Speak Up!

Description

In Speak Up!, radio icon Eddie “Piolín” Sotelo opens up for the first time about his humble beginnings and the long, hard road to finding purpose and achieving triumph. Drawing upon his strong family values and his unflinching work ethic, Piolín recounts his very personal and resilient story—how a once undocumented immigrant rose to become the voice of a generation and a symbol of hope. Through intimate, uplifting and engaging real-life accounts, Piolin shares profound inspiration, wisdom, and guidance with his legions of fans and listeners who are searching for their own paths to success and happiness.Eddie “Piolín” Sotelo is the #1 Spanish radio show personality, earning top honors from the National Association of Broadcasters and the Radio Hall of Fame. He has established himself as one of the most influential Hispanics and an advocate and voice for millions of listeners.

PROLOGUE

Throughout the history of the world, there are people who stand out because their mission in life is to inspire and touch the lives of many. These are human beings who do not expect life to take them on an uncertain journey: they are the ones who shape their own destiny through hard work and perseverance.

One of these people is my friend Piolín. Eduardo Sotelo was born in Ocotlán, Jalisco, Mexico, and at a very young age, he made the difficult decision to leave his family and friends behind and to forge a new destiny by traveling to the United States. Like many of our immigrant brothers and sisters, Piolín worked very hard once he got to this country, while at the same time continuing his studies and completing his high school education. With such a desire to succeed, it’s no wonder that he has held so many jobs. Among them, one of his favorites was being an emcee at quinceañera parties. That’s where he discovered his passion for expressing himself, and he decided to pursue his calling. Cultivating his talents, he started from the bottom of the ladder, reading the news on an AM radio station. But gradually he began to climb the ladder and move on to bigger and better opportunities. His great talent and dedication led to him attaining the most coveted position for a radio host: having your own morning talk show in one of the most competitive markets in all of Spanish language broadcasting, the West Coast of the United States. Thanks to his popularity and the large audience he drew, he managed to have it broadcasted on more than sixty stations coast to coast. This is a great moment in his career. But beyond his success, what impresses me about Piolín is that he decided to use his voice on the radio and his convening power to support immigrants. He became the champion of all Latinos, he fights daily to expose the injustices suffered by immigrants, and he advocates with personalities and politicians to raise awareness and bring about meaningful change. Thus, he has become not only a citizen of Mexican origin, but a true representative of the entire Latino community, and an example to all immigrants who come here to make positive contributions to this country. During his career, it is worth mentioning that—in addition to interviewing important artists and celebrities—he has also hosted President Barack Obama and the First Lady Michelle Obama on his program. Visits like these establish the level of importance that Piolín has as a leader of our community. Comprehensive immigration reform may still be far away, but it still has supporters behind it: people like Piolín, who know how to reach the heart of the people not only through political messages, but also with a good sense of humor that alleviates the harsh realities of life led by immigrants who struggle daily to get by in this country.

I, who have had the opportunity to get to know Eddie “Piolín” Sotelo, can attest to the fact that he is a man with faith in his heart. That inner peace is what helps keep him going despite the many changes that life throws his way. He, with his great sense of humor, knows how to find the silver lining in any situation. I wish my friend all the best as he embarks on this new stage of becoming an author, and hope that through this book, you—his audience—can learn more about his life and career. Stories of surmounting all odds, like the ones Piolín tells here, are how you win the battle for immigration reform, while at the same time setting a positive example for a new generation of immigrants all around the world.

With much respect,

EMILIO ESTEFAN

INTRODUCTION

When I look back on the path I’ve traveled, I am amazed by the places I’ve been, the obstacles I’ve had to overcome, and the many joys that God has given me. But most important, I have learned from the experiences I have lived through. That is what I want to share with you in this book, and that is what made me decide to write it.

The lessons I have learned in life have helped me to be clear about the values that guide me: my faith in God, the solidarity I feel toward others, the value of an education, and the relentless pursuit of my dreams. I always consider these priorities when I have a decision to make.

From my family, I learned the value of togetherness. Through our daily lives and from knowing the sadness of being separated for long periods of time—first, when my dad and older brother decided to come to the United States, and then later, when I followed in their footsteps, leaving my mom and little brother behind—I learned just how important the concept of family is in each of our lives.

