My little latin love story, Part 14 of ...

We began to plan the wedding; actually it was my mom who began to plan the wedding. My mom always wanted to be either an interior decorator or a wedding planner, but because my father is the kind of person that likes steady paychecks and doesn’t like the idea of trying to start a business, she gave up the dream. On the other hand when a moment came along to plan a wedding or decorate a room, my mom would show up without being asked. I was very grateful that my parents offered to pay for the wedding because there was no way Mili’s parent’s were going to be able to or be able to come to it for that matter. Mili arrived on the 28^th of November and we were going to be married on the 19^th of December. I remember clearly that day because my best man left early so he could catch opening night of Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. He said, “This is a once in a lifetime thing.” I didn’t want to badger him by saying “same here”, so I let him go, and because of that movie Mili and I were among the last to leave.

From the time Mili came to the US we spent every moment I wasn’t at work together. It was fun taking her around town and showing her what life was like in the US. Mili marveled at all the things we had that helped us be even lazier than we already were. One button washing machines, a garbage truck with a mechanical arm that would come out and pick up the trash can and dump it, and an enormous array of computers and computer parts.

Well, for now I am going to call this a wrap. Of course there is so much more, but for now I think it's time to get back to business.

My little latin love story, Part 13 of ...

The first problem we encountered was the fact the Mili didn’t heed my warnings (something she does to this day, a trait that jumps back-and-forth between endearing and irritating) of how cold Utah gets. I had told her that she should concentrate on sweaters, wool and alpaca (a member of the llama family who’s fleece is a very good insulator, even better than sheep’s wool).

She said, “I thought this jacket would do,” referring to the long sudo-leather jacket. I laughed.

First we hounded my sisters for spare winter clothing. My older sister despite her middle class upbringing, her middle class parents and her perfectly comfortable middle class siblings liked to live the high life. Or at least look like it. I wanted my girlfriend to look and feel like a million dollars so we went to her first. She only had a jacket, but it was a place to start. My younger sister unfortunately had very little as far as clothing that would fit Mili. Mili is a small, petite Latin woman and my younger sister a very strong and intimidating white woman.

Next stop was the best thing to come out of the Mormon Church since the gospel, the DI. My parents were always willing to help out by buying things for Mili, but I wanted that almost married feeling of being able to do things without my parents help. I was surprised to see exactly how far I could stretch $8.50 an hour. Nevertheless, my parents on more than one occasion took her shopping for clothes. Sure, I have my pride, but I like to think I am humble enough to know when I could use a little financial help.

My little latin love story, Part 12 of ...

I had more or less of a plan. According to the INS we had 90 days to get married, after we got married we had to fill out a whole new set of forms, pay $200 and she would get her conditional permanent resident status for two years. After that we would pay a whole new fee and fill out a whole new set of forms and that would be the last hurdle for the next ten years or was that two? Then it would be something completely different if she decided to get her US citizenship. That was my plan as far as the INS.

Reality was different, as is usally the case. In preparation for Mili’s arrival, I had moved out of my parents home and rented a one-bedroom apartment. I didn’t make very much money so I took on a roommate. He had a futon so his room was the living room. I had checked with the INS and they said with the kind of Visa Mili was coming in on she would be able to work, little did I know that the work visa she was getting was a mini-work visa that only lasted ninety days and didn't just renew itself when we got married. I like to think this is one of the many jokes the INS plays on immigrants, 'Hey, we're going to give you this visa that lasts 90-days! Gook luck finding an employer that is going to hire you for only 90-days and oh, yeah. To get a work visa that lasts a year you are going to have to pay $250' Ha ha, I'm sure they laughed themselves to sleep every night over that one.

I had made arrangements with a girl from Argentina that I worked with so that Mili could stay with her until we could get married. I think she had the hots for me and was still betting on the fact that things wouldn’t work out when she made the arrangement but when things worked out I called her on it. My original plan was to have her live with my parents but Mili and my parents didn’t want to work around the language barrier. I could understand that because my very first companion on my mission didn’t speak a lick of English and it was very difficult, I mean drag a man to tears difficult.

My little latin love story, Part 11 of ...

It was November and it was the first time I had been to the airport since 9/11 and the new excuse for violating human dignity (and civil liberties) came into play, they called these excuses 'increased security'. At least people didn't have to take their shoes off at the security point yet, that was still a couple of months away. I was nervous, worried and filled with a scary new hope. Her plane was delayed in Denver for over an hour and I didn’t have a cell phone, so I just had to hang around and wait. I wanted to sit down and rest, but I guess chairs were only good enough for people beyond the gate and the lucky 10 who got to the chairs between the escalators. My mom wanted to come but I told her that I really wanted to be the only one there. As always, my mom understood.

Before, a person could walk all the way to the door that connected the plane to the airport and only have to see the people on the same flight as the person you were waiting for. I really hated this new everybody-come-though-the-same-gate thing. I mean planes are coming off all the time so there is a constant flow of people, you never know when the people from the plane you are waiting for are getting off. I felt a little like a gumba, in my semi-formal shirt, my very clean and ironed jeans, my mostly clean winter coat and holding a bouquet of flowers asking people “Are you coming off the flight from Denver?” Weird looks were abound from the groups of families that were awaiting returning missionaries. I just tried to blend into the background while still being close enough to see who was coming off and not being part of any grouping of people. There were mixed results.

