FoG by Trad0

The Failure of the Good-willed

Sobbing in despair and tension, hundreds of questions came out of me in a long distance call from Columbia, South Carolina, in the US, to Uruguay.

Call to Uruguay (July the 19th, 2006) - You believe me, right? - I asked the collaborator. - Yes, I do.

It was an upper middle-class apartment in that city, but an entirely empty one, few days after arriving to this new place, everything because of my new job. In such situation I was also blaming that collaborator for the whole thing as well; it had been an epic journey for me to get there, all the traveling setbacks, the closed highway, no reservation at the hotel supposedly assigned to me by the radio station that had just hired me...

A new job that was probably unnecessary, as the only excuse for me to drop the previous job was loneliness, and not even a deep one, as I did make some friends there. Besides, I was living in a small cottage with a view from high up in the Smoky Mountains in Knoxville, Tennessee. One room, one bathroom, and a beautiful balcony: ideal for a single guy. However, my partner already had a new position at a different radio station. I was doing the radio speaking for an FM station in the mornings, and some California shows were aired in the afternoon. She, my partner that is, was the one in charge of the programming of the station, but the boss decided that he only needed me, as the programming was anyway being received from a different city, and he proposed my partner to rather try her luck in sales. And that is why she decided to look for a different option in Columbia, South Carolina. I thought it was unfair for him to put her in that situation after all the time she had been there - it was a mere money issue, now I understand - so I joined her and we both left him on his own, completely alone in terms of Hispanic support, although he also had some other Englishspeaking stations.

Anyway, it was an exhausting, disheartening and tortuous travel... nonetheless, all of that faded when I finally found in that city what I had, for years, been trying to find elsewhere...

I learned that everything in life is with a price and that sometimes it is costly; that is, at least, the way it was in the upcoming happenings... as in some cheap hotel I saw on TV, even if only for some seconds, the person I was looking for. The day after I searched for that person all over the Internet - I didn't even know where to start - and few days after that, a call all the way to Uruguay came to be:

- Why me? I am no religious fanatic, and I'm not even that well-behaved all the time, I cannot believe this whole thing, I cannot change the minds of millions of people - I told the collaborator with adamant tone. - Sometimes God acts like that and He chooses people far from what we would imagine, what I can tell you right away is that Giorgio doesn't have that same mission - he replied. - But you know how long I've been searching for him, you are well aware of all I have gone through trying to stick to something I myself cannot believe, it's been nine years trying to reach him. - I am sorry that it had to be this way, and I would like to know more about your case, but in this call you're only roughly describing things to me. - I need to reach him. - As I told you already, he is not here and it's very difficult for you to contact him, I need to explain your case to him first off, and well... - Do you really think I can wait for a whole year to see him, after searching for him all this time and waiting so long already? - The collaborator, somehow moved by my crying, interrupted: - Alright, you can begin by writing us an e-mail explaining yourself. - But, please, this is very important for me, please, understand! Make sure he gets the e-mail I will send you and tell him I need to talk to him as soon as possible over the phone.

- Sure will, I will look for a chance of putting you in contact with him; are you ready to write down? - Yes, ready now...

This was a very special night, 19 of July, 2006, as I had been searching constantly for nine years, looking for and researching the stigmatized Giorgio Bongiovanni, with whom I had only managed to get in contact via e-mail and not over the phone, and that was actually only through a collaborator of him.

The church of my village, the family I come from I was looking at the church of my village while the bell was chiming; I could afford the San Juan hotel, one the very few hotels in Rioverde high enough for me to request a room with view towards the village, not that I wanted to feel important. I had to make up that I had never seen the village from that height, the lady in charge just smiled and ordered this teenage boy to give me the room number nine in the fourth floor; the boy hesitated and asked "room nine in the fourth floor?", to which the lady only nodded in confirmation. She happened to be the wife of a brother of my fatherÂ´s compadre, and room number nine was just next door from where they lived - this is precisely the most important moment of inspiration to remember everything and going forwards with my story.

My father, Mr. Juan VĂĄzquez Maldonado.

Once I was set in the room, the church bells where brought back to my attention, and I couldn't help but remember the burial of my father, which was full of surprising events.

We, siblings, and my childhood at San Antonio square I have changed the names of my siblings out of respect for their anonymity. I remember my childhood in that Iturbide Street, crossing with Galeana de Rioverde, in San Luis PotosĂ. A picturesque village founded by Franciscan monks in the XVIIth century, with its church painted in light orange, color attributed to the still-existing orange groves. One can also find there a main square, the San Juan square, where that hotel is located, the small San Antonio square and a fourth even smaller square where Santa Elena church is built upon - just a cursory knowledge of this village history would reveal the latter as the most important one. In that other San Antonio square there were swings and slides; my siblings used to take me there quite often. One thing is certain, our parents prohibited for us to stay there playing around once twilight started to set, as all the young couples hanged out there at that time - they didn't want to us to be around watching young lovers caressing each other as we were still little children.

That very same square was where my brother Miguel used to go and meet with the other boy scouts on Saturdays. Miguel is the one following me right after: a family of eight, I am the youngest.

I lived my childhood in those streets, sometimes happily, sometimes not so much; naively happy as the promises of politicians were always late to be honored and truckloads of construction material would arrive year after year, and I played there with my friend Juan, who was from La Palmita, San Luis Potosí, and admired his father because he drove a dump truck in the famous village José Padrón - I believe that man was the godfather of my sister Sofía. Juan dreamed of doing a truck just like his dad, and we played at laying highways with tunnels and all, but then came the scolding as the neighbors would complain that we scattered all the dirt around with our impressive highways and tunnels. By those dusty highways we ran our cheap plastic trucks, the kind that still has burrs all over the edges.

My binge-drinking father This one time my father was to host a barbecue for his politician friends and so he brought a goat home; the goat would run after us even on beds, as my brothers would disturb the animal until it was really annoyed and chased us, that is, of course, whenever our parents were not around. Now that I think about it, maybe the goat liked the game as well, as this one time when it chased me and put me against a corner on my bed, and as I was a maudlin kid - a crybaby, a weeper - it appeared to just feel sorry for me, and jumped down the bed.

I also remember those Sundays when my mother convinced my father to take her and buy a delicious barbacoa or cecina from don Tacho at the market. We, the kids, would go on our bikes just to scape and go to see grandma, our mother's enemy number one; even when our grandmother had against her that she was definitely stingy, she always received me with a big hug and with exceptional affection.

On the other hand, sometimes the situation was not so merry, as in that Iturbide Street I once had to wake my father up from his drunken sleep; he was lying there on the street, about ten houses from our home. It was Sunday morning and my sisters and me felt shame just thinking on picking him up, we were all kids, but we were worried more than we were ashamed. So I went over and tried to help him but ashamed and unable to drag him all the way home, I just exploded out crying as loud as my breath would allow; once again, being a crybaby worked for the better, as people passing by stopped to see what was going on and some of them helped and carried him home.

Another story I remember from my childhood happened this other time my father disappeared for three days and, when his good compadre Cacho found him, he was lying unconscious in the clandestine bar of an oil selling point in the Cruz Verde neighborhood. Cacho woke him up and called my mother, she asked him to bring him home, that she would pay for the cab when they were there. When my father was feeling a little better, he was taken home; but then the tension just grew out of proportion, as that day my grandmother set foot in my house for the first time. The situation was worrisome for everyone in my family, on top of everything, because of my grandmother being there... my siblings were all crying, as she, my grandma, had brought a doctor with her; my father was injected some serum shortly after getting home and the diagnose was that he was all fine but under heavy stress and then, out of sudden, he woke up - or, he rather had to stop pretending, as the doctor caught him opening one eye - and in the midst of all the scolding coming from the doctor he tried to lighten the mood by saying, upon setting eyes on my grandmother "hey, everyone, look, the witch of apartment 71!" (A comedy character played by actress Angelina Fernรกndez in the TV show El Chavo del Ocho). Not even the doctor was able to hold his laughter and that drove my grandmother to give my father this huge slap to his face; and as amazing as it may sound, coming from her number one enemy, mi mother was not laughing at all and just told him: "how can you be so mean, Juan? She was really worried because of you."

My father was just pretending passing out as to make his way out of the whole mess. My siblings started to laugh right after, not because of his

cheap fooling around and jokes, but out of sincere happiness, seeing that he was actually all fine.

