The Age of 12

I have been trying to remember what I was like when I was 12 years old. Can you remember? For me I had to think about what grade I was in back then and this helped me remember more about how I was. I would have been in grade 7, in Junior High School, a time when I was extremely shy. I remember one time a year earlier when I had to get to my ballet class from school on the bus. I had never done this on my own and was very scared about making a mistake and ending up somewhere completely different. Of course this was not a time of cell phones and the convenience of all they provide, so if I ended up downtown rather than where I took my classes, this would have been extremely frightening for me.

The possibility was there because I had a choice of taking 2 different buses and one would have taken me into downtown Calgary. I knew I had to take the #10 bus, but did not realize that the different names on the front of the bus did not matter. So I stood at the bus stop by myself, no one to ask for help and waited……and waited, much longer than I should have. Because of my nervousness to be around anyone I didn’t know, I could not even ask the bus driver if this was the right bus. I let several go by, standing there for almost an hour (they came every 10 minutes) until I worked up he courage to get on the bus and take a chance. This was easier than asking the bus driver believe it or not.

I arrived safely and after talking to one of the other students discovered the name on the bus is not important, only the number, so any #10 bus would get me to the dance studio. A very small but vital bit of information, which helped me so much, enabling me to make the journey with greater ease, something a victim of PTSD well appreciates. At the age of 12, I was not much better at dealing with such circumstances, being quite an introvert, keeping mostly to myself. If I am honest, today I am not much better dealing with those circumstances.

There was a strength in me which came as quite a shock though, when on another occasion in grade 7 I dealt with a particularly difficult situation while in my math class. My teacher who was male, stood behind me while I was working, which in itself is a very uncomfortable situation for me. Then I felt him touching my hair, as if he was fascinated by it. I jumped out of my desk chair faster than I thought possible, turning around yelling at him. I told him he did not have the right to touch me, touch my hair. Still furious, I walked out of my class and went to my locker. Even now as I remember this moment, I realize how out of character that reaction was for me. I expected to be confronted either by the teacher or the principal after lunch that day, because this class was just before the lunch break, and only a few moments before the bell. In fact, the bell rang as I stood at my locker, the students crowding the halls as they each approached their own lockers, my uncertainty and embarrassment beginning to set in. I don’t remember anyone saying anything to me, and I am sure they were looking at me sideways. Feeling as though I was an island in this sea of students, without the courage to now face any of them I understood my life was more complicated than those I sat in class with. This man had crossed the line, I’m sure not intending to cause harm, never even suspecting what he was doing to me. The shocked look on his face was evidence of that. How could he have known about my past, something I had struggled to lock away? I could not have been able to work through any of that standing there in those moments. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, knowing today there would have been serious repercussions.

So at 12 years of age, I lived in a bubble of my own making based on the difficulties of my early years. I bring this up because of the man who owns Taco Bello’s Restaurant. He often comes into my thoughts because I know he has a story, an upsetting one I think, one he seems to feel shame for. I imagine though he is a man of great courage. While conversing with him on one of the first visits to his restaurant, we discovered at the age of 12 years, he left his home in Mexico, migrating north to live in the United States…….by himself. We had been talking about our purpose for coming to Ecuador, the writing of the book and what it was about. He instantly requested a copy (when it was finished), and then gave us a very brief description of why. He said he understood pain, he understood why this book was important to me. His body language changed as he talked, his height of at least 6’1” shrinking before me. His head bent, the insecurity of his own experiences, whatever they were, obvious to me as I watched him become a shadow of himself.

I would like to talk to him one day, find out more about why he left home at such a young age, learn about the places he lived, how he became a chef. I am not sure if he would be willing to tell me these things, based on how uncomfortable I felt he was in those moments we spoke that day. I think he is an amazing person to have gone into an unknown world at such a young age. I guess this struck me even more as I sat in his restaurant with Abel that day a few weeks ago because Abel is just 12 years old. Looking at him as he ate his burger and played songs on his phone, looking for all intense purposes so innocent, I found it very difficult to imagine one so young leaving home on his own. How bad were the circumstances which encouraged Carlos to find his fame and fortune? I think for most of us it would be difficult to imagine those circumstances.

I know my life was not an easy one, those first years presenting many challenges, but still I wonder what would it have taken for me to run away on my own as he did. Would I have had that kind of courage? It seems unlikely based on how scared I was to get on the #10 bus to get to my ballet class.