She was wearing the same long black sudo-leather jacket that she had on the first time I met her in Perú outside of the mission, which for me was the first time I really met her. She said good-bye to the sister missionary (who's family had been looking at me the whole time wondering if they should say something to this lonely and obviously nervious/anxious person) that just so happened to be coming home from Peru that she had been traveling with and we embraced.

Emotions raced around my body like a Nascar race being shook up in a snow globe. Happyness, love, exaltation, relief and all other complex emotions smashed into each other or along the walls of my being. She seemed so relaxed. Her hair, as she usally wore it, was hanging loose and falling about her shoulders. She had on a grey shirt that pressed the limits of temple worthy low cut, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of black boots that added at least an inch to her height. Her wonderfully white teeth spread out in a heart-melting smile in contrast to her dark moca skin.

“I missed you so much, heaven.” She whispered as we continued our embrace.

“I missed you too.” I was still a little unsure about the whole new list of pet names available to me and didn't know which one to use. So, my brain ran around the emotional and mental chaos and handed me silence.

When we tore apart I gave her the flowers that I had brought with me and we hugged again, this time with a long, drawn out kiss. In hindsight I get the image and feeling that you get when watching a movie and suddenly the whole world speeds up while the couple in the middle remain, slow and in real time. At that moment, the world felt like it had left the sun like a bad lover and began to orbit around us. Fireworks exploded, angelic choirs sang and God probably took his attention from something important to look at us for a moment and give an approving nod. Sure, I'm exaggerating but it sure felt that way.

My little latin love story, Part 10 of ...

At that time Xbox had come out and I was studying whether to buy an Xbox or a Playstation 2. I really liked Halo on Xbox, but my sister said I should come to her house in Salt Lake and try out her Playstation 2. With what I was going through I thought it was a good idea to get a distraction in my life. While I was there I called Mili. At long last she answered.

I was so happy just to speak to her, but she was more reserved. A more ‘I-want-to-tell-you-something-but-I-probably-shouldn't-tell-you’ kind of mood.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I didn’t go in.”

“Did they not let you go in?”

“No, I just didn’t go in.”

“WHY!” I screamed into the phone. This was the first time I had really become agitated with Mili. I was usually the one that kept his cool.

“I’m not ready to marry you.” This wasn’t happening. I had paid so much, suffered so much and fought so much. I wasn’t even going let Mili stop me at this point.

Eventually, I pried the information out of her and she told a tale of how she just didn’t feel like she was a good person. Mili felt bad about some things that she had done in the past. Things that had long since past, things she had long since left behind her, things she had long since repented of. I could see that she was a completely different person now then the person in her past. But she couldn’t. I listened as she laid the whole story before me, and when she was done I broke into the ‘you-shall-be-as-white-as-snow’ speech. Sure, it's a little overdone, a little cliché, but things don't get cliché because they arn't true or useful. I didn’t care about what she had done or how she felt about things she had done in the past, and at that moment I felt like an old friend had walked up to me to say 'hello', I remembered the true reason I was fighting so hard and tolerating so much. Something that had gotten lost in the fighting, the straining and the overall mess of government. I loved her, and I wanted to spend eternity with her.

The next day Mili called the embassy and they told her she couldn’t get another appointment until next year. Although the government was taking their time, with regard to 9/11, I feared that they might just get their act together and look at the INS instead of just promoting patriotism. First, I called the US embassy in Peru and tried to convince them that just because I was a tax-paying US citizen I had some say in what went on in government, I refused to speak or acknowledge that I spoke Spanish in a foolish attempt to intimidate them like I would a Wal-Mart customer service employee into accepting the return of an item that I had bought without the receipt. It didn’t work; they probably don't get paid enough to care. Next I called my representative in Washington, my voice in federal law, my congressman, Chris Cannon. I figured that he could call the embassy, throw some proverbial (and probably literal) weight around and tell them to make an appointment for Mili and that would be that. I got passed off to some underling who gave me the excuse that because of Sept. 11 the INS told them that they couldn’t pull strings like that any more and I never voted for Chris "Jowels" Cannon again.

I wish I could take back every tantrum I ever had. I wish I could take back every tear I had ever made my mom cry, every sleepless night that she had for my sake. My Mom, seeing my suffering, called Orin Hatch’s (our senior senator) office and told them of my plight. Orin Hatch or at least one of his powerful secretaries (because, let's be honest, it's the secretaries that get things done) waved the stick of senatorial power and with a call, a fax and within 24 hours Mili had an appointment for the very next week and I had a smile on my face once again.

My little latin love story, Part 9 of ...

September 11, 2001 at about 7:30am MST. I turned on the television for the morning news as I did every morning before I went to work. I liked to listen to the strange crimes that go on and make fun of the TV anchors that tried to be funny and all they had to report on was a sale at some store in Salt Lake. Some might say I’m a little psychotic, but I was happy that something interesting was happening in the world. I was fascinated by the reactions of the news media. Astounded by the footage. I marveled at the story of a couple that clasped their hands before jumping from the tower. I wasn’t really hurt or saddened until that night when my mother mentioned that the hijackers were immigrants and that it would probably have an affect on Mili’s case. That is when I became worried and angry.

I like it when companies put radio stations on their hold music. You get a variety to listen to. The INS doesn’t. After two hours on hold to the INS, I learned that they repeated the same music and message every fifteen minutes. I even began to say the message with the machine when it came on. I don’t even know why I called the INS. I had called them a few times throughout the process and I always came to the same conclusion; that conclusion was that the people working in the call center probably don’t even know whom they work for or what they are suppose to do. This time I wanted to know how September 11 was going to affect my case. As usual, they didn’t know.