Even more on my father I remember when my father worked for the police department as Head of Guards in jail. A crybaby as I was, didn't want to go to school, as my teacher was my father's cousin and she apparently really disliked me, as Miguel, my brother, was an ace at school but I was always slow and somewhere else, not learning a thing, or rather, I wanted to be treated as I was treated at home by my mother and three sisters: as if I were a baby. That day he got home for lunch and saw me there; he asked my mother the reason why and when he learned that I just didn't want to go to school, he put in his police van and took me to school.

When I was there at the classroom, he introduced me as 'this lazy kid' in front of everyone. That made me understand and never miss school again, and that was also one of the times when he hit me.

Councilman of the Town My father also worked for the Coca-Cola company and there he started his political career as Secretary of the Labor Union, and I believe he was also one the ones forming the first CTM (Mexican Workers Federation) division in Rioverde, San Luis PotosĂ, which is based in good principles, the way I see it, but corruption has indeed caused its system to rot. Since then, my father was a close allied of the PRI (Institutional Revolutionary Party), where he spoke in public for campaigns of different governors and deputies; my brother can even tell of that time when the option of receiving the President of Mexico in the village was discussed, and the Town Governor said, outright and stubbornly, that if such ever happened, it was Juan VĂĄzquez who had to speak in the reception.

My father was Councilman of the Town and he also held some other political offices, which is basically the only thing my father accomplished rightfully, and the Coca-Cola workers who where there at his funeral

were talking wonders about him. I remember clearly one photograph where he is in front of a radio station microphone... did I admire him because of that!

As for my mother, Andrea, she met my father in San Juan square, as her grandfather, who ran the only market existing in those days, bought a house right there in front of San Juan square, one the main ones in Rioverde. My father visited his cousins quite often, who lived by the square too, and in one of the three times he played hooky from the seminar, he met my mother. They were boyfriend and girlfriend for nine years until they got married on August the 2nd, 1962.

My parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; wedding They spent their honeymoon at the beach in Tampico, Tamaulipas; but the wedding itself was pure chaos, because my grandmother opposed to the marriage, to begin with, as she dreamed of my father becoming a great priest. So, my grandma was late for the wedding itself and didn't present her son. The after party was also a huge mess, divided in three different houses, and the disapproval of my grandmother can even be perceived in the wedding photographs, where my two grandmas can be seen: my grandma from my father's side put herself apart from the couple and is frowning, whereas my grandma from my mother's side is posing happily for the picture.

The story goes that the first was there almost against her will. Other incidents are that someone stole the cake - my mother says it was my grandma - and that there was no live music, only music coming from someone's radio, playing local stations and catching some waltz so that the couple could dance it.

My mother was never to forget that date, and she continually brings up her ill-fated party. Back then, my mother was an elementary education teacher at a Catholic school run by nuns. Her firstborn, Esteban, was life hard for him! He was the first to assume responsibility for the family

and has never stopped caring for us, even when we are all obviously grown-ups, and he still tries and looks after us.

My mother's curettage Right after Esteban, came SofĂa, and the third child ended up being aborted by curettage at the fourth month; he was to be named Ramiro. The day this happened my mother threatened my mother, claiming she would put her in jail. My father's mother brought a midwife to our home, but little she knew that a doctor was already there; my grandmother threatened her, but the doctor jumped to my mother's defense and said: "ma'am, with all due respect, I do ask for you and the midwife to please leave the room, I have been taking care of this lady for a good time now and can tell you that this curettage is due to having babies so close one after the other, so if you don't want to be the one with a legal claim against yourself, I ask you again to please leave the room and take your midwife with you," and so my grandma and her lot of anger left the house.

Visits to my grandmother's house acknowledgement to JesĂşs (by the Governor)

and

In another vein, I remember visiting my grandmother; how I used to love jumping on my bicycle and going where that old lady. She would always receive me with big hugs and much love; nonetheless, we would only spend half an hour with her when the most, even when she lived really close to our home: my mother didn't like us visiting, or she being close for that matter. Anyway, we didn't have to pay rent and that was naturally an advantage for a large family as mine - the house where we live belonged to my grandmother. The house was actually granted to us when my father died, but it was rather as an exchange for a grove my father owned, the famous Puente del Carmen grove, which was under his name and my grandmother had to forge his signature to claim it, excusing herself by claiming my father owed her much money from all the lending throughout the years. She finally admitted the forging years after the whole event, confessing so to my older brother Esteban, and Miguel. Back then I was just a kid and didn't notice that huge character flaw in my grandma: she was viciously greedy. She and my uncle had amassed a good fortune from the work and the fields.

After saying hi to my grandma, she would always offer us breakfast, but my father always declined, as he knew how upset my mother would be if she discovered that we were having any meal with my grandmother, who always said that my mother was not good enough a woman for my father, and so on...

My brother Jesús One of my brothers, Jesús, died when he was only 28 in a car accident, under the influence of illegal substances. When he was a young kid, he received an award to excellence because of his performance in school, and he was a teenager he always had a good heart, even if he was the rebellious one in the family.

Since he left for the US, he only came back to visit us once, after eight years of being away, so when I speak of his good heart I do it with the memories I have of back in the day, of him defending or helping those who needed it the most.

There was a time when my aunt, the wealthiest in my whole family, was walking down the street with my brother and he asked her 50 pesos; she gave them to him, maybe because she felt uneasy when he asked her for the money in front of my mother – it was no little money back then. But my brother asked her that money so that he could give it to an old lady begging on the street… he was like that, kind of controversial; my aunt only smiled, and my mother scolded him. That is the way Jesús was.

This other time he teased out my older brother until convincing and taking him to a dance – my older brother has always been rather timid and focused on his studies, and he only got carried away because he slightly drunk and so he could take care of Jesús.

When they were there at the dance party, Jesús saw this bunch of guys beating up some other guy, unknown to him. He jumped in and, after swinging a few fists around, he managed to take the bunch off the other poor guy, and they both had to escape running from the scene; and that was only after five minutes at the dance. My older brother just stood there frozen in his place at the party, trying to figure out how to get out without being caught by the rowdy bunch.

My brother Jesús died trying to have his way with a freight truck, going the wrong way on the street; he already had suffered partial paralysis after falling off his bike in that one and only visit after all those years. That time he was hospitalized in San Luis Potosí and ended up sitting on a wheel chair for some days: he had hit his head against the pavement sidewalk when he fell off the bike. It took some weeks before the swelling in the brain begin to pass, and little by little he started to walk again, with a walking stick.

That was his first heavy accident, from there to that Sunday in October, 1995, when that truck hit on the side of his car, by the door… the hit was so devastating that he died in the ambulance. When I think of my mother under the light of such events, I admire her even more, as she has learnt to accept God’s will despite the harshness of adversities.

1984 is here In August 1984, my parents decided to move to San Luis Potosí, the capital of the state. My older brother already lived there to study at the university; I was only nine years old and my father already had a drinking problem.

The change was radical for everyone. Because of this change and, naturally, other factors, my sister rebelled against my parents and in the last travel from Rioverde to San Luis Potosí, she decided to stay in Rioverde and got married without telling anyone. She was already out of school and was working at my uncle Claudio’s workshop; had just turned 18 and there was nothing my parents could do. Years later, my

other sister did something rather similar as she didn’t like the capital and the issues in my house due to my father’s drinking problem pushed her to stay at my uncle Claudio’s house.

Little by little I saw my family falling apart; this may be rather usual in families with vice problems, but I can help it and think it was a horrible situation to live. My siblings were running away from an everyday reality at home, I was amazed at how my older brother managed to graduate from university – it is only now that I realize he was actually struggling hard, from being an A student all the time, he started to fail at some of the classes and sometimes he barely made it through; he was unable to focus anymore.

Enemy of the family My mother always had a hard time with my father; he turned irresponsible and would only keep his job in order to have money and continue drinking. It was a sad sight, seeing my father getting home all drunk and so changed, one day he was so out of himself that he tried to stab my mother, he would threaten her putting the knife against her throat; I have never been able to forget that. I was unable to recognize him, being the youngest kid and always being spoiled by my father, I looked at him as an enemy of the family, and I felt so much hate towards him. I yelled at him with all of my strength until my older brother heard the screaming; he confronted him and took the knife from him. When my father returned to his mind, he tried to hug me, as my brother was making him understand and see what he was doing, so yes, my father tried to hug me but I didn’t want him to even touch me and told him he was no longer my dad, that he was dead to me.

