when I met Monica. I was 21 years old, winter of 1991. I will never forget that day and I will never forget how she looked. The moment I saw her I knew immediately that I wanted her to be mine; there was no doubt like there is no doubt that the sun will come out tomorrow. This has only happened once in my life.
She was just a girl becoming a woman, but by God, she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Naturally brunette with big curls, her hair was a rebellious chestnut waterfall sprinkled with sunbeams that perfectly framed her tan face. Even though she had the face of a girl, her high cheeks were beginning to form into what would become herself as a woman in the years to come. Her nose, which she didn’t like all that much, suited her round hazel eyes and her full heart-shaped lips. The rest was nothing more than a beautifully-shaped figure, plump in all the right places, with monumental thighs and breasts. She was, indeed, something to see. I had no option, but to worship every single moment I would see that face, staring at me, full of love.
She was the most perfect apple, I was the Adam, and I knew she would be my door to heaven, my ticket to hell.
We began dating within a week.
I remember the first time she invited me over to her place: her brother Jorge was wrestling with his friend Gerardo, right in the middle of the living room. Ana Laura and Marco, who were just kids at the time, were arguing over something but then stopped cold when they saw me, and came over to greet me. Oh, and there was a skinhead punk sitting in the dining room, behind a typewriter; this would be Gabriel (aka “Unclutched”) Leyva, who was a sort of cultural aggregate. As Monica led me to her room, I noticed at least three maids in her kitchen, baking a towering pile of pizzas. In her room, she told me she would be right back, and she left for a few moments. During this time I am sitting there, on her bed, trying to make some sense of all of this because I knew I had never seen chaos until this point.
I blinked and BAM! this blonde wild-haired girl jumps on the bed and almost catapults me out the window. “Hi, I’m Lorena” she said, and before I could make any sense of what was happening Monica came in and in a snap threw her out of the bedroom.
“Hon, that was Lorena" 'and as if reading my mind, she said' "she is another cultural aggregate, please ignore her” and played Journey’s “Open Arms” and with that song she opened her arms and welcomed me into her heart, with the most loving hug and kiss I have ever received.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Monica’s mom; Betty and her parents lived there as well.
How is the count so far? Well, this was a one story, three-bedroom apartment. I was shocked. But not at the chaos, because there was a certain harmony to it. I was shocked at the fact that at the time, the concept of “home” couldn’t have been farther from me.
I had been struggling with the fact of having to go through high school twice, since the school I attended in Brazil, the American School (which is a global educational institution recognized worldwide), is not in Mexico. I was too immature to go through it again and I ended up leaving the apartment my parents paid for, and moved to a very fancy and distinguished residence; Taxquena, also known as the largest bus station in Mexico City. There I experienced being homeless for the first and hopefully last time in my life. For the homeless living there the accommodations were pretty much reserved, nobody ever took the place where you slept, at least not after a decent brawl. Mine was under a bench, against a wall by the vending machines. This was actually pretty good, since it was far enough from the putrid bean and vulture scent that came from the public restrooms, and behind the vending machines I would hide the cardboard box on which I slept. Sometimes I would go three days at a time without taking a shower, I wore the same pair of jeans for a month, and I would beg daily for money.
A nice sturdy buck knife and some martial arts training were sufficient to keep away the hoards of glue sniffing kids that vandalized that place every night, as well as the eventual drunk asshole that would engage in combat in an attempt to steal my backpack and my walkman; they never succeeded. Now I realize that my most valued possession during those scoundrel days were two books I stole from my parents' library: “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky and “The Mother” by Gorki.
(The homeless life is an experience which I will eventually revisit, so come back to look for an update.)
This went on for months, until eventually I landed a job, selling English courses to executives. Monica found the ad in the paper, and her grandfather lent me a suit and a tie. These obviously didn’t match and didn’t fit either. I remember that day, my first serious job interview, and I looked like a Napoleon Dynamite from the 1940’s in the the 90’s.
Now I had a job, and I could sustain myself. Gabriel and Lorena eventually moved out, so I moved in. I would help around the house and chip in for bills and stuff. We slept in separate rooms and eventually her brothers Jorge and Marco and her sister Ana Laura became the younger brothers and sister I never had. Her mother got me on the right track, and I will never forget her teachings, her support, and her laughter.
Monica believed in me, she never doubted my capacity, she reminded me of it everyday. She also believed I would grow up to become extremely wealthy, which was just one more of the many things on which I would disappoint her. Then again, we were very young.
At that age I had already begun writing and I shared that passion with her. I wish I hadn’t thrown away three full notebooks of what I thought of as poems that I had written for her, after the break up. Maybe it is one less way to embarrass myself.
We were together for almost 3 years.
I wrote this post because Monica is much more than a person, she represents the happiest times I have ever known and she is an intricate part of my life. Perhaps, the best part of it. Then again, I'm only 37 years old and I haven't lost hope. At least not as of lately.
Monica eventually got married, had a son and went on to become a Grammy winning lyricist.