Luckily the government has a speed all it’s own. They passed the US PARTIOT ACT (it seems like the only thing they are quick about is taking away our civil liberties) quickly enough but then they really didn’t know what to do with themselves, other than collect their paychecks. So no major changes happened until after Mili came to the US.

After all her paperwork and exams were done the US embassy gave Mili an appointment for an interview for the last week in October. We were delighted. I happily spent forty dollars just to talk about how this whole nightmare might be coming to an end.

I anxiously waited the day of her interview at work watching my e-mail for the news on when she was going to be able to come. All I got was “I’m not going to be able to come.” I called, I wrote and no answer. Two days later I was a basket case. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know what to do. I even called in sick to work. So I did what I always do to escape reality, I played video games.

My little latin love story, Part 8 of ...

Our relationship began to suffer. Mili was becoming impatient. “Why are they doing this to us? Why don’t we get married here?” (She knew that she didn’t want her children to grow up the same way she did, but she said it anyway. Although I believe that she knew that no matter what they would have a better life no matter where.). The idea was appealing but I had learned that we would have to go though the same process for her to come to the US whether we were married or not, and I felt that I would miss her a lot more if we were already married. She also began to very agitated with little things. For example, if I didn’t write one day she would have a fit and I would spend close to forty dollars on phone cards so that we could talk out our frustrations and be ready to carry on. More than once she had been willing to call off the whole thing, but I would talk her out of it.

Not only was the strain weighing on Mili and me. It was also weighing on those who had to deal with me. My brother sat me down and asked, “are you sure you want to go through this? I mean this really seems like a lot more work than it’s worth. And with all the problems that you’re running into, it might even be God telling you that it isn’t right.”

“I’m sure about this.” That was a lie, at this point I was doubting too. I believe that God has a plan and is always more than willing to give hints on what one should do. My patience was wearing thin and I was looking at all that was going on and asking myself if maybe God didn’t want it to work out. But I was sick of being out of control. I was sick of putting my heart and soul into something and then for some reason or another watching it crash and burn. I had watched my last girlfriend dump me for some stupid reason. I came back from my mission and saw someone completely different inside of the body of the woman that I had loved so dearly. I wasn’t going to allow the government to destroy my hopes. I wasn’t going to allow even God from keeping me from doing everything in my power to make our relationship work. So I put my doubts aside and marched on knowing that more than likely I was going in alone.

The first week of September Mili received a package filled with forms and a list of documents they needed copies of, oh yea and $100. She had to have a complete medical exam done by a doctor at the US embassy in Peru (another $100). I wired her $300 because I had become used to the idea that when working with the government there is always another fee.

My little latin love story, Part 7 of ...

Now the hard part...

The only difficult part about making a big decision, like marriage is all the paperwork that goes along with it. As soon as I got home I began to research exactly what it was going to take to bring Mili to the US. The following week; I sent a form, a set of pictures, and a copy of my birth certificate with $95.00 to Nebraska. We continued to chat and write letters. The overall tone of the letters had become more romantic and we constantly spoke about being together again.

A month later I received a letter from the Department of Immigration and Naturalization (INS). The letter said that they had received my petition to bring my fiancé to the US and that it would be about two months to find out if my petition had been approved or not.

The idea of being without Mili for two more months was heartbreaking. I missed her, and my coworkers and parents were getting real tired of hearing about it. I broke the news and we mourned together. The next day I took my computer to a friend’s house to have a LAN party, when I brought my computer home that night and plugged it in to write Mili, it began to smoke. For reasons that I was unable to understand God smote my computer, frying the Motherboard, the hard drive, the video card, the network card, and the sound card. I was surprised because I had a surge protector and when I told the techs at the computer store, they said, “Wow, really? I never heard of that happening before.” $400, the help of my computer savvy brother and a week later we were able to communicate again on a more regular basis.

In August I received another letter from the INS. They said that they needed more forms, copies of every financial document I ever had, proof that we were engaged, proof that we had spent time together, a letter from a third party saying the we weren’t getting married just so Mili could get a Visa and $145. It took me a week to gather everything up, get it all notarized and sent off.

Dun dun duuuuunnnnn....

My little latin love story. Part 6 of who knows how many.

I'm not going to keep doing this, you guys can just scroll down. Fine, we were in Perú and getting to know Mili, her family and her culture.

I don’t know how long I slept. It was probably only an hour, but when I opened my eyes I was looking right into Mili’s eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” I asked.

“Only a moment.”

“All right,” I rolled onto my back and tried to go back to sleep.

“What are you thinking about?” as it turns out this question is a universal question asked by all women trying to get inside the male mind, little do they know that there really isn’t anything to get into.

“How I wish I could have slept better on the plane.”

“I mean we’ve been together for almost twelve hours and we haven’t really even spoken to each other. You’re only going to be here a week.”

“And you would really like to start to get to know me.” She was right, I wanted to get to know her to. I pushed mute on my body’s whining and we begun to talk.

It was a little hard at first; Mili even suggested that we go to the Internet café so maybe would feel a little more comfortable. I was definitely nervous. We were lying in the same bed and talking. My mom always said that the first step to fall off the chastity wagon was to be lying on the same bed, there was no other place to sit in the room and Mili’s family would want to talk to me if I was out in the open. I decided to start the conversation. An hour or two later during a seven-minute pause, we kissed. It was a quick, soft, tongueless kiss. As far as first kisses go, that was the best one I had ever had.