It is impressive to me, thinking of such strong words coming from a kid, but seeing my mother in such a danger because of my very own father was distressing beyond compare, and feeling so impotent, unable to her. Oh, did me and all of my siblings cried! Starting that very moment and lasting for days, silence covered us complete.

So the first months in the capital were tortuous, even going to the grocery store was hard, there were street-gangs, beggars and alcoholics all over, and this during the hardest moment in my life. During the December holidays, I even saw two or three dead people lying on the streets because of alcohol poisoning.

We even had a crazy old lady in the neighborhood, this ma’am would scream really loud all day long, and that scared Miguel and me to death. On the other hand, adapting to school was hard as well, even if my father had a job now – he got that job thanks to his political influences and intelligence - we were in negative numbers because of the travel. I remember how often we traveled by train, bringing stuff from Rioverde and I had the feeling that my mother did so in order to please my sisters, as they loved the old village and all the food one could find there, the sweet baked and the pork rind gorditas were delicious and one could buy them all the way from San Bartolo to the outside of San Luis Potosi’s capital.

Greater backup needed in the warehouse That was our first steps in the capital, in August 1984; everything at home was from bad to worse regarding my father’s alcoholism, although he and the rest of my siblings were already adapted to the life of the big city. My father would hide bottles in an old drawer we actually have to this day, but got repaired at some point. My mother tried her best to support the family by baking cakes and empanadas, and I would sell them in the corner of the street. Also, my brother and I would wash cars so we could have some money to spend at school.

By mid 1985 my father tried to start a business in the city and managed to get the backing of this gentleman from Rioverde who people called “el Flauta.” The business consisted of this old warehouse where they would sell oranges. Lots of thins were said of this business; at the beginning everything was fine, my father wanted my brother Jesús to help him, but by September 1985 my brother had already parted ways and emigrated to the US after falling for the charm of a cousin’s stories, same who was visiting from that country and would speak wonders

about it. My father was heavily affected by that decision, as he really counted on my brother to help out with the warehouse.

December was there and we barely knew anything about my brother, the warehouse was still going and on weekends (Friday, Saturday and Sunday) my sisters had this orange juice stand; they always cried when my father got them awake at 4:30 AM to get the stand open.

That’s how those days were; once, my father had to be hospitalized in San Juan del Río, Querétaro. He was there for about a month and I remember my First Communion godfather, Rogelio Tovar a.k.a. el Matozas, was in charge of the business throughout that time, being supervised by the associate who invested the capital for its opening.

April the 9th He got back home on Monday, April the 7th, 1986. When my father came back, he changed for the better; but it was expected for it to barely last, and he started to drink again shortly after. Over here in Mexico, we usually honor the national flag every Monday in schools, and all the kids and teenagers wear uniform for it. That morning the sun was up, it was a nice morning, quiet and usual, just a plain good Monday. My father had alcohol-breath that morning and started to argue with my mom as he told her he had to go to Rioverde, to visit his mother, my grandma. My father came to me and said: “I’m on my way now, kiss dad goodbye,” but I didn’t even want to get close to him, because of the smell, because of the arguing with my mother, and because it was already about to be late for school – punctuality: a value I learned from my father the hard way, and a lesson I never forgot, always being on time for school. I didn’t kiss him goodbye even when fearing he would get upset and beat my mother; little did I know that was the very last time I was to ever see him…

He made his way to Rioverde and stayed at my grandmother’s house, he got all drunk, as my mother knew he was to do, and then felt sick, but that illness was not to last, as on Thursday, April the 9th, 1986, after my

sister saw him in the evening – he looked serene and tranquil, according to her – and they parted ways with a kiss, and after being checked by the doctor who went to see him at my grandmother’s house (as he was apparently looking really bad), at about 10:45 PM, or so they say, my father grabbed my uncle’s gun and shot a bullet against his head.

The noise woke many neighbors up, including this big mouthed lady who used to be a kind of hair stylist, from whom is said that she is the one who called the newspaper and provided the ‘facts’: that he had been left alone without family and decided to claim his life in the house where his kids had grown up, surrounded by empty bottles and in profound solitude. This wrong was never rectified, and the actual facts themselves have never been clarified totally either.

During the time this was news, there was crying and despair in that part of the village. That house, which now belongs to me and my brother, is full of sad memories; it basically consists of two rooms put together, a window to the corridor and a single door to access the house. Between these two rooms there was a gap without a door communicating them, with a curtain hanging there.

My grandmother had the custom of bringing home kids who were rejected by their families because of some illness or condition. That night there was a only this girl, who was about twelve, sleeping in some blanket on the floor, my father on a bed and my grandma on another. They say my father went to the other room, where my uncle used to stay, grabbed the gun kept in a drawer and took his life with that single shot in his temple. The young girl was asked several times by my family if she maybe saw anything, if my uncle killed him, if there was an argument; my father’s first cousins put that idea in my mother’s head.

The news of my father’s death reached us at the capital at about 12:30 AM, after midnight that is, but even before actually knowing a thing I felt something very strange that very night; people say one can feel something strange within ourselves when someone so close to us departs.

In those days my family lived in an old colonial-style house, with high ceilings, two hours away from where my father killed himself. My room was the only room in the second floor and one had to go all around the house through a tight corridor to reach the stairs and get there; the room did have a balcony facing the central patio, anyway, and was located on top of the kitchen and dining room. I was the only one not afraid of sleeping in that room, which had this old door that would get stuck just because, being really difficult to open it. Sometimes I would get myself ‘locked’ inside or my brothers would do it in the midst of our playing.

However, that night the door opened swiftly because of the wind, a wind whirling with dry leaves, even when I don’t remember any naked trees nearby; and that wind woke me up. I yelled at my mom out loud, she called to me from the central patio and asked me to get down, as she and my older brother had been talking, he told her my father was in the hospital at Rioverde and that all of us had to get there. It was quite peculiar, but we all started to get ready and made our way to the bus station.

My brother Miguel (he was fourteen by then) and me were laughing and having much fun on our way, it almost seemed as if my father was playing with us, all the way until Rioverde we were playing around in the bus. After several tries and warnings, my older brother exploded and yelled at us really loud, which was all the more peculiar as he was crying and he never scolded us that way; he has a very firm temper and it was hard for us to see him cry.

My mother kept asking him about my father, promising my brother that she would keep her calm: “please tell me the truth, is your father finally resting now?” My brother, shedding huge tears, turned to her and said Yes. My mother began to cry and asked him how had it happened, but I don’t think she was told the truth until we reached Rioverde.

My brother by my side just stood quiet and without expression. I still failed to understand, or rather, was unable to fathom the idea, I

thought I would get to the hospital, give him a hug, make him laugh and tell him how Miguel and I had so much fun in the bus; but it was not to happen. We reached the main square – where the bus station was back then – and saw two of our uncles out there, he entered the bus and hugged my mother, we were all crying, and the few other people in the bus just kept their silence and left the bus in the same way. One of my uncles got there in his car and most of us left the square with him; we were maybe five blocks away from the funeral.

My grandmother was not there and neither was there my father’s brother, my sister Lourdes went to their place so as to ask some sort of explanation from them, but they never opened the door for her and my grandmother just yelled at her that my uncle had to work at the groves the next day, but that they would be there at the funeral wake later on anyway…

She had no other thing to do but to get back to the funeral. Meanwhile, at the wake, my other sisters were crying out loud, yelling, there was neither grandma nor uncle that night, there was no union or support, not even because of my father’s death, and everything was plain and simply utterly sad; I was at the wake for just one hour, as one of my uncles took me to his house. I didn’t want to leave, I begged him to leave me there at the funeral with my family, telling him that they needed me, that my father was still not gone but right there. He just answered me that it was better to take me home even if I didn’t want to, even if my family was there. The arguing lasted for good while, until my family made me go with him.

When we got to my uncle’s house, one of my cousins started to fool around and tried to annoy me, but my uncle reacted severely and scolded him hard, finally letting him know that his uncle had just passed away. The morning after I was taken to the funeral wake again, when I got there the whispering of the people went higher in volume; the attention of everyone was on me, being the youngest in the family. I was brought to the wake by one of my aunts, and it was strange to perceive her all

affectionate, it’s not that I thought she didn’t love me, but even if I knew she loved me, she had always been rather held back and barely ever showed loving gestures.

It was crowded when we got there, as my father had left a strong imprint among the workers of the bottling company, at the federal office where he served as Councilman, in the police station where he worked for a while. But the most surprising person to see there was this woman, maybe 24 years old, who my mother recognized: this woman, when only a little girl, had her hair stuck in the Ferris wheel of an amusement park and my father climbed up there to save her life. She was there and remembered him that way: as a hero.

