Tales Of An American Spic: "I Was A Three Year Old Spic."

It was the summer of 1964 a couple of weeks before my third birthday. I was sitting outside on the stoop, day dreaming about my upcoming birthday, and wishing for a toy rifle. I was so young and innocent, oblivious to the struggle that life was. Oblivious to the hatred that surrounded me in Queens New York. Not fully aware of myself nor of my role in this world. Not fully conscious. My genetically inherited personality traits were showing by now. I was extremely shy, and attached to my mother. I was afraid of being alone, scared of the dark, and would cry uncontrollably for my mother in her absence. I was too young to know the difference between black and white, them versus us, we from them. The only thing I cared about was my family and my upcoming birthday.

We immigrated to the U.S. from Ecuador, just two months earlier. In the company of my Mother, two brothers and my sister. We left behind our beloved Grandparents and all the aunts, uncles and cousins we adored. My Mother had never been separated from her family before, but knew that she had to be strong and do what was best for her children. 

My Father had already made the sacrifice of leaving his wife and kids behind a year earlier while he searched for a new life for us in a foreign land, the United States of America. It was a time long before I can remember. 

As the whole family gathered in the airport to bid us farewell, my mother recalls the tears running down their faces. My Grandfather stood strong as always, as we flew away to a land beyond the clouds, a land where dreams do come true. It was such a sad and painful goodbye for everyone, but as traumatic as this separation was, it wasn't enough to be my first memory. I had forgotten the life I left behind, my Grandparents, the mountains, and the happiness. I didn't even remember the airplane ride. Nothing, not even a memory before that day on the stoop. Not even the days in-between the stoop and my birthday. It was my third birthday that would be the beginning of time for me. The day I would come into this world. The day I always believed I was born. The day I became aware. 

I looked so happy sitting there. Thinking about the one thing that would make me the happiest kid on earth, a toy rifle. I didn't even realize I was in a new country, America. I was in The American Dream. That's what my parents wanted. My father immigrated upon my mothers request, after she wrote a letter to my Uncle who was already in America. Asking him to claim my father, so that he could find a good job, and take his family out of poverty. 

In only a year, he saved enough money to claim his wife and four kids. Eventually he would save enough money to claim his two sisters as well. The sacrifice my parents made in order to give me a better life would not be understood until my third birthday. My birthday was a great success. All the people I loved were there for me, along with some new people. I blew out the candles and got my wish. My eyes lit up as I pulled away the wrapping paper. I was indeed in a land where dreams come true, America. It wasn't the blowing out of the candles, nor the unwrapping of my beautiful rifle, but what follows is the moment I entered this world, my first memory, the instant I became aware, no memories before, except for that moment on the stoop. Space, time, and consciousness came into being for me. Soon it would all make sense. This is how I remember it: 

"Pow Pow, Pow Pow" I shouted, as I chased my adorable three year old neighbor across the yard. We were so young and innocent. She was the Indian and I was the Cowboy. "Pow Pow, Pow Pow." Running and laughing, smiling and giggling. Oblivious to everything but our game. Run little Indian run... I was so happy. It was my birthday and I finally got my toy rifle. I also had a beautiful new friend, actually she was my first friend. What more could a three year old boy want. I was on cloud nine, the American Dream. I can still hear her laughter. It drowned out all other sounds, the birds, the cars, the people. Her laughter filled me with such joy. "Pow Pow, Pow Pow." Run little Indian, run little neighbor, run my little friend, laugh my little friend. 

As we ran across the yard I noticed an angry looking figure rushing towards us. As he got closer and closer I began to tremble. My heartbeat doubled, my body began to freeze, as his eyes locked on to mine. I could not move. I was so scared, everything was moving in slow motion. Tears running down my face, my body unable to move, unable to hear myself cry, shivering with fear. What’s happening? Powerless to stop this force of nature, my destiny, my future. Suddenly I was alone. Stuck in a realm meant only for me. Stuck with a monster, or was it a man. Surrounded by this black void of nothingness with only the sound of my heartbeat pounding against this darkness, this evil, as it ripped the rifle from my hands and said: 

“Don’t you ever point a gun at my sister again you Fucking Spic!" As he bashed my toy rifle over the swing set. My toy rifle, he's breaking my rifle into pieces. 

“I don’t ever want you playing with those Fucking Spics again!” He said, as he dragged his little sister home, my friend, my beautiful little Indian. Goodbye my friend.

David Yanez

5-13-15

Archival Pigment Print

32" x  46"

Copyright David Yanez 2015