Later that afternoon we flew out to a little province on the Ecuadorian border called Tumbes. Her mom, step-dad, younger brothers and sisters live there and she wasn’t going to let her potential fiancé go home without meeting her parents.

Tumbes is a small town where everybody knows one another. It was surprising to hear that they had an international airport, at the time it didn’t occur to me that if Utah was it’s own country Provo airport would be international. I would often laugh, as Mili would take me around her hometown, because she would always point to someone and say ‘that’s my uncle/cousin/aunt/2nd cousin/etc’ I was reminded of my mom’s hometown. Almost every summer growing up we would go see my grandma and an assortment of cousins. Often on these trips my mom would take us around town and tell us who lived in each house and how we were related to them.

Mili’s parents were somewhat better off than most. They lived in an apartment that was about 100+ years old downtown. They owned the two-story building but rented out the lower half to a chicken restaurant. The floors were well-kept wood and they had plaster walls, except they had movable partitions dividing the large one room apartment into a three-bedroom apartment.

Her mom was very warm and loving the way only a Latin-mother could be and she would shove food down your throat the way most moms do. Her skin was a lighter color than Mili’s and she had red streaks in her light black hair. I thought that the streaks were dyed but Mili swears that that they are natural and have been there her whole life. I’d heard that some Latin women from the jungle have different colored hair, so I didn’t argue. I also heard that on hot days they walked around with their tops off, but I couldn’t prove that either.

Mili’s step-dad was a great deal older than her mom, about forty. But for a man about eighty he sure didn’t act like it. I’m not saying that he was child-like, more like he wasn’t old-like. Most men in their eighties take lots of pills, shake and ask you to repeat everything. He was very lucid, clear and loud. He was easy to get along with and very patient with the holes in my Spanish Vocabulary.

The week went by too quickly and we couldn't stand to be apart for even a second. It was appearant that we got along very well, too well in in fact.

I asked her hand in marriage the day before I went back to the US. We stayed up late walking on the beach that was only twenty-minutes from her house. We kissed constantly until I left.

Same blog time, same blog channel...

My little latin love story. Part 5 of who knows how many.

We had confessed our love for each other and decided that I had to go to Peru in order to find out if we were compatible.

I flew down to Peru the first week in May and I was going to spend a week. We would spend twenty-four hours a day together (except for the sleeping in the same bed or house) it was going to get a little weird, or so I thought on the way down. When I emerged from customs she was waiting for me. She was much more beautiful than I had envisioned her. She was wearing a long black sudo-leather jacket, a tight pair of camouflage jeans and gray t-shirt. When I approached her I had to stop myself from kissing her and I skillfully dodged to the right and allowed my lips to slip safely past her ear and we embraced. We held each other for what felt like not enough. Her older sister Jessica was there and as we hugged she quietly took my luggage so when I turned around I briefly panicked thinking that my suitcases had been stolen. Jessica didn’t look much older than Mili, the overall body structure was the same; about five foot six thin with long black hair. Jessica’s hair had more of a wave and ran down only to her shoulders while Mili’s hair was as straight as hair could be and ran down to between her shoulder blades. We loaded up a cab and drove home. It was three in the morning and I hadn’t slept all night. Mili’s sister was a chit-chatty kind of person so she continually tried to start a conversation; she never really got the point that I didn’t want to talk.

I had forgotten how humid and polluted Lima was. It felt like a sauna but you have all your clothes on and you just ran a five-minute mile in the gym. When we got to her grandparent’s house I crashed on the couch and Mili crashed right next to me. Jessica went to her room to put on something a little more comfortable. Suffice it to say but in Spanish this phrase has no sexual meaning whatsoever. She went and put on some sweats. I feel asleep with Mili on my shoulder. When I woke up it was about 8:00am. My body had built up enough energy to be uncomfortable and made it known with a crick in my neck and certain body parts that were entering the painful wake-up stage after falling asleep. Mili awoke when I began to stir.

“How are you, heaven?” Heaven? Where did that come from? I stared at her for a moment and thought rapidly about what she could mean by heaven. After a two-year mission I learned that the tone of voice and facial expression would give you a push in the direction of the meaning of the word. Her face had the same expression that my mom would use when she spoke to my father in an endearing way. I concluded that heaven was a pet name, like dear. It made a lot more sense to call someone heaven than dear, after all, dear can easily be replaced with deer. English is stupid that way.

“Still a little tired, but more or less ready to start the day. I just want to shower first.” I had showered every morning since I could remember; I just couldn’t stand facing people wondering what I smelt like. After her aunt Roxana got out of the bathroom, I went in.

For some reason I felt quite at home in this third world bathroom. The plywood door with a latch that Gringos usually used on outside gates, the cheap tile covering the floor and four feet of the walls. The walls and ceiling were made out of concrete, which was normal for Peru in general. They said that it was the best material to make houses out of, and whenever I would mention that houses in the US were made out of wood and a chalk–like substance they would laugh at me. But the highlight of almost every Peruvian bathroom was the one faucet for the shower. This was going to be a cold shower.

We went to the LDS temple later that morning. It was the first time I had ever attended a session in Spanish. When we arrived back home my body was being ever more intolerant about my insistence of keeping it awake and moving. So as soon as we got inside we crashed on her bed, we couldn’t sleep on the couch again because her sister, nieces, aunts and uncles were all moving about the house. I tried to make it as uncompromising as possible but I was just too tired to sin even if I wanted to.

My little latin love story. Part 4 of who knows how many.

Let's see, now I'm going to have to figure out were I left off. Okay, I just brought my own computer and Mili and I had started chatting online.