When my grandmother arrived, an atmosphere of uncertainty took over, as no one knew if a conflict would arise between her and my mom. But she only sat there and after a little while, got up and went over to hug my mother; I hardly understood what was going on.

The night approached and my mother had to tell my uncles to ask everyone to please keep quiet, as in the funeral there was all kinds of snacks and meals, milk, coffee, cigarettes, bottles of wine, there was buzz all over, and there were even some guys outside already drunk who were hard to keep silent. There were loads of flowers and all sorts of floral wreaths everywhere that people brought, and many were talking about the good deeds of my father, particularly the bottling company workers.

It brings to my mind that one time when my father met this sir who had his wife in the hospital and they wouldn’t let him take her home because he didn’t have the money to pay for the medical care she received; there is a law, or there was, I don’t know, in San Luis Potosí, setting forth that private hospitals have to donate 8% of their bed space to low-income people. This lady got her baby there and my father, with his politician ways and based on that law, managed to make his way and make them let the lady and her baby go home without having to pay.

My father did things that were surprising to me and he appeared to be fearless. In that sense, he was a hero before my eyes.

Lots of speculation was going on during the funeral wake, including that my own uncle had shot my dad, so this twelve years old girl was questioned over and over; and yet this questioning was not coming from my brothers or mother, but from my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first cousins themselves, who came all the way from Tamaulipas where they live.

Truth be told, my uncle was barely ever seen at the house, because of that and some other discrepancies regarding that version, I never believed he murdered my father. Even when they couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand each other, my uncle always behaved properly and was good, but strict, with us. If they where barely ever seen together, it was due to them being very different: my father was the intellectual and my uncle the countryman dedicated to his fields. Those few times I remember them having a conversation, it was all serious and they were never joking, not even smiling.

This time I remember, I was at school and they told he had visited our house, but this is when we were already living in the capital, when my uncle had already developed lung cancer. After struggling hard, my grandmother finally managed to, through and with the help of a niece, get Social Security assistance for him: he was being taken care of in the capital where we lived and that is why they were around to visit.

After all that has been said about it, my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s conclusion regarding the suicide of my father goes like this: my father asked a loan from one on his compadres, one of his drinking buddies always around, and when he was being pressured to payback, he went to my grandma so that she could help him paying; when she denied him any further lending, he, in frustration, decided to take his own life.

People said that there was not going to be any mass celebrated as he was a suicide, but there was, although a short one. After that, my

father’s body, half a street after leaving the church, was held in shoulders as an acknowledgement for his labor: compadres, policemen and workers were taking turns carrying the casket until arriving to the graveyard.

On the other hand, my father’s compadre (the one who apparently lent him that money) was in evident grief, crying and drunk, but one way or the other, there was nothing to do about it anymore. I stayed at the graveyard until the very end, didn’t want to leave my father there, alone. When the last load of earth from the shovels was thrown on the tomb by the graveyard workers, one of my sister’s friends noticed me sitting there – no one realized I was still there. I was still sitting there, by the mound. I didn’t want to depart from my father; this girl approached me and tried to console me, but she was crying even harder after realizing I was still around, and that was the thing that made me finally step away from his grave. In that moment I was remembering all the playing and laughs with my dad, when came home and I received him with hugs and kisses, but above all else, I was remembering that kiss I denied him.

And that was the end of one of the three members of my father’s family, as his father died when he was only three years old. My grandmother raised them both, my father and uncle, by herself; my father was always of the intellectual kind and my uncle was the one sweating everyday in the fields, who I saw dancing only once, and that because he was drunk; my brothers couldn’t stop laughing, as he looked really funny: he would spin around with a hand on his waist. If my memory serves me well, that was the only time he ever made us laugh, and one the few I remember him smiling.

My mother told me once that it was my grandmother’s dream had always been to have a priest in the family; it was rather an obsession, fanatical as she certainly was. Miguel confirmed that well – and he will never forget – as he helped her deliver boxes full of the best food products for the priests in the village, the best fruits from the fields and a constant flux of flower arrangements and wreaths. He will also never forget how one of the flower wreaths gave him an electric shock, as it was wet and he didn’t notice, when about to hang it from a nail, that

there was this unplugged cable loose around, as the church was being repaired after a partial collapse of the building. That, for sure, guarantees that he will never forget those constant gifts to the church and priests.

Uncle Toño My uncle was a hardened guy, typical Mexican macho working man; he made a lot of money exploiting the land. I have never seen so much money together as the money my grandmother and my uncle had under the bed: two full traveling cases, from where sometimes – when we didn’t have any money for food – my sisters would steal some. Every now and then when I think about it, I tend to believe my grandmother only pretended not to notice; but it was not so when the day came in which the most brave or cynic – the way you want to see it – (may he rest in peace) and his friends, decided to hit it big. Inexperienced as he was, tried his luck in the middle of the day and with five of his friends with him, all of them clueless; a neighbor saw them, it was maybe four in the afternoon.

After hitting the money cases he fled to the capital, where my older brother lived, the one going to the university, but before going he took a big tool from our home. Upon returning, he told my mother he had sold it and gave her some of the money resulting from the sale, and some of the money from he robbed.

He also stole my uncle’s gun (maybe the very same that my father eventually used to take his life), and when my grandmother realized what had happened, she and my uncle immediately wanted to denounce my brother and his friends at the police station, as the neighbors who saw gave them away with my grandmother; there even was someone willing to testify against them. But the frightening situation was not to last, as right the day after my father was settling the issue down, bringing my brother back and gathering all the money from his friends. The money was not given back in full, but very little was missing. All of these events and the several previous money loans from my grandmother to my father were one of the reasons with which

she justified forging my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s signature in order to claim the Del Carmen grove for herself.

The passing of my uncle was, contrastingly, a natural event. His funeral wake was also nothing like my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, as he was way more of a private person. That one time the love of my uncleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life showed up; there were always rumors about her but it was only there and then that I knew my aunt and her son, my cousin. One could immediately tell she loved him very much, as her crying was intense and devout; but my grandmother never allowed him to marry her, even when she had a son from him. The hearsay has it that my grandmother gave her a big sum of money after she had the baby, so that she would leave Rioverde. I will never know, but I guess my grandma had the secret hope of sending my uncle to the seminary for him to become a priest, or something alike.

He was one hard working man in the fields and he ended up screaming in pain, it was absolutely saddening and oppressing seeing him like that, and some of his pain could have been eased with something as simple as a waterbed, same that the doctor recommended, but my greedy grandma decided to buy a simple and cheap inflatable bed (the kind one would use for a pool) and fill it with water; I had the hardest time trying to put water inside that thing!

I finally gave up and got really mad at my grandma, and it was the turn of grove worker to try luck at filling that thing with water; but it was anyway she who ended up filling the inflatable bed with water, little by little using a cup! I think it was just unfair, after working so hard and saving so much money at the bank and right under the bed as well, the least he deserved was proper rest and minimum comfort. He was chronologically ill, there really was nothing to do to save his life; at later times before the end, he was no longer taking any medication and would instead use marijuana to try and ease the pain. My uncle never had the chance to enjoy quality time with his child and never had the chance of letting everyone know he had a woman whom he loved the most, that he had a family, he was never able to lead a normal life.

After his funeral, I never saw again my cousin or aunt, the few things I know about my cousin is that he had a disease and used a walking stick from early age; I never knew whatever happened to them.

That house where my father and uncle died brings me lots of memories. After my uncle died, among the people closer to him, there was this compadre who took care of the fields, and started to rent them. That is how my uncle Toño ended his days, in a funeral wake with few people and with barely any friends remembering him.

Years later, my uncle Cruz appeared, not an actual child of my grandmother but one of those kids she would pick up from the streets, supposedly adopting them, although what she really wanted was for them to work for her at home; those kids usually had some psychological or physiological condition, and where thus rejected by their families. By the time I was born, this uncle Cruz of mine was already married and lived in Matamoros, Tamaulipas, but he came back and lived in Rioverde until the last days of my grandma. He disappeared right after her death and only returned again once, to sell the plot of land she left him. Most of her inheritance, anyway, about 90% of it, was for my father’s cousins, who were always around for her. The hearsay goes – with no certainty, naturally – that her will suffered changes only three months before she passed away, but my taught me well that money is only good for us to forget about it, as it will not bring any real happiness by itself. And to this day I believed the very same, even if I actually am an heir… they only gave us the house where my father killed himself and a bank account.