“Because I, wherever I go, will speak of your love, like a golden dream” - Jose Alfredo Jimenez
She was just a girl becoming a woman, but by God, she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Naturally brunette with big curls, her hair was a rebellious chestnut waterfall sprinkled with sunbeams that perfectly framed her tan face. Even though she had the face of a girl, her high cheeks were beginning to form into what would become herself as a woman in the years to come. Her nose, which she didn’t like all that much, suited her round hazel eyes and her full heart-shaped lips. The rest was nothing more than a beautifully-shaped figure, plump in all the right places, with monumental thighs and breasts. She was, indeed, something to see. I had no option, but to worship every single moment I would see that face, staring at me, full of love.
She was the most perfect apple, I was the Adam, and I knew she would be my door to heaven, my ticket to hell.
We began dating within a week.
I remember the first time she invited me over to her place: her brother Jorge was wrestling with his friend Gerardo, right in the middle of the living room. Ana Laura and Marco, who were just kids at the time, were arguing over something but then stopped cold when they saw me, and came over to greet me. Oh, and there was a skinhead punk sitting in the dining room, behind a typewriter; this would be Gabriel (aka “Unclutched”) Leyva, who was a sort of cultural aggregate. As Monica led me to her room, I noticed at least three maids in her kitchen, baking a towering pile of pizzas. In her room, she told me she would be right back, and she left for a few moments. During this time I am sitting there, on her bed, trying to make some sense of all of this because I knew I had never seen chaos until this point.
I blinked and BAM! this blonde wild-haired girl jumps on the bed and almost catapults me out the window. “Hi, I’m Lorena” she said, and before I could make any sense of what was happening Monica came in and in a snap threw her out of the bedroom.
“Hon, that was Lorena" 'and as if reading my mind, she said' "she is another cultural aggregate, please ignore her” and played Journey’s “Open Arms” and with that song she opened her arms and welcomed me into her heart, with the most loving hug and kiss I have ever received.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Monica’s mom; Betty and her parents lived there as well.
How is the count so far? Well, this was a one story, three-bedroom apartment. I was shocked. But not at the chaos, because there was a certain harmony to it. I was shocked at the fact that at the time, the concept of “home” couldn’t have been farther from me.
I had been struggling with the fact of having to go through high school twice, since the school I attended in Brazil, the American School (which is a global educational institution recognized worldwide), is not in Mexico. I was too immature to go through it again and I ended up leaving the apartment my parents paid for, and moved to a very fancy and distinguished residence; Taxquena, also known as the largest bus station in Mexico City. There I experienced being homeless for the first and hopefully last time in my life. For the homeless living there the accommodations were pretty much reserved, nobody ever took the place where you slept, at least not after a decent brawl. Mine was under a bench, against a wall by the vending machines. This was actually pretty good, since it was far enough from the putrid bean and vulture scent that came from the public restrooms, and behind the vending machines I would hide the cardboard box on which I slept. Sometimes I would go three days at a time without taking a shower, I wore the same pair of jeans for a month, and I would beg daily for money.
A nice sturdy buck knife and some martial arts training were sufficient to keep away the hoards of glue sniffing kids that vandalized that place every night, as well as the eventual drunk asshole that would engage in combat in an attempt to steal my backpack and my walkman; they never succeeded. Now I realize that my most valued possession during those scoundrel days were two books I stole from my parents' library: “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky and “The Mother” by Gorki.
(The homeless life is an experience which I will eventually revisit, so come back to look for an update.)
This went on for months, until eventually I landed a job, selling English courses to executives. Monica found the ad in the paper, and her grandfather lent me a suit and a tie. These obviously didn’t match and didn’t fit either. I remember that day, my first serious job interview, and I looked like a Napoleon Dynamite from the 1940’s in the the 90’s.
Now I had a job, and I could sustain myself. Gabriel and Lorena eventually moved out, so I moved in. I would help around the house and chip in for bills and stuff. We slept in separate rooms and eventually her brothers Jorge and Marco and her sister Ana Laura became the younger brothers and sister I never had. Her mother got me on the right track, and I will never forget her teachings, her support, and her laughter.
Monica believed in me, she never doubted my capacity, she reminded me of it everyday. She also believed I would grow up to become extremely wealthy, which was just one more of the many things on which I would disappoint her. Then again, we were very young.
At that age I had already begun writing and I shared that passion with her. I wish I hadn’t thrown away three full notebooks of what I thought of as poems that I had written for her, after the break up. Maybe it is one less way to embarrass myself.
We were together for almost 3 years.
I wrote this post because Monica is much more than a person, she represents the happiest times I have ever known and she is an intricate part of my life. Perhaps, the best part of it. Then again, I'm only 37 years old and I haven't lost hope. At least not as of lately.
Monica eventually got married, had a son and went on to become a Grammy winning lyricist.
“Because I, wherever I go, will speak of your love, like a golden dream” - Jose Alfredo Jimenez
2 comments:
jajajajja! que bien suena jose alfredo en ingles, bueno creo que todos tenemos a nuestra monica, ese amor que buscamos en cada uno de los que nos encontramos, lo lamentable de esto es que cada uno nos deja herencias, aveces buenas,y en sus casos malos los que nos acosan para toda la aternidad. yo aun tengo ami monica desde hace 10 anos.
besos brujos. yo
Update: she won a Grammy and I'm very happy for her.. http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/YcflrUa8Wea/11th+Annual+Latin+GRAMMY+Awards+Press+Room/yDjOrJRp6Ec/Monica+Velez
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