A month or two of letter writing and chatting and the whole course of our relationship changed. One night we were chatting, it was about eleven p.m. in Utah and one a.m. over there. We were in that state of Mormon drunkenness that people get into when you’re really tired, your speech slurs, you start laughing at the stupidest of things and you sentence structure goes to pot. Out of the blue she says, “I want to be your wife.”

“Sure, when do you want to get married?”

“As soon as possible. Because you are the best man I have ever met.”

“Let me find out how we could do that and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” Even in my tired state I felt that this was just to weird to be talking about right now.

I thought about what Mili said all the next day. It scared me spitless. I wondered if I really wanted to marry her. And the thing about being on different continents was sort of an issue. I began to make a small list of pros and cons. Pros: We understood each other, we felt comfortable talking about everything, and it couldn’t be lust because we had never spent any real physical time together. Cons: I’d have to give up flirting. Spanish was my second language and she didn’t speak English, she lived on another continent and her culture and background were very different from mine.

The last note on the con list was the one that worried me the most. I had read an article from one of the Counsel of the Twelve that stated in effect that the Church does not recommend that that people from different cultures/races intermarry. I understood their reasoning. Being married by itself is hard enough without adding the friction of different holidays, ways to celebrate birthdays, how to morn and cultural differences in general would only make things harder. After a few days of deep thought, prayer and the avoidance of the subject with Mili, I came to the conclusion that I wanted her to be my wife. It was the first time I had openly gone against a recommendation of the church.

Still, I wasn’t going to become engaged to her over the Internet. Besides, what if we got together and couldn’t stand to be in the same room? What if she had ballooned since the mission? And what if she wasn’t a good kisser? All these things had to be considered. So I made arrangements to go back to Peru so that we could spend some time together. That way we both could come to the conclusion whether we should get married or not. Once the decision was made that we loved each other and that I was going to go back down to Peru we began to size each other up, seeing if we both measured up to what we both wanted from a spouse. Mili even asked for a letter of recommendation from my bishop.

To me continued...

My little latin love story. Part 3 of who knows how many.

Do I really have to do this introduction thing every time? You could just scroll down. Okay, anyway, last time we had just exchanged e-mail addresses...

The next day I thought about writing her. The talk we had was very enlightening and felt nice. I’m not one to believe in love at first sight but some that have heard this story would say otherwise. I wanted to continue that kind of dialogue. But I couldn’t call her the very next day. I would appear desperate, and we couldn’t have that especially with the male code and all. Half way through the workday I was looking up some customer information on the computer and suddenly my e-mail showed one new message. It was from her. I almost clapped in excitement but my masculinity stopped me. She wrote only to confirm that the e-mail I had sent was the correct one and that she had sent a copy of her e-mail to confirm for me that I had hers. I responded saying that she had the right e-mail and that she should reply to confirm that she had received my message. She responded the next day.

I began to write her daily. She would write every time she had enough money to go to an Internet café, usually she wrote every day and was probably spending money she shouldn’t have spent. Periodically we would meet in a chat room and chat until her money ran out. We talked about missionaries that we had come across after the mission. We complained about how some ex-missionaries had formed clicks in post-mission life and how high schoolish it was. She would tell me about how some missionaries gunning to get married would show up at her house to take her out. She would always think, “I knew what a piece of trash you were during the mission, what makes you think I would want to go out with you?”

We also talked about missionaries that were very nice at first but when they attained a certain position they became egotistical jerks. We spoke to each other like we had known each other for years. We tried just for the heck of it to see if Mili could come to the wedding of my sister. We felt that we were compatible and that maybe we could have a relationship together but we both knew that we needed to spend some real time together.

So we submitted the proper forms so she could get a three-month visa. The embassy denied our request for her to be able to attend the wedding so we just continued to write each other.

I was beginning to spend a lot of time on the computer and the phone line. My Mom and Dad didn’t say anything about how I was occupying the computer all the time, but it had become a habit of mine to try and foretell what they wanted me to do and then do it. I learned this mainly because my father has never been one to praise, complain or even to say ‘I love you’. So instead I would try and do things where he would have to voice his approval. For me getting him to say thanks was just as good as a hug and an ‘I love you’. In this case I wanted to purchase my own computer so he would notice that I didn’t want to be an inconvenience for him. My little sister was in living in Salt Lake and was selling her computer so I bought it and set it up in my room. At the time I thought that $500 for a computer was a really good deal.

To be continued...

My little latin love story. Part 2 of who knows how many.

When we last left our hero... -where was I? Oh yeah- I was calling my a sister missionary that I knew.


"I’m looking for Milagros. Is she at home at the moment?”

“That’s me”

“Hi, I don’t know if you remember me but I’m Elder Breakdown or at least I used to be.” Her voice dropped a little. If I remembered right she didn’t care much for my companion or myself very much. It didn’t help that my companion didn’t care much for her either. My companion, Elder Segura (We called him Elder Sure), was a native Peruvian and was very proud of the way he spoke Spanish. It really irritated him the way this particular sister missionary spoke fluently the Spanish form of Jive/Hibonics and she spoke it often. I never really cared either way. I just supported my companion in his rants of how we were representatives of the Lord and that we needed to speak as such. She would always retort with “I’m just speaking in a way that makes people feel comfortable and doesn’t make them think I am better than them.” They had these types of fights all the time and I was almost sure that my companion would start them out of spite. Most of these fights would end the way parents would end fights with their kids. “I’m the Zone Leader and this is the way things are.” Once she added a military salute at the end before walking away with her companion. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

“Elder Breakdown, yes I remember you. How are you?”