She died suffocated by smoke Grandma died at seventy-something; they say she was mistreated by uncle Cirilo whenever he was drunk: that he locked her inside her room whenever he was drinking hard, so that she would leave him alone and not get in the room where he slept. True or not, on her last night a seven-day candle, the kind of candle she used to light for her saints, fell, and started a fire inside the room: the only room with protective iron bars in the window facing the corridor that lead to the garden. She reached the room where my father killed himself, but was unable to

open the door as it was locked from the outsideâ&#x20AC;Ś and she died suffocated by the smoke.

I have always believed it would be a good idea to do proper research on the whole situation, and we are the only acknowledged grandchildren. My grandmother had very sorry later days, she lived there in a room ridden with mice and in the poorest condition, she had very hard last days even when she owned seven orange groves; she was miserly until her last day, even towards herself. Nonetheless, she never lost her faith and was totally devoted.

And so the three of them had their last day inside that house; first, my dad, who shot himself in the head, then my uncle, lung cancer, and finally my grandma, suffocated. That house has been inherited by me and Miguel, even if we required a proxy letter by the Mexican consulate to claim it, as we were already living in the US by then.

But well, that is only the story of my family, a journey through my childhood, as well as the deterioration of my father and the development of his disease.

Selling my soul to The Devil In many of those binge-drinking days of my father, when he would spend all the money and would leave us without a thing to eat, he used me as a shield to cover himself from my mother at bedtime, and that really angered her.

However, one of those days I figured it would not hurt to ask why he drank so hard, as I had been trying for a while to uncover the reasons why; so out of the blue I asked him if he drank so much because he wanted to be a priest... He said no, and I remember him crying in his drunkenness; I just told him that, when I grew up, I would fight so that priests have the chance of getting married. And without realizing it, there and then I marked myself unconsciously with an idea that would

almost drive me crazy... taking me as far as even trying to sell my soul to The Devil under the vague and ludicrous idea of becoming a millionaire and being really famous. But every now and then I used to ask myself "what's the big deal about that, anyway?â&#x20AC;? My mind would wander from one end to the other all the time: I also asked God to trust me with a task that would put me in service of my fellow, just so I could achieve something, whatever "it" could be.

All I can say is that I owe my success to God and to Him I offered it. Not even my own family agrees with me on my father wanting to be a priest, he did not leave any letters before passing. He did dedicate his days to public service, but I cling to the idea that he would have been a better father had he been a priest, closer to his own family and the laws of God.

Rainy evening in my teens Throughout my childhood I developed a disorder due to all the issues in my family; it is, nonetheless, a condition that did not prevent me from having the happiest moments and fondest memories.

After my father died, everyone in my family went in the search of an own destiny; but it was thanks to my older brother and my mother that we managed to strive forwards, and so I got my technician degree in the National College of Public Education. As a matter of fact, none of my siblings dropped high school, thanks to God and to the good advice of both my mother and older brother.

With my degree I found my place in the start-up of the first Scania tractor assembly plant in Mexico, on the 24th of October, 1994. It was there that I met my friend "Don Juan," who still remembers that time when I dreamt of some sort court room, but completely darkened, without being able to see anyone but hearing many voices. Still, the one that really impressed me said: "This is the radio speaker." The voice was so powerful and so angered that in that dream I was the most afraid I have ever been. Then I woke up sweating and was not sure if I should

tell anyone about it; I ended up telling Don Juan, who still remembered that the last time I saw him (January 2009): "and you made it, dude, you are now a radio speaker." Apart from telling him about it, I never really let him know how hard a dream it was for me: waking up all sweaty because you are terrified is something horrible, and nothing like he thinks of the whole episode, as he believes being a radio speaker is something I longed for...

The witch Right there, in that company, I met another friend, "Zaragoza," who one day asked me to go with him and buy the supplies his ill grandfather needed, as he was being taken care of by some sort of witch, healer or spiritist. Zaragoza was a country guy from Villa de Zaragoza, a rural town, and he was of a very humble temper, but he was also my friend and co-worker at one of the stronger companies established in San Luis PotosĂ, back in 1995.

His grandfather was the only thing left for my friend, having his parents died in a car accident when he was still a young boy; and so it was very important for my friend that his grandfather recovered, as for him he was like an actual father.

So he asked me to go with him and buy those supplies, but I really did not liked the idea, only went with him as he asked for it as it was a most noble concern. I had grown in a very Catholic family that did not believe in witchcraft in the very least, so I never had contact with a person like that before.

When we got there, an old house, I was overcome by curiosity and asked the lady to read the Tarot cards for me, also encouraged by my friend. He encouraged me as to see how good that witch was, but I was totally skeptical towards whatever that lady could utter. It was complicated getting in there; we were received by a man, maybe about 45, who questioned us with a frown: - What are you looking for?

My friend answered: - Is the ma'am available? - Who wants to know, and why? - I am here on behalf of don Nacho; we came for the medicine and to pay her, too. - Let me see if she can receive you, she is very busy as of late.

It was mentioning money what made him relax his attitude towards us; he just turned around and went to see if she could actually meet us, requiring us to wait where we were, with a more subtle tone to his voice now.

After a few minutes, he reappeared and said only the one directly involved should get in, but Zaragoza asked for both of us to be allowed in and see her, as I was interested in getting a Tarot read, he said. So the two of us were let in, although Zaragoza was directed farther in the house all the way towards its back end; that is, we were put apart. I stayed in a dining room with transparent crystals opening to a corridor, there was also a small table with two chairs perfectly set for interviewing and a deck of cards on top of it; and so the session started for me.

When Zaragoza was still in the back end of the house, without being able to see me, the healer lady asked me for the ten pesos that would pay for her services before opening the session. She then started to spread the cards and told me to part the deck in three and to repeat the following words after her: "to my health, to my wealth, to my love," and then she put the deck again on the table. It was a regular deck, very common in Mexico, with the typical batons, cups, coins, and so on. She then threw them one by one without saying a word. When she was done with that, she started by telling me how good my financial situation was, but right after asked me what is it I was particularly concerned with, to which I answered that love was the thing I wanted to know about the most; the healer then picked up all of the cards and, handling them masterfully, threw her spread again and talked to me

vaguely about brunette and blonde women. By then I already did not believe a word she was saying about my supposed future, about some Norma who would appear in my life to love me wholeheartedly, but whom I would in my turn hurt so much.

It was confusing to me, as my sister is named the very same way the witch referred to that supposed woman, and that was most likely the reason why I did not believe her at all. If I were to give some more details on the current state of my life, that would tell of the witch or healer actually revealing the truth to some extent, and that is why the whole episode is surprising to me; but herself had never experienced something alike before, that card reading was maybe the first authentic one for her. That is to say: it was not a common day and she felt strange things within, to the extent that she got scared and wanted to stop, she was very nervous but still something prevented her from prematurely closing the session.

I asked my second question and that was regarding my luck in my upcoming travel to the US, as I was hoping to embark unto the American dream... and so she rapidly picked up the cards, as if she just wanted the whole thing to be over, threw them again and got all exasperated, to the point of just stating that I should not leave Mexico and that I had to heal myself from that wrong inflicted on me by some woman who was not the same as â&#x20AC;&#x153;Normaâ&#x20AC;? - the same woman I was later married with for four years. The witch said she could help me and insisted that I should not leave the country, and that I had to heal myself; otherwise I would sooner or later come back from the US vanquished and looking for her help. She even gave approximate dates for that, she said I would be back by April or May, but the way I saw it in that moment, that healing lady was just not concise and concrete enough, and I convinced myself that her words were just lies and she just wanted my money.

However, while all this was happening during the session, I saw lightings on the sky outside, which was strange to me given that when we entered the house the sun was still high and there was no sign of approaching rain nor storm; on top of the desperate mood of the spiritist, this added the rarest vibe to the atmosphere in the room.

When I got out, I began to realize how I was not just like everyone else, there was something peculiar to me and it was not because of what the healer said, but because of what I felt within, as a person with a special mission, a messenger. This all was the strangest situation, as the afternoon was a sunny and magnificent one, and in a matter of minutes the sky turned gloomy and rain started to pour, while at some other spots in the distance I was able to see how it was clear and bright; one of those strange days both sunny and rainy at once.

