I have a tattoo on my left forearm. I usually hide it whenever people ask to see it. The truth is it's a tribute to someone whom I was very deeply in love with. I actually got it after we broke up, so it's not like it was just some thing I got in a desperate attempt to make some guy stick around. It says "** Lovesick P.V." (the P.V. stands for por vida, which is Spanish for "for life"). The "P" kind of looks like an "R", which really sucks. The guy that gave me the tattoo was super drunk and high on crack, so I should have known he was gonna fuck it up. When I got the tattoo I was confused as to whether or not I would include his name, his alias, or his nickname, which was Jay, so I settled for **. There are even more complicated reasons for why I couldn't have his real name on my body in plain sight.
The man that people in the Carbondale area knew as "***" or "****" didn't know that he had a huge secret. ****'s real name was ****** and he was two years older than what any of his identifation documents claimed he was. He grew up in Houston, Texas since the age of two after his family migrated from Guatemala. ****** mostly lived in the rough barrios of Southeast Houston and eventually adapted to the life of a Southeast Crip, a branch of the Crips gang that includes Latinos as well as blacks. Selvin and his brother in law were street soldiers that dealt in cocaine transactions and burglaries of large businesses. After some shit went down involving a search warrant and a paper bag full of cocaine found in his brother in law's closet, **** snatched up a girl to keep him company, paid someone to allow him to steal their identity, and fled to Illinois to start his new life as Jacob. After becoming homesick, the girl left him to go back to Texas. **** became complacent with his new straight life and inevitably went back to what he knew, which was slinging dope and other criminal means of making extra money. That's around the time I came into the picture.
We had an on again off again chaotic romance, and after I had moved out of his place, I sold a bit of coke for him here and there. I used this time of drug dealing as a means to prove my loyalty to him, and showed him that I could turn his dope into two times the cash than anyone else could.
The thing was that there were two Mexican guys that lived down the street from me who wanted my ass. These guys didn't even do coke, but they would buy my product from me or bring me customers just for an excuse to give me money. They would have their friends come to my trailer on payday. They would have all just recently cashed their checks and ready to party. I sold them a couple of light grams for 250 bucks, later moved on to selling them tiny pinches of unmeasured shit for 50 bucks a piece. Since they were illegal aliens and didn't know anyone else who could sell them anything decent, they never bitched. I was totally ripping them off. Besides that, they were married and I would allow them to do their partying at my house so that their wives wouldn't bitch. After they would make their purchases, they would allow me to liberally partake in their purchased portions of shit, also, so, in other words, their dumb asses were lining my pockets full of cash and getting me fucked up as all well.
After a weekend of slinging I had literally turned only five grams of shit into 950 bucks. My guy wouldn't come and pick up his cash, and I didn't want to have the shit in my pocket anymore. I was afraid I was going to start spending it. I couldn't get a hold of him, so I decided to hitch hike to his place and give him his money. It was a rough journey. It was fucking cold outside and I had to trek mostly through rural roads to get to his house that was an hour away from my start point. I got there about seven hours later, exhausted and hungry.
I noticed I could hear another voice in the house when I had arrived at his door. It, of course, was a female voice. (I later found out it was his new 15 year old crack head girlfriend he was getting to stick around for crack) Nice. I should have at that point got back into the vehicle that was waiting on me and took his fucking money, but I didn't know what kind of a shit storm he could have caused if I had done such a thing. Besides that, I loved him. I wanted to make him proud of me for making him so much money. I waved for my ride to go on, and pounded on his door like a nut bitch until he came to it. I walked into the house, and we ended up physically fighting.
Somehow, we ended up back out on the front porch where he ended up knocking me down. When I fell, my face landed on a cinder block...CRACK. I could hear the bones in my face break and smell the blood spurting from the side of my head. Then I passed out.
I woke up in an unfamiliar vehicle in front of the hospital. I was in the backseat, with him. He was yelling at me to get out, but I was really dizzy and felt like I couldn't talk. He told the driver to leave the hospital and take me somewhere else, but I couldn't make out where because they were all speaking fucking Spanish. He dropped me off at his best friend's house and told him to take care of me. Whilst his buddy was helping me out of the car, I stopped and turned back to the car. I threw his money in his face and spit on the ground.
At the hospital I was told that my orbital was shattered and that I might need surgery. I just thought, "Yeah, how the fuck am I supposed to pay for that?" I never visited the doctor whom they had referred me to. I couldn't even afford to get the prescription filled for the pain killers they prescribed me. I stayed the next few days recouping at his buddy's house. His buddy, *****, didn't know a lick of English, and I had no way of telling him that ***** wasn't fully responsible for the injury. He would call their mutual buddies into the room I was resting in and make them look at me, like "Look what he did to her". I was in so much pain the next few days, but I got through it and eventually returned home. I still have problems with my peripheral vision and slight facial paralysis from the injury, and the older I get the more I can see it. I'm glad no one else can really notice it.
After our real break up, ***** and I kept in touch. Anytime I needed anything, money, food, or someone to talk to, he would speed to my side. After I became pregnant he would swoop me up and take me places to get food that would aleviate my hormonal-induced cravings. On Thanksgiving night '06 went went out, got burgers, and sat in the park where we had a pretty deep conversation about how fucked both of our lives were. We had our first real kiss in months that night when he dropped me home. I had no idea that it would be the last time I'd ever see him. Later on I found out that he was picked up on a petty warrant after the police were called on him during an explosive arguement with his then girlfriend. They began fighting over the fact that she had led on that her child that he had been helping her to raise belonged to him and when he found out that she had been lying all hell broke loose. When he was taken in on the warrant his fingerprints gave him away in that he was a fugitive and the jig was up. He was sent back to Harris County, TX to await trial. That's the story I gathered from the random chance meetings I had with his former friends since then, anyway.
Last April, I began having very vivid dreams about ****. These dreams were never sexual in nature, but were weird and disjointed. In one of them **** and I were making our way through an actively devastating hurricane in a place where there were crowds of Latino-looking people. The dreams left me insanely curious as to the whereabouts of this man. I have been having them up to three times a week ever since.
After waking up from yet another dream about **** this morning I decided to google his name for the umpteenth time to see what I could find out. I ended up stumbling upon a video response from his sister that was in Spanish. I made out the words the best I could and figured out that it was a plea from her asking people to pray for her brother who was being deported back to Guatemala in 30 days if her family could not come up with money to hire an immigration attorney. There were no additional responses, and hers was left in late February. 30 days from when the comment was left would have fallen right around the time I had started having the dreams.
I started to research the deportation of Guatemalan immigrants in the US and found that thousands are being sent back to Guatemala in droves. Some of them are children and sick people raised most of their ives in the US that are exposed after hospital admissions, which means they are being sent back injured and sick without proper treatment. Guatemala was recovering from a bloody civil war and a devastating hurricane, but with the flooding of all the deportees and the victims of the hurricane needing relief, the country (one of the 10 poorest countries in the world) simply cannot endure it. The deportation population exlosion is almost like a inverted version of the Cuban refugee crisis in the eighties. Instead of people flocking to a country to seek opporotunity, people are being thrown back in massive volume to a country with virtually no opporotunity. I know that I will never find him, but I feel as if he is telepathically crying out for my help or sympathy. I wonder if the dreams will ever stop, or if he is even still alive.