“I’m good just trying to make it though post-mission life.” And so went our conversation. Her talking about all her failed relationships, mainly the guy she just broke up with was just a lazy bum and she wasn’t going to marry one of those. And me whining about how every time I began to really care about a girl she would dump me for some silly reason. She was very sympathetic but she didn’t pity me, and in fact spoke more of trying again anyway despite the bad experiences. I was pleasantly surprised by her point of view and was glad that I had called her. She made me feel good and I felt that I was talking to somebody who understood my point of view. I had to end the call, my job was only a little better than minimum wage; it’s ten-cents a minute to call Peru and we had already been talking for an hour. We exchanged our e-mail addresses and said good-bye.

To be continued...

My little latin love story. Part 1 of who knows how many.

This is going to be an ongoing segment. I wrote this story some time ago but since it's a little long I am going to break it up into bits. Anyway, here we go.

It was just after Christmas and before New Years. It was that special time of year where you just spent a whole day with your family and you are gearing up to spend a whole night with your friends. It’s that transition time where you are not quite sure where you stand or quite what to do between parties. It was really bad this year because of the fact the only days before Christmas my girlfriend dumped me for a guy that she had been writing to. She had never met him physically but she choose him over me. It wasn’t really a surprise to me to find out later that things didn’t work out between the both of them.

I needed somebody to talk to, preferably a woman. Only a woman can give you the sympathy that you need that you would never get from your friends. Male friends would either make fun of you or ignore you. Often the male approach worked but I needed somebody who I could whine to and who would give me the pity I so dearly wanted. I couldn’t talk to my mom. I needed to feel like somebody pitied me without obligation.

I thought through all my female friends, Sarah? No, I lost contact with her before I left on my mission. Diana? No, she got married while I was on my mission and it just wouldn’t be right to whine to a married woman. I wasn’t all that surprised that that was the whole list. Most girls I knew I dated and if I dated them they broke up with me and I wasn’t very good at doing the ‘just friends’ bit. I tried it once, but you can only allow your heart to go through the grinder so many times listening to your old girlfriend talk about how so-and-so uses too much tongue. There are just things ex-boyfriends shouldn’t know despite what the all-knowing TV says. I remembered that October of last year, while I was still on my mission, a native Peruvian sister missionary gave me a birthday card that included her name, address and phone number.

I thought that if anyone would understand it would be a female that is or at least had recently gone though the pains of post mission life. I had fond memories of her; on the other hand it was more like entertaining memories about her. She wasn’t like other sister missionaries in the way she did things. She wasn’t a conformist so she stood out in my mind. So I found the card in my mission memory papers and gave her a call.

To be continued...

Thoughts on a Mother

Okay it's Mother's Day so of course I wish all the mothers out there a Happy Mother's Day.

Now I just want to talk a little about the closest mother in my life at the very moment. My wife and the mother of my children. My wife as I have stated plenty of times is Latina and her first language is Spanish. She grew up in a third-world country (although she takes offence when I call her country a third-world country. She asks 'who gave you guys the right to say we aren't the ones that are doing it right?') and her mother wasn't the best of mothers at the time she was born.

The fact of the matter is that my wife grew up with her grandparents for the most part. They were really her parents. Just as a side note, my wife doesn't know who her biological father is; her mom knows but has never gone out of her way to fill her daughter in.

My wife's childhood was hard and she has the scars to prove it. She doesn't consider that her childhood was hard, but when I compare the way I grew up with the way she grew up it scares me.

So despite all the things that happened to my wife and all the things that could have swayed her to do any number of horrible things. She stayed the course and I am very proud to have her as my wife and very proud that she is the mother of my children. I couldn't ask for anyone better.

Happy Mother's Day, mi morena codiciable.

Assaults on Hope

There are a lot of discouraging things out there. As soon as I start out on a new path I will often find many reasons why the path I'm on may just very well not be worth the effort. I just want to share a couple of my latest discoveries and maybe reflect on them.

After I got off my mission I went back to my old job. There I made some friends, one of my friends was an older gent from the same country that I served my mission. It was fun talking to him and he was very grandfatherly to me. Well, just the past week I came across him and we started talking and he invited me to his wedding. He explained to me that after 43 years of marriage he got divorced and two years later he is going to get remarried. I've been married only seven years but I have to say that as time goes by we don't have as many fights as we used to. I can't even wrap my head around the idea of getting divorced after 43 years. I mean you've spent almost a half century with this person and suddenly you're not going to take it anymore. Well, I don't understand it and I couldn't bring myself to ask him why. It's just discouraging is all.

Now that I am going back to school I often will try and fill myself with the feeling that I am moving in the right direction. I mean, all the Prophets tell us that we need to be educated and get our collage degrees and such. Also I know that my current job can be a career if I really want it to, but I hold the hope that I can do so much more; I also hope that I can get payed more for it. Anyway, most everyone at my job knows that I've gone back to school and some want to talk to me about it. Some have stories about when they were in college, others want to give advice and others I don't really care enough about to listen to. So I've come across two people that have left an impression on me. One person is now a janitor, and he went to college. The other has his bachelors in psychology. So I ask myself, "If these guys who are well educated are doing the same thing that I'm doing; what makes me think that I'm going to be better off once I graduate?" Perhaps this pursuit of education is a fool's errand. I know that a person doesn't need to graduate from college in order to be intelligent. My brother is one of the smartest people I know and he doesn't need a piece of cardboard to tell him that he's jumped through hoops to prove his intelligence. He does it day in and day out, which in my opinion means more than a lot of the people I know that just hang out admiring how smart they are. So what I am to do? Get in debt so I can make as much as I make now? Or what?