Zaragoza and I left the place, soon after to say goodbye and part ways. Just a little after I found myself running by streets full of energy and joy, a feeling I will never forget as it was a very special day for me; the day in which I knew that, sooner or later, I was to receive something from God. Even when I did not know what it was, I already felt rewarded and grateful for that.

A dream in 1996 Once I had a dream that I told Don Juan, that dream with all the people or souls and me in the middle of the court room at my final judgment or so I believe, what do I know after all? - when I heard for the first time that voice tormenting me and made me experience the worst fright I ever had and have had since.

Back in 1996 I was not a radio speaker but in my dream I heard a powerful and deep voice saying "This is the radio speaker." That simple statement made me break into tears and would only ask myself "where is the good God, where is the Jesus Christ I have always acknowledged as my good and loving God?" Fear was so intense that the only thing I could cling to was the merciful God I had been taught to love since I was a kid. But the one I heard was that very same God I always knew, and there was no chance for any other option, it was being somehow scolded by my God. Why was that? I do not know. Maybe it was my sins of flesh, I cannot know. I will know whenever I find myself before God, accountable for my faults. But that dream I will never forget.

The morning after I went to work, and after telling Don Juan about it he laughed hard, and asked me how come I believed myself to be a radio speaker, when the actual radio speaker was my brother. It was a dream of the most strange and cruel kind to me, as I was pushed to tears and desperation, totally confused and exhausted; even after waking up I was wondering where the "good Jesus" was.

I was really scared and was afraid of sleeping the next night and the one after, moreover because I was fearful of dreaming the same again, of having the same nightmare. Nothing but the truth, it was all very horrible to me.

Wednesday, April the 2nd, 1997 After the dream and visiting that witch, I set for myself a goal that I had considered for a long time already: leaving for the US. And so, after hugging my older brother, who was always like a second father to me, and after saying goodbye to girl friend of mine, I made my way to the San Luis Potosí bus station for my first stop. From there I traveled to Monterrey, where I took the plane to Houston, Texas, and from there to the country music capital: Nashville.

I decided to travel as my life was confusing at that time, and my heart had just been broken. I was parting ways with my country at twentytwo, unaware of the huge changes to come, such as finding a mission in life.

My first job was doing painting with a friend of my brother – who had already died by then – who actually is like a member of my family and everyone calls “Lil’ Bricklayer.”

The radio A new radio station was started eight months after my arrival, this station broadcasted all day long, in contrast with the other existing radio stations there at the time, only broadcasting some days of the week and only in the afternoons. There was this other station that another friend of my deceased brother rented for Spanish-speaking broadcastings, but I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ask him any chance there.

I knew Mexican radio stations through Miguel, my brother, even when it never crossed my mind working for them, but in the United States they offered a position that more or less was fitting for my education level. Even if I was not highly educated anyway, I felt it was my duty to make the most of my diploma as a technician instead of throwing away all the effort to achieve it; plus, it naturally was a way of making better money.

And that is how I decided to work for that radio station where I would cover the other radio speakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s days off during the weekends and where, seven years later, I was the General Manager; I had a good relationship with the owner of the station, even if we had constant disagreements regarding approaches at work.

I have been at that station for twelve years, but throughout that time there have been months and even years in which I was out of it, such as the time when the station was rented by someone else.

The first year in the US was about to pass, but even months before starting at the radio station I already had the new commitment with finding a stigmatized individual without really knowing a thing about him, the only thing my mind had was this image of him on a TV show, in which Giorgio appeared revealing my name, but using the anonymous name of Carlos; it was a sevsec TV show. Giorgio appeared letting it be known that even if it was years before a new messenger could come, he would be of great assistance to his mission, that is to say that Giorgio was already surrounded by people found him after looking for someone to support them in their own mission, that he knew of similar special

people in his life from whom he was able to know everything going on in their lives without meeting them ever before.

From that point and idea I started my quest; I researched, sent letters and asked everyone I could, from religious fanatics to charlatan sorcerers, anyone who claimed being able to give a hint or clue, the only thing I knew about him was that I was searching for someone with a mark on his forehead.

Every now and then I preferred to think of the mission as a delusion or mental illness, just to avoid the responsibility; searching for someone I had never clearly seen was just too complicated. Before coming to the US, I had been under psychiatric treatment because of my depression; I attribute such depression to my father’s suicide when I was still quite young and unable to understand the whole situation, so that when I grew up, when I was nineteen, and finally understood everything, it was really hard for me to assimilate the facts and process that kiss I denied him.

About the letters I wrote trying to find Giorgio When I finally understood my mission, it was now a matter of knowing how to approach it… and so I began to write letters asking for Giorgio, and the only one being fruitful, the only one I got a reply for, actually, was the one I wrote to a Baptist Hispanic association in Nashville, Tennessee. I remember my sister being so scared of them when they visited me to talk about God and all the peculiar things I had experienced and told them about.

One day I just simply gathered the courage to go on with my mission despite other people’s opinion or even the fear of being threatened or assaulted by trying to change religious views; one girlfriend I had helped a lot, as she taught me that a human being shouldn’t be afraid of what may happen to his body, but should be more concerned of what may happen to his soul. I always keep that in mind; she claimed having found that advice in the Bible.

I armed myself with envelopes and stamps and notebooks to write my letters asking for him to whomever I figured had a similar case or mission, that it, anyone talking about Jesus, such as Luis Palau or even those working with strange things, such as miss Esperanza – someone known to me by now – a woman into parapsychology who also works with magic and the sort, but I didn’t receive any reply from most of them, let alone her.

I realized this miss never received the letters people sent her, and that the ones she would use for display were made up; she prepared herself for this, as she – I can only imagine – must receive hundreds of letters. I was certain that she would never answer my letter, and I am sure she doesn’t know I wrote her once and probably never even knew a thing of my letter. It is because of my work as Manager of the radio station that I have approached some of these individuals.

While in the look for Giorgio, I constantly tried to find excuses to drop the search, sometimes it appeared to me that it was just crazy, but I also realized that those very same excuses where one by one dispelled by God, and those things I claimed to miss to continue were granted one after the other; if I came up with a new excuse, sooner or later I received that which I considered necessary. If I excused in not having internet access, I would for one reason or the other find myself in front of a computer and remembering that I had something to do that was definitely not bad for mankind. Nonetheless, at times there were simply no excuses, and I was still unable to find Giorgio.

I have experienced many strange and interesting things in my life. I was of the idea that each messenger looking for Giorgio carried a message to try and convince the priests of the Catholic Church that God wants priests to be allowed the sacrament of marriage, or at least for them to have that option without ceasing to be priests.

The quest for Giorgio (December the 11th, 1997) After thinking about it over and over, I just snapped on a Thursday night, December 11, 1997; I felt as if someone were guiding me to him. It was a quiet but peculiar night, I was convinced of just letting my instinct guide me, and that way I would be led to the place where my mission was to be further revealed.

I felt restless, my mind disrupted, I talked to people but I listened to no one, I was sure that if just let my car lead me, without precise aim or direction, I was to find Giorgio; all of this with the purpose of finding myself and finding God in my heart.

Sleepless night preceded all of this, wondering if I had the value to finally just do it, going out and having the faith and hope to find him; it was very hard for me, but my goal was clear: finding Giorgio.

I had but a few months in Nashville and didn’t know the roads and streets so well; and nonetheless I drove my car all over, the only important thing being finding Giorgio; this idea was fixed in my mind and it gave strength. My ‘inner self’ and a music tape reaffirmed my mission, I was listening songs that told about how life is not life if we are not loving enough to understand how priests and nuns have the right to get married as well, and this other one that I imagined as if it was Jesus saying it, going like this: “instead of thinking of him, instead of crying for him, call me, don’t call him. “ The song is “Think of me” by the band Mojado, and the singer is obviously telling that to a lover, but for me, this song has been really helpful to think only about Jesus and not in the Devil.

Night was passing by and I stopped to buy some hydrating beverages, as I knew it was a long and special night, and so I avoided any kind of alcoholic drink. I knew it was a night to remember and didn’t want to remember myself drunk, nor wanted other people not to take me seriously because I was drunk.

The night went on and I was still driving; every now and then I just felt the whole thing was insane, but certain hope or, rather, a strong inner desire of fulfilling my quest pushed me forwards. When I realized, the car was almost out of gas and there was no gas station in sight. I just kept going, hoping for a miracle to make the car move forwards with an empty tank.

