The Concept of They Call Me Mr Fernandez - Essay Example

They Call Me Mr. Fernandez "Get up and get moving. There's a sign in a window and it's got on it. They call you 'Help Wanted'". Grandma would always wake me with these words for as long as I could recall. She was a Fernandez and she was determined that I would be one too. I had gotten to know her when I was ten years old through the foster care program. Then, unexpectedly, she adopted me in a flurry of devotion and dedication, and since that day she has become my whole life and my source of inspiration. She had come to me like a searchlight on a far away shore and has become the beacon that illuminates my humble path. Grandma would always tell me, "Make something of yourself or somebody will make a fool out of you". I struggled in school, but her relentless passion pushed me to heights I never knew I could climb. Today, as I count the blessings of my teenage years, I am also reminded of my long past parents. I try not to think of them, but my mind does not obey my will. It wanders back into the blackened past of my childhood, and the spilled memories of my loving parents. The memories pull at me like a magnate to steel as I think about the years I spent with my parents while they worked as Christian missionaries in nameless Central American villages. I remember sleeping in the stillness of a rainforest or with the cacophony of an ocean pounding the beach. There I could dream all night in a fairyland far away from here and far away from my home, my young mind lost in the stillness of a Guatemalan night. The silence, occasionally broken by a primate's shrill cry, sounded like loneliness looking for a place to hide. At nine years old, I had an uneasy sense of the jungle and even more so since father had begun to lock the door at night. My imagination worked overtime to solve the riddle of the locked door and thought that monsters may come to snatch me away at any time. This night as my mother tucked me in she accidentally dropped a candle and stumbled in the darkness. I could see her hand quivering as she stooped to re-light the wick. Her anxiety boiled over into my pot leaving me shaken. I called for my father but my mother said simply, "Quiet, he's gone out". Afraid of the answer, I could not choke up the words to ask, "Where Why". The noisy crack from the jungle woke me to a crisp wakefulness. Three more explosions echoed through the room and ricocheted for seconds through my vacant head. I was alarmed, yet had only my fantasy of the events that were taking place right outside my window. The closed door loomed like an unsolved puzzle, beckoning me as I struggled across the room. I cracked the door like a gambler checking his hole card and stared into the inky depths. Suddenly, I heard my mother scream from behind a Banyan tree. Panicked, I squeezed between an old crate and a stack of lumber at the side of the house. I could hear my mother choking and struggling, and though I felt the need to go to her rescue, I was frozen in place. Locked in time. My mother's last gasp of fright was followed by the surreal sounds of life making an unscheduled exit. I looked to see my mother's lifeless body lying next to the tree. My father approached and for a moment I had the unrealistic euphoria that he was the hero coming to save the village. He solemnly knelt over her body as the silence returned, broken only by my father's whimpering and the songs of angels. The orange glow of fire flashed from the jungle and my father repulsed in a series of awkward contortions. His body, thrown back from the gunfire, came to rest inches from my mother's hand as if she was reaching for an escort to guide her to heaven. The next few seconds took hours to pass as I stared in a state of horrified shock. I watched three men dressed in black as they examined my parent's bloodied bodies. Their sneering and mumbling fell like water on a sponge, instantly absorbed by the thick undergrowth. I stayed motionless and could hear their voices go faint, seeping back into the night. I cried, never moving, until the safety of the morning sun allowed my legs and arms to move. The half mile run to our nearest neighbor left me winded, and as I told Sister Carmichael the story I could see the house fill with the dread of my words. I could hear Sister Carmichael whisper, "Death squads. The killing machine". I had no concept of politics or revenge, but I could understand the meaning of death and killing. My crying melded with the sense of urgency that saturated the house as Sister Carmichael began to hurriedly pack. Her need to get the task finished further frightened me as another lady took a radio to the adjoining room. The day passed as slow as a walk to the gallows, yet I dreaded the coming of night. I prayed, please don't ever let it get dark again. Just before dusk, a truck arrived and informed us we were going "back". I didn't know where back was. I didn't want to leave my parents, and I was too scared to stay. I was whisked into the back of the truck with Sister Carmichael and the few bags she managed to pack. I took nothing with me except my bare feet and dirty nightclothes. The nightmare would not end as I cried the tears of a lifetime on a small airplane at the end of a muddy pasture some fifteen years ago. I would not have survived my teenage years without the love of Grandma Fernandez. She is the giver of life and my source of good advice. She is the moral compass that I use to navigate the uncertain waters of life, and when the seas get choppy I always ask myself, "What would Grandma do". The answer is always the right one and she has never led me down a meaningless road to a dead end choice. She has made it possible to realize dreams I never thought possible in the past. Her guidance has replaced my hopeless despair with optimism and the opportunity to laugh and smile. Though she has slowly awoken me from the nightmares of my past, I can still hear her say, "Wake up there's a sign in the window and it's got your name on it. They call you Mr. Fernandez". Read More