I figure that sometimes we just have to gamble and hope everything turns out for the best. It seems to me that in this life we just have to make the most of what we are given and then roll with the punches. It's worked out reasonably well for me so far, it works out better for others and craps out for others. No guarantees no matter how hard you work, how smart you are or how talented. Not that I'm any of those, so I probably should be more thankful for how far I've come.

Notes on interracial marriage.

This week I've come across a couple of instances were the topic of interracial marriage has been brought up. This doesn't usually happen so I am going to take it as a sign, of sorts, that it's time that I address the issue.

As anyone that reads my blog should know by now; I'm married to a Latino woman. I am confused with the use of Latino in this case, it sounds more right to me to say Latina, but in our non-sexist language Latino seems to be the correct word. Anyway, when we were courting I did a lot of fasting and prayer in regard to this subject -well, there was a lot more prayer than fasting-. Most may not know that the LDS faith discourages against interracial marriage. Boyd K. Packer has spoken about it along with many others. This was a big sticking point for me because for the most part I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't like to rock the spiritual boat. Nevertheless I went with my heart and felt that I had received God's approval, and so here we are.

I realized at the time and even more so now the reasons why the church has discouraged interracial marriage. It's not easy; marriage itself isn't easy, but add the race/culture bit into the mix and it makes it a bit harder. Now, because I love the bulleted list, I am going to go over a couple of things that make an interracial marriage a bit more difficult then others. At least in my opinion, I've never had any other kind of marriage so I'm just going to list off things that I think make an interracial marriage different:

• Language: The largest problem that any couple can face is communication and being able to communicate clearly. Now what we have here is at least one person in the marriage that is not as capable of communicating as well as the other. Doesn't matter what language you speak, one or the other is going to be at a disadvantage. We've been married for over seven-years, I've studied Spanish, but there still are words that my wife throws out that I don't know. This little problem also has an upside, when you are in the middle of an argument and your spouse uses a word that you've never heard before it diffuses the situation because the argument has to take a step aside as an explanation is presented. Nevertheless miscommunication abound. I won't even get into the subject of movies. If you thought it was hard agreeing upon what movie to watch, try having the discussion about in which language to watch it.
• Culture: Year after year we often will have the same discussions about traditions. If both of us were from the same culture then I'm sure a compromise could quickly be reached. As we both come from different cultures, well, differences abound. Let's take Christmas for example; In most Hispanic cultures they don't have a Christmas tree, they have a big nativity scene. So every year we discuss how much effort the tree should get as compared to the nativity scene. Luckily, the kids settled this one for us because a complex nativity scene is impossible with small children in the house. As time drags on, soon our home decorations will be moving from tree-oriented to nativity-oriented; that was the compromise. In addition one of the other culture differences is how to celebrate Christmas. Hispanics will often stay up all night, while us gringos just get up early. Gringos tend to have Christmas a very quiet family affair, while Hispanics make it bit more of a celebration. These culture differences range from Valentine's day to Independence day, and they don't seem to ever go away.
• Belonging: As an interracial couple we have found ourselves in an odd situation in society; one I didn't know existed. I don't know why it is this way but people, on the whole, don't seem to know quite how to treat us. At times I can't blame them. As a bilingual couple we find ourselves using a kind of Spanglish to communicate, we pick whichever language works better for us at the time. Most of the time the people we are with don't understand one language or the other and it can be a little disconcerting for them. Since most of the time we are with couples that aren't interracial at least one of us is always going to feel a little left out as one of us just isn't going to have as much in common with others as the other one. If we are with Gringos, I usually take the lead. If we are with Hispanics, my wife takes the lead. It's the way things go, and often times people don't hang around with us simply because they recognize that they will always have more in common with one of us and not so much with the other. Then there is always the element of people that don't agree with interracial couples. On the whole I haven't come across these people, but I have come across a few, and it's saddening when you realize that people will judge you for it. Often we find ourselves drawn to other interracial couples, but as most know these are few and far between; although there are more now then ever before. Nevertheless, it limits your friend options.
• Family: Doesn't matter how you twist it one member of the couple is going to have to be far away from their family. This will always be a point of friction. My wife has been very, Very understanding on this point. Her family has been on the short end of the stick since we got married. Very few of them were able to attend the wedding. Only her mother has been able to get to know both of our kids, let alone see them grow up in any capacity. Our kids don't know any of their cousins on my wife's side let alone their aunts and uncles; I won't even start on the cultures of either. Because of this distance there is always the threat of money that has to be spent in calling cards, long-distance gifts and travel. There is no way of getting around it, it's simply part of the deal.
• Children: This is one of the things that I never considered before and as our kids grow older it slowly becomes more of an issue. As we both come from different cultures we were brought up very differently and therefore have very different ideas about child rearing. I am pretty layed back about the whole thing and my wife is fortunately someone that recognizes better ways of doing things, but I am sure that things would be different had we both been brought up similarly. There are other problems with children in an interracial marriage; one of which is language, I've spoken about this before, another one is identity. As my kids straddle the culture/race line it will make them more aware of both while at the same time never really belonging to either. It would be great to be able to say that it doesn't matter, and it shouldn't, but as I have seen, people, whether they mean to or not, treat you differently depending on how you look. If Hispanics are racist against Gringos, then they will see our kids as Gringos. If Gringos are racist against Hispanics, then they will see our kids as Hispanics. I certainly hope that as my kids grow older this will never be a problem.