Night was turning macabre, as if out of some movie, I was living something extraordinary, unique, even if frightening and distressing; out of sudden when I looked at my car and saw it was to stop in any minute, a sense of tranquility and absolute silence came about, and that strange night turned peaceful to me… out of sudden, I heard the voice of an indigenous kid, about eleven years old maybe, who said: “look, mom, Claudio is here,” to which his mother replied: “keep quiet, boy, or he will hear you.”

I only smiled at this, as I knew that I had reached no specific point physically, but spiritually I was being welcomed to the unknown, the unnatural, and all those things that people can only understand after experiencing it.

A great commotion came right after, and the voices were louder, but I was unable to stand it anymore and – in that other reality – I shook my head and came to my senses, as if I were in the midst of a trance and the fog making it hard to drive had kicked me out of it. The car stopped soon after, as it was expected.

In that moment I started to curse God, my faith deserted me in spite of the experience I just had, I still believed I was going to find Giorgio, as I was for whatever reason sure that the would continue going even when out of gas; but it didn’t happen, and from a great adventure it turned into a huge nightmare: I was alone and without a phone; to my fortune, the car stopped right in front of a mobile home.

Quite scared and barely speaking any English, I approached the door (by then, some dogs were already barking) and knocked; a white man, approximately twenty-eight, opened the door and in confusion and distrust asked what is it I wanted; he was visibly upset, it was obviously not common for someone to knock his door at those hours after midnight, let alone a Hispanic guy who was barely able to speak English.

Out of inertia, I looked inside the house and it was a total mess, two cats were meowing around while this guy was little by little beginning to feel comfortable. Meanwhile, I was just feeling tormented in the midst of the whole episode and started to sob and wrote a phone number for him, my poor English skills would give only enough to say “sister, gas, car,” – when I was studying the GED in Spanish, high school for adults in the US, I realized how much of a problem I have with languages, I have a very hard time putting my thoughts into words, even in Spanish, even being a radio speaker. The guy was a good fellow after all, so he did let me use his cellphone, even if he didn’t let me into house. Despite the cold, caution was higher a value for him than hospitality. And so I called my sister:

Norma, Norma, can you hear me? Yes, I can, where are you? It’s late already! I’m lost, I don’t know where I am and I’m out of gas, this white man was kind enough to let me use his phone. But, what happened? You must be drunk! Ok, put him on the phone, let me see if I can understand him – said my sister, evidently angered.

She did try, but was unable to understand the address, she was only able to write down the guy’s phone number and called one of my cousins, who did speak English; by then, this man helping me was already somewhat exasperated and would make me wait for him outside.

It was quite uncomfortable for me, quite hard, waiting there for a call in a town I didn’t know, with a person who I was unable to communicate

with, who didn’t trust me, and, on top of everything, in a part of the US where the Ku Klux Klan is supposed to be strong; also, my cousin asked my sister several questions before finally talking with the guy. The guy told him how to get there and then my cousin talked to me:

I already explained Norma how to get there, don’t go anywhere… they are on their way, tell me if you are ok, do you need anything else? Nothing, I just need gas to move my car. Alright, they are on their way, I’ll tell them to bring gas. Great, I’ll wait for them here.

I spent maybe one hour and a half sitting there inside my car, and the cold was getting intense to top things off. My sister eventually got there and was in a terrible mood, because she thought I was drunk – but it was not so, I knew that, but I was not to explain my whole experience and what I had heard. And so I only told her that I got lost; worst part is that together with her came her husband’s father, my brother in law and two nephews. I was very ashamed as she scolded me in front of them. When we got back, no one wanted to come with me in the car – but I could understand them, who would to trust me? The whole thing was so strange, they were basically afraid that I had lost my mind.

The driving back home was past and the morning was approaching already, I felt shivers down my spine thinking about the night, it was a mix of strangeness and shame, as everyone at my job already knew everything about my driving like crazy all over the city, because my sisters – trying to teach me a lesson so I finally behaved myself – told everyone about it.

Morning was finally there and I slept half an hour when the most, it was cruel at least to get up and get going as if nothing had happened, but I had to get up and work painting – the radio speaking was part time – there was no option, it was my duty and missing a day was not an option for me back then, as I had just recently crashed my sister’s car in a rowdy night out drinking heavily out of nostalgia for having emigrated,

and I had to cover the repair costs. I remember clearly, I had just ended my relationship with my Mexican girlfriend.

My life was at its worst in that moment, just few months behind I lead this normal and peaceful life, far from luxury but also far from needs, a good job with nice benefits: Social Security, housing fund; and then, fast forward and I was there without sleep and being demanded to work hard by co-workers who made fun of me for having been lost, without Social Security, without citizenship and more confused than ever before; it was a hard pill for me to swallow.

But apart from all that and deep within myself, there was this very personal secret that any religious fanatic would envy, besides the strange happenings themselves. That brought to my mind that time when I was a kid, seeing this angel-like figure while riding a bus, I believe to have seen that figure twice in my life.

I was a curious kid back then and was staring at a circus poster with a pair of twins who were born with a single body, and it was then that I saw this person, about forty-three, who started talking to me and asked me if I would like to see them (the twins in the poster, that is), and the angel â&#x20AC;&#x201C; he was an angel to me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; told me my morbidity was not good and that it was good enough for me to know that the twins were having a shower at the circus in that very moment, and that they were quite happy.

Never saw this person again until I was maybe twenty-nine, when he approached me at a parking lot, selling some ambient music discs; when I saw his face, the angel of my childhood came immediately to my mind, but I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say a thing as this person was talking to me in English and I thought it was maybe just my imagination. The amazement upon seeing him is still clear in my mind.

A sign in my hand The strange things happening to me got me closer to Giorgio. My life went on in the United States and it was just a regular Saturday when the radiator of my car needed repair, and so I asked my friend Andrés for help… after having some beers, we set ourselves to try and repair the car:

Pass me the wench – I asked my friend, pointing at the tool. Ten inches one? Yeah. Is it all good down there? I think so. You only need that powder I told you about – Andrés suggested. That thing is no good, it only gets the radiator covered. How much are they? Not so expensive, about eighty dollars. Right on! I almost got it… I only have to… damn! I burnt my hand… Come on, move away! Told you so, you need a mechanic… but you had to play the smart ass… was the burn bad? Not that bad, but hurts like hell. Put some toothbrush on it, that will do it. It hurts like hell!

That burn with my first car meant a lot to me, as later on that scar left on my right hand would morph into a virgin-like figure that only my friend Andrés and my sister Norma saw; I did try to photograph it with a Polaroid, but it came out all blurry and one can barely distinguish a thing. There and then is when I understood my gift, which consists in making friends easily, and that is the way it has been as my own friends have introduced me with theirs, and those same friends later ask for me and we get along easily.

Now, I think different: I can show my point of view to the world For me, this is like waking up one day with a new goal in life, with another challenge to meet, without anyone else’s support and with the fear of being judged crazy and being pointed at in disbelief; all of that is hard to assimilate and accept, but the real sad part is living nine years with a this idea of modifying certain aspects of religious living, but the one you thought was there to help you has no idea of your existence and no clue that you consider yourself and ally… it is something really hard to comprehend and it pains the heart, makes you think of yourself as a fiasco, as a failure…

However, I think different today: now I believe I can show point of view to the world without a single ounce of fear, with complete certainty that I have lived in a family keeping inside of me all these thoughts that echo the feelings of thousands who want the same thing I want: having a father who lives to do good for his fellow and who is still able to raise a family; in my eyes, that is wonderful.

Numerology-wise, nine means a lot to me. For example: I was born the 9th day of the 9th month; number nine has been related to both tragedy and success in my life, tragedies such as my father’s suicide, on April the 9th, 1986, when I was only eleven.

Number nine is a truly strange number when it comes to its relation to me, even those who judge me crazy when I tell them so end up believing what I say after they see all the peculiar happenings with this number. My last ex-girlfriend, for example, she ended up – by means of concrete experiences – being convinced that number nine is significant in my life; she’s just one example among many, several things happened to me with this number, it would take me forever to list them all.

The mission First and foremost, my first message to the world manifests as a mission of helping Catholics changing their mentality in order to allow priests and nuns the option of getting married.

Apartment in South Carolina, July the 19th, 2006 I rented an apartment with the idea of leading my life in the city of Columbia, South Carolina, but the job they offered me as Spot Production Manager and Live Radio Speaker turned tortuous, really horrible, as it was a family on inexperienced people as long as radio broadcasting goes (no offense intended), as they have all the financial means and the chance to experiment, but they just were unable to make a thing out of their radio station. Because of these and some other even worse conditions I was unable to stand working there, and I had to go back to my old work in Nashville, doing the same thing but in radio station I already knew.

