My name is Ron, after my dad, but I'm not a junior because I don't think I was born entirely in love. My middle name is Valerio because my maternal grandparents wanted me to remember the traditions that should be carried on. My father was 18 and my mother was 17, so I was more likely born in the passions of infatuation, with a pinch of shame, hints of lust, likely an accident, but completely in the bonds of whole wheat compassion. I've told my mom I would have forgiven her if she aborted me. Sounds awkward, but I love her that much and would have sacrificed my existence to have given her a better chance at understanding family. We struggled right out of the gate. Some nights I cry knowing I cut short some of my parents dreams. Sometimes I see a young mother alone in a grocery store and recognize the fatigue that shortens tempers and suffocates patience. Despite the difficulty that I was born in, love was given a chance, and it was nurtured often enough to sustain me.
My last name isn't important. It doesn't do much but link me to a list of people who will be a branch on someone's family tree. It aligns me with my father's glory and his families story. It ties me to people past and never met Though it is not important to me I respect it, knowing it will identify me and carry the essence of my actions. It reminds me of my family distanced and branched. Some say, I come from a broken home, and broken isn't a fair term. It assumes that there is a home out there that isn't broken. I am a master piece that comes from the workshop of serendipity. I am a reminder of how serendipity isn't always recognizable. I am the remnants of a blossoming romance who's time was not meant to last forever. I am the artwork of my mother and father who gave me the greatest gift a child can receive, a chance. Thank you Ron Estrada and Francesca Garcia, I am making the most with the tools, attitudes, and time you've shared with me.