I am sure that there are plenty more points, but for now these are all that come to mind. I will probably talk about this again but for now I think this will do.

Lets end this year by killing something.

Well... Hm... This post isn't one that I've really been looking forward to writing but I should write it anyway at least for my own benefit. My dog died on Sunday, he was ran over by a car that didn't even bother to stop or brake just outside our house. We found his broken body a few minutes after it happened.

My wife absolutely loves dogs, I figure the reason for this is because though out her life she has always had a dog. Her mom dropped her off at her grandparents house when she was really young and she was practically raised by her grandparents and her 13 aunts and uncles, but her childhood was not exactly happy. Most of her aunts didn't want her there and were very mean to her. One was so mean that to this day you can see the scars on my wife's hands. Nevertheless there was always a dog at her house, and she loved it. Her only memory of her biological father was when he came to visit her and he brought a dog with him, she never saw him because her mother rushed her out of the room while her mother shooed him away, but my wife remembers clearly playing with the dog under a bed. In fact some of my wife's most happy memories of her childhood has something to do with dogs. So the death of our current dog was devastating to her, and the worst part is that we can't get another for a while.

So although I did love that dog, it hurts me more seeing my wife hurting. I've never seen anyone get so attached to an animal like her she did and as I've stated above I think she has some good reasons for getting so attached.

On top of my wife's pain I took it upon myself to try and explain to my daughter that her dog wasn't coming back. My question is how far do you go to get the message across before you start to be just a jerk about it? I explained to her that the reason we don't let her go out in the road is because she might get hit by a car. Then I told her that her dog went into the road and isn't coming back, and that he's now with Jesus. She cried with us for a while and I felt that she understood but I think she thinks he's lost. I tell her that he's not going to come back and that Jesus is in heaven and so is her dog. She still can't get past the idea that he's lost. I thought about showing her the body, but I really began to think that I was crossing a line at that point. My wife and I decided that there really isn't any point in pushing it. Death isn't something we believe that there is any hurry to learn about, she has her whole life to learn about it.

Farewell my little furball, you'll be missed.

Getting in touch with your feminine side, and having her take over.

As I was growing up I was not as masculine as some of my peers and much less so then my older brother. I was never really interested in sports and the like and to be perfectly honest until I was reminiscing with one of my friends five years after-the-fact did I realize that one of the most popular girls in the drama club was only popular because she was, shall we say, endowed? It just didn't occur to me at the time.

I grew up with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Pirates of Pensanze, The Music Man, My Fair Lady, Phantom of the Opera, and Les Miserable. The worst part was I enjoyed it. I'm sure my mom really liked that she had a son that could enjoy those kinds of things and it did great things for getting me in with the ladies (although only a few times was I able to escape from the 'Friend Zone').

Nevertheless through the years I have begun to enjoy some of the more manly activities. I can watch an entire football game and not get bored, I've even begun to feel an affinity toward baseball. The downside is that in turn I've gained a slight distaste for musicals. I avoid them whenever I can. Unless my wife insists. When she does get her way, like the other day when we went to see Mamma Mia, I dig deep inside myself and find that part of me that was entertained by musicals. So for the most part I'm able to enjoy myself.

It's nice to get in touch with your feminine side for those kind of occasions. That way the wife enjoys herself that much more and when the wife is happy, every one's happy. Especially the husband.

The Scream Asylum

I can't say that I am a connoisseur of spook alleys but I can say that I've been to a couple. I don't spook very easily, in fact in all of the haunted houses I've ever been in not one has really gotten me spooked. Except for that one I went to as a kid and that a guy actually hung himself and no one noticed until they were closing that evening. But that more spooked me when I read about it the next day. My favorite one was the one in Provo that was a fund raiser for the Mental Hospital, I stood in line for almost two-hours to get in and it sure was a lot of fun. It's a shame they closed that one down.

Anyway, my wife and I had the rare opportunity to have a date night, so I thought it would be fun to take her to one of these haunted houses, especially since she has never gone into one. She thought that it was going to be hokey and tawdry, but I insisted that The Scream Asylum has sounded like it could be pretty decent. She took my word for it. I really had no idea, I had heard the commercials and seen the signs, but you can't ever trust them.

When we got to the The Scream Asylum it was in an old warehouse in downtown Provo. Their address says they are 600 South University Ave. but I'd say they are more 600 South 97 West, almost beneath the overpass that goes over the train tracks. They have a part that uses 3D colors and you are provided with 3D glasses once you pay your entrance fee ($15 regularly, $13 if you bring a coupon that can be printed from their website). The price was a little on the high side for me but I wanted to give it a chance. They certainly did not disappoint. My wife was freaked out almost right from the start to the very end. All of the players seemed really into it and most if not all were very intimidating in their presentations. We went on a slow night so the actors were available to follow us around which made for some very entertaining screams from my wife, who spent most of her time screaming, hiding and cowering (afterwords she confided that she almost peed her pants, twice). At one point they scared my wife so much that she grabbed onto another client and almost scaled her to escape from some of the actors, I was forced to pull my wife away from the woman, which only worked to scare my wife even more since she thought it was one of the actors that was trying to pull her away.

Overall I would certainly give The Scream Asylum, 3 1/2 of four stars. My only problem was that it didn't really scare me but certainly made me feel uncomfortable. Which is more than the other houses I have been at.

A big thank to all of the actors there for making a very entertaining evening for my wife and I.