On the other hand, I continued trying to find the stigmatized Giorgio Bongiovanni, I kept my faith. Inside of me, the idea of finding him rooted even deeper with the passing time. My memories about it go as far back as 1994, when I imagined seeing or actually saw him on a TV show.

In order to get to know about Giorgio, besides de fact that he sometimes appeared to me as only a dream or a longing, there were always obstacles in my way, such as that time when I was working for the Spanish-speaking radio station in Sevierville, TN, and the chance came to move from there and get better paid. Everything was fine with my current job, but the boss decided to reduce my paycheck and I had to do sales to get it in full, and that is when we began to join efforts without even knowing what waited for us at the other station or the hell that was about to break loose. Negotiations started with the other station where I was to work as Spot Producer and Radio Speaker.

It appeared to be a relaxed Saturday morning and everything seemed propitious for me and my co-worker to go and try our luck in Columbia, South Carolina. There were some setbacks on the way to this festival where we were to do the test. When we got there, people appeared to notice we were not locals and we immediately figured it was going to be hard being accepted by our would-be co-workers as well.

But the important thing was that we were already there and managed to sell to the owner the idea that we were what he needed. And so it came to be, at some point in the two upcoming weeks she was to make her way to South Carolina; I had to be there one week before her as it was necessary to have me there working in production at the station.

It was Sunday when I gathered all my belongings and went off; but, to my disbelief, the highway was closed, and so – guided by my map – I tried to avoid some exits and all the traffic in the highway. But it was to no avail and frustrating, as I eventually discovered that I had just gone full circle and was back the starting point. I was actually only some thirty minutes from where I lived, so I decided to have lunch there in that small town, while thinking in the whole situation and gathering strength for the journey once again.

I managed to finally find another way to that city, but it appeared as if some illogical force didn’t want me to reach my destination, as I had yet another setback, taking forty-five minutes of time to find the way out of that highway that already appeared to me like a labyrinth just to reach Columbia, South Carolina. I was only supposed to drive four hours, and it took me eight!

Anyway… when I finally arrived to Columbia, the hotel where I was supposed to stay was closed and had to stay at a more expensive one; I was just exhausted because of the whole journey, yet I still felt optimistic towards my new job.

The next day I found a hotel where you could pay per week; days passed by and that job was turning into a nightmare. The only good thing happened on June the 9th, already staying at a six stars hotel in South Carolina – it was no longer convenient to stay at the other pay-per-week one, as my apartment was to be ready the next day. In that hotel is where I saw the Cristina TV show and they were talking about Giorgio; right there, after nine years of searching for him, I found the keyword to locate him: stigmatized, and that is how I was able to find him on the internet the day after. Without having even heard his voice I already dreamt of reaching my goal, unaware of the fact that the road was barely starting.

I was happy to have found him at last and was tremendously nervous as he was not a part of my imagination, he did exist. I also felt fear, strangeness and strong curiosity; all of those feelings where running through my veins. After that day, my life would never ever be the same again.

Trying to assimilate and understand that, I always keep in mind what my friend Max from Costa Rica told me once: “when you cross the border dividing Mexico and the US, your life is changed forever and will never be the same, no matter how hard you try to fit in your country again.” I myself had crossed a line.

As for what I found on the internet about Giorgio, the conclusion I arrived at after reading on him and thinking about it: he is a human being born to deliver a message to mankind. God put him on this way… it would be quite unwise from me if I were to tell you of his mistakes, as I don’t know him, nor even on the phone, but from an internet video I watched, I can tell you that he portrays as a whole individual whose team has been totally respectful and understanding towards me since I got in contact with them first – I send them a big hug, and if any of them ever reads these lines, remember: long live our Lord Jesus Christ and our Virgin Mary!

Call to Uruguay, July the 19th, 2006 -

Please, write my phone number down, and my address – I cordially asked the collaborator. Sure, of course, we will stay in contact from now on.

I had explained him my dream and my longing; as it was to be expected, now I see, nothing was as I figured it was going to be, there was no searching for people nor they had the same mission I dreamed of, and this was explained to me by Giorgio’s collaborator; but I insisted in speaking with Giorgio anyway, and so I asked him again:

But, please, ask him to get back to me soon, I know he doesn’t have the same goal I have, but I still need to exchange some words with him.

And that is how those nine years of searching ended for me, they ended up in failure… Let us go ahead and presuppose you don’t believe my story, that you think I’m a liar and am making all this up, or that I’m mentally ill: what about the problem that can be corrected, what about that we all can contribute to? If you believed this is all made up, you would cease to take me seriously; but you still can believe that we all can change this world through our actions, a change that would give light to so many families in darkness today, and we would also give several families the very opportunity to exist, decreasing thus the number of sexual assaults and abuses.

I confess before you, my brothers, under the religion to which I belong and the one I will never cease to believe in until the day I die, that even if I visit my Christian brothers of another religion I will always believe in our Virgin of Guadalupe, as for me she is another example of loving your fellow as yourself, as one cannot say “Jesus, I love you,” without loving and venerating his mother as well, and that it is also important that I cannot be an example to anyone else, even if I am also not an individual of the worst kind, and what I mean is: I live, for those around me, an ordinary life as everyone else.

And so I proceed to clarify and rightfully state the following points, which are the reason why I wrote this message in the first place:



I write with complete awareness that my mission has been cut short, as the person who I thought was to help me achieving the supposed goal has different reasons to be who he is, and has never had anything to do with me (Giorgio).



The most important reason to write this is because I can no longer keep myself silent after all that I lived, as it would be like condemning and tormenting my days in such a way that I would be unable to go on; I want to reach peace of mind so I can try and change the world around me in a peaceful way, too.

It has been already a good while since I knew of Giorgio and haven’t been able to speak with him, not even on the telephone, but only with his collaborators and once, maybe, directly to him via e-mail – this in part resulting from my insistence in talking to him directly. This book is named The Failure of the Good-willed because of the nine years searching without success, even if I heard voices urging me to go beyond and even if on my hand appeared a sign, and because regardless of the wishes of so many people, the goal of considering the option for priests and nuns to get married is still far from achieved.

It would be wonderful if the laws of Catholicism would permit for the priests to get married if so were their wishes, keeping their faith and religious vows at the same time; I believe my father would be still alive and he wouldn’t have turned into an alcoholic, thanks to the great education and support provided by seminaries; and then my grandmother would have spent many nice evenings at my house, as she wouldn’t have any reason to oppose my mother. I would have not lost my father and wouldn’t had to go to psychiatrist at twenty-one.

Now, please try to imagine the life of a boy or girl who has been victim of rape or otherwise molested by a priest, as it has been widely discussed that such impossibility to get married and lead a natural sexual life can cause mental illnesses. One can think of a case such as the one depicted in the Mexican movie The Crime of Father Amaro: the girls ends up pregnant from a priest and dies trying to get an abortion, being herself the daughter of a priest, finding herself unable to get help from anyone. Or think of a kid wondering who his father is, and picture her mother unable to explain that his dad is a good and great man, but a certain law prevents him from raising him and leading him through life.

This is all so sad and it is even sadder that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have the courage to do our best and try to change the rules.

Today, there is one big question in my life: is all of this is but the result of a psychological disorder coming from the trauma of my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death (as I explained elsewhere, sometimes it is easier for me to think of this as a mental illness), or is this all coming from a dream I had.

I sometimes think of visiting a hypnotist so he can help me getting answers, maybe my subconscious can contribute to the solving of this issue, to realize if it was a dream or the result of a disorder that I saw Giorgio on a TV show revealing my name and telling people he would go searching for him to make him realize of his mission to the world.

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Dedicated to the memory of my father and mother, may they rest in peace.

My gratefulness towards all those who have helped and motivated me to write this message:

Araceli Ana LucĂa Dulce Alejandra Fernando Francisco Leticia From the bottom of my heart, thank you all so much for listening and understanding me.

Thanks to you for your attention to my message.

P.S. if you think of me as a liar or as a madman, that may as well be correct, as it is only your faith in the message what will prove it right.

For greater love in the world! And because all human beings deserve a second chance!

The Failure of the Good-willed

Claudio V. (thank you for helping and protecting me, most lovely Lady of Guadalupe)