My faith has always been present in me. But it was only through the truly tough experiences, the ones I endured here in this country, that I finally understood the immense love God has for me and I could feel His constant presence. So, little by little, I grew closer and closer to Him, until I finally accepted Him into the depths of my heart. And it is thanks to God, the values that I learned from my family, and the sincere, unconditional love I have for my wife, María, that I now have a family of my own who makes each day fulfilling and makes me want to get better each and every day.

The challenges I experienced when I first arrived in the United States only made me stronger and drove me to pursue my dreams with an even greater intensity. But they also taught me how important it is to be informed so that you’re not easily deceived, and about the enormous challenge the majority of the immigrants in this country are facing, and how important it is that we stand firm to improve our situation. Immigrants are people with a powerful desire to succeed and to contribute each and every day to the greatness of America through their hard work.

The time I spent filled with anxiety and stress, when I was very nearly deported for having used false documents, made me realize just how important it was to share my experience with others. I wanted people to learn from what I’d gone through, so they might avoid the same problems that I had. And that is why, once my immigration status was resolved, I began using my radio show as a means for sharing what I’d learned and seeking experts to help others with immigration issues.

That same desire to share my experiences is what made me want to write a book. I’d been thinking about it for several years, driven by listeners and even some friends and relatives, but I didn’t have the time or even an idea of where to begin. But in 2013, I finally decided to do it: to face this new challenge, to remember my past, to write it down, and to share it.

The result of all my experiences is in this book, which you have in your hands. I hope that what you read in these pages inspires you to keep moving forward, to find the answers that you need, and to never, ever give up.

CHAPTER 1

No matter how hard I ran, I still missed the bus. It had been a rough day, like almost every day since I started, but I didn’t normally miss the bus to work at the photography studio, one of the several jobs I had. Maybe, if I hadn’t spent those extra minutes talking to my friends, telling them that I really had to go, that I couldn’t stick around talking about soccer practice, I would have made it.

Oh, man, I missed it, was the first thing I thought when I saw the bus pulling away. I had a long wait before the next one arrived, so I decided that the best thing for me was just run to the photo lab, which was located on Main Street in Santa Ana, not too far from where I was. That way, I’d get there faster than if I just waited. It was raining, but I didn’t care; it was better to get there as fast as possible. But as hard as I ran, I still showed up a half hour late to work. I misjudged the distance, and to make matters worse, I was soaked.

My dad was going to be furious! He worked with me there at the lab, and so I decided to sneak in through the back door into the darkroom so nobody would see me showing up late. Or that’s what I thought. As soon as I closed the darkroom door, there was a hard knock on the other side. It could only have been my dad. It was all but impossible to open the door to the darkroom without making noise, because blinds were hanging on the back side of it. I did everything I could to make sure it swung as quietly as possible, but I wasn’t successful.

“What’s up, Dad?” I asked.

“Come out,” he immediately replied. He sounded really upset.

Unwillingly, I stepped outside.

“What time did you get here?”

“Well, I’ve been here awhile.”

“No. No, you haven’t,” he replied, very firmly, and then he began to shout: “You know what? With all the things you are doing, you will be a nobody!”

“What are you saying?” I asked, confused.

“I’m saying you will be a nobody!”

He was so angry that he looked as if he was about to hit me. He didn’t, but his words hurt so much that I would have preferred that he did.

It’s true, at that time in my life, I was juggling many things at once, a bunch of different odd jobs that seemed to have taken all the hours in the day. But what my dad didn’t realize—or didn’t want to realize at the time—was that I was trying to find something, a direction, the best way to help my family. I even worked through the weekends, and my only distraction was going to the Laundromat on Saturdays. There, I’d also check out the bulletin board to see if any job opportunities had been posted, and make friends with anyone who could offer me work. I was seventeen at the time, and all I wanted was a way to make ends meet. My dad was fully aware of that, and I just couldn’t believe what I was hearing from him.

“You know what?” I shouted, though I really wanted to shove him, hit him because of the pain he was causing me. “I’m gonna make you eat those words! I’m gonna be somebody!”

