Nonetheless, we all have sh**.  

I once thought about writing a book. Would anyone be interested in reading it? I mean we all have our own sh**. What makes my sh** any more relatable than Barbara’s?

Well, here’s my sh** in a short story, not a book. I grew up knowing there was a possibility of two men being my father. Both Hispanic but it took me 23 years to find out what nationality I actually was. My mother was a British, Irish and Native American woman from Kansas. To her, Hispanics were either Mexican or Puerto Rican. Now, before I go into this story… my mother was an honest Christian woman. Not some wild girl that got knocked up at a college party. Well, maybe just this once. But long story short, my mother got married at 16 and started having babies by 18. She divorced her husband when her fifth child was 12. Then went off to college as a 40 year old woman. Which is how I came into the picture. She had a thing for the tall, dark and young I suppose.

Well, I met my father when I was 23. That was cool I suppose. I found out he had other children, by three other women. Then I met him again when I was 24. By this time I had a little one of my own. I haven’t spoke to the new Grandpa since.

But let’s backtrack. Why did I meet him at 23? I lost my mother to cancer when I was 21. Her previous husband, Clifford, had been a father figure later in my life. I had no care to find my biological father because the one I had was good enough. I guess it was easier to think of me as his own because he never stopped loving my mother. And honestly, I could never thank him enough for this. Okay, I have to stop chopping onions while I write. So back to my mother’s death. Yeah, there goes the glue that held me in tack. Without my mother, who am I? Now I’m curious about the other half of me. Am I Mexican or am I Puerto Rican? I can speak Spanish, well Spanglish, I can dance Salsa, Bachata, Cumbia and so on. I know what Mofongo is and what Horchata is…… but there’s that question…… “What are you?”

You know other than Human, what are you?

So I log on to Facebook on a rainy day and search the name of the man that my mother was so sure of. Oh man….. There were about 20 or so men with the last name of Ruiz in Arizona. I messaged ALL of them. I could only imagine them reading my message or their wives reading them. “Hello, are you my Daddy?”… brahahahaa, I’m kidding. I would never send that.

Days later, only one response. It’s him!!!! Only his response is… “Hi Ashley. I do remember your mother. But I am not your father. My best friend is”. Well, okay…… that’s something. Must be the “other guy”. Again, long story short…. His best friend, my biological father, called me and explained his version of the story. Rather interesting I’d say but that’s for another day. Nonetheless, I flew out to Arizona to meet him. Now I knew the other half of me. I looked just like him, acted just like him and the scary part was….. I realized now where those commitment and abandonment issues were coming from.

Do I feel any better about myself for finding my other side? Not really. I now know my nationality but I am left with so many more unanswered questions. How did you know about me and not want to know me? How do you know me now and still not want to know me? It left me knowing I have siblings I may never meet and a child without a biological Grandfather to call Papa. It was like opening Pandora ’s Box. Open the dictionary to disappointment and there it is….

When there is more to our story that we do not know, do we take that chance to learn about it? Why can’t we just be happy and content with what we already know? Ignorance is bliss, right?

Oh, but taking that chance could lead to something so beautiful and if it does, my friend, you are truly blessed.

Nonetheless, we all have sh**.

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