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4 Education, Culture, and Freedom A Cultural Self-Portrait: Christine (in Her Own Words) I begin my story with the first man in my life—the man who would come to my tea parties, play Princess Jasmine and Aladdin, and toss around a football: my daddy. Others may know him as the chief of police of National City, Dr. Adolfo Gonzales. To me, he is my daddy, or Pop, or Dad, or DaaaaaaAaaaadd!! His story began with his first memory living in Mexico as a three-year-old little boy whose father was hit and killed by a drunk driver. He was the middle child born to Juan Gonzales and Elvira Gonzales de Estrada. After the accident, my daddy’s remaining family moved to the United States. His mother’s greatest desire was for her children to finish high school, a goal that was seemingly impossible at that time. For the most part, my pop would stay out of trouble, aside from miscellaneous mischief kids get into, like throwing shortening on the ceiling so it would look like snow. Eventually his mother developed epilepsy and had violent seizures. My dad was just too little to help. But he would run across his backyard, to his neighbor’s house and knock on the door to ask them to come and save his mom. The neighbor was the only doctor they knew. This was one of my dad’s first acts of saving lives. As time went on, my grandmother remarried and had four more children. This marriage also impacted my daddy because he would watch the abuse that my grandma endured. As a result, my daddy swore he would never hit a woman. My dad remembers going into his kindergarten class and not understanding anything his teacher was saying. He said he would ask his friends next to him for help and he got paddled, not for talking in class, but for speaking Spanish. That was the only language he knew. He tried learning English as quickly as he could so education, Culture, and Freedom 77 he would stop being sent to the principal’s office. Miraculously, he made it to high school, where the counselors decided that auto mechanics was the way for him to go. They did not offer my dad any opportunities for honors classes or any means of putting him on a path to higher education. My dad was told to be a mechanic. So he became one, and he won an award as the best mechanic in all of San Diego County his senior year. With the knowledge he gained my dad was able to “pimp out” his own car. It was the age of hydraulics. I can only assume my dad’s car was the best. However, the cops didn’t agree and would constantly pull him over. So my pops decided to move to Los Angeles. He packed up and hit the “10”—that’s the name of the highway. On his way to a new life and new freedom, he got pulled over again. With less excitement, he turned around and went back to San Diego, where at least he knew the cops. This was just one of many experiences of discrimination that he would face in his life. My mom’s story is a little different. She was born in Chula Vista, California, in a little hospital, which ironically is now an insane asylum. She is the eldest of five children. My mom is a highly complex person, whom I love but don’t quite understand. Her story began with a strict household. Her mom stayed at home while her father worked as a taxi driver. My mom always viewed her mother as the fun-sucker in her life, so she would go visit my great-grandmother, “my aby,” as much as possible. I understand why my mom loved being around her as a child. I remember my aby being very sweet and kind. In school, my mom was a bright student and wanted to continue her education, but her counselor told her that she “was pretty, and would have no trouble finding a husband,” and college was “not for her.” My dad returned from his voyage to Los Angeles during my mom’s senior year of high school. This is when history was made. My mom says she saw my dad standing outside, with his unmistakable, healthy, shiny, long, straight hair. My dad says he met my mom when he nearly...

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