As I said that, the tears started to flow, and since I didn’t want him to see me cry, I turned around and went back into the darkroom. I slammed the door behind me and bawled my eyes out. I lay down on the floor and turned off the light. What a nasty thing to say to me, I thought, over and over again. Maybe it’s true, maybe I never will make something out of my life, I said to myself, once I had calmed down. But then I realized that wasn’t true. Even though I was doing a thousand things at once that didn’t seem to be going anywhere, deep down in my heart, I believed that I could achieve many things in life, even more than my father—or I—could imagine. I can’t explain it, but at that moment I felt that clarity and that conviction. So I dried my eyes, opened the door, and went to see my dad.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said. “I think we need to talk.” But I couldn’t even begin to speak before I hugged him and we both started to cry.

“I’m sorry I missed the bus,” I explained.

“I’m sorry too, m’ijo,” he replied, “but we have so much work to do. The owner is always complaining because I can’t get it all done myself.”

And with that, we began working immediately. There were photos that needed to be enlarged, and there was no time to lose.

My father had been upset because of the pressure he had on him. He needed to do things right at work and provide for his family. And while his words were hurtful at the time, I will always be grateful for what he said to me that day in the darkroom, because ever since that moment, I knew I’d be putting all my efforts in what I was doing to become someone in life. I’ll always remember what he said, for the rest of my life, I said to myself. I was convinced. What my dad told me then was no longer something negative, but had become something eternally positive. It pushed me to get better each and every day. I still remember it, and it continues to be a source of strength.

Every time I’m faced with a difficult situation, every time I feel afraid or uncertain when dealing with a new or unfamiliar challenge, I remind myself of what my dad said to me that day, and that helps me find the self-confidence and desire that has allowed me to get to where I am today.

Despite all the challenges and obstacles I’ve encountered in my life—and there’ve been more than a few—this belief that I’ll be able to succeed helped me find the wisdom to overcome them. At the end of the day, that’s what life is: a series of challenges that we need to overcome, that we can learn from, and that give us an opportunity to better ourselves each and every day.

That’s why I came to this country, to this world. Better yet, that’s why we all came to this world: to succeed!

PART ONE

CHAPTER 2

When we were little, my older brother, Jorge, and I spent a lot of time playing together. We were good friends with big imaginations. Sometimes we’d take Popsicle sticks and pretend they were airplanes.

“Ay, let’s go to the United States!” we’d say.

To us, the United States was the place from where people came back with new sneakers we’d never seen before. Everything was there and everyone who lived there had the money to buy whatever they wanted.

From the patio, we’d watch planes flying in the sky, and asked ourselves, When will we be able to go to the United States?

*   *   *

The house where I was born was a rental. My parents, my brother, and I all lived under that roof. It was a simple brick structure located in Riveras de Sula, a humble neighborhood near Ocotlán in the state of Jalisco, Mexico. To get to school, we had to walk along the side of the road, where there were normally more people than cars, but the few that did come flying by kicked up so much dust that I thought, Why bother taking a bath if I’m gonna end up this dirty?

Our house was an adobe structure with a tile roof, like most others in the neighborhood. Not far away was a eucalyptus forest, a nursing home, and a brickwork yard, and the passersby had to contend with stray dogs and horse-drawn carts delivering milk in enormous metal containers. The street right in front of our house was on a public bus route, and every time one drove by it spit out a cloud of smoke that engulfed everything and kicked up so much dust that it was impossible to keep it from getting everywhere. However, my mom went about cleaning everything just the same, and I remember saying to her once, “Why do you spend so much time cleaning if more dust is just gonna come in? It doesn’t even matter if we close the door, because it’s gonna find its way in somehow.”

Not far from the house were a few dirt soccer fields where I’d play with my friends, and just beyond them—near Lake Chapala—was a neighborhood that was home to many fishermen and known as Cantarranas because it lay along a river from which frogs would emerge every night and start to sing. This same river passed behind my house, and since the neighborhood streets weren’t paved, every time it rained, the house would flood. Many of the storms came during the night, and I don’t know if it’s because I got used to them or if I’m just a heavy sleeper, but I remember from time to time that I wouldn’t know that it had rained until after I’d woken up. I didn’t need to look out the window or leave the house to confirm it because the water was almost level with the bed.

Now that I think about it, I have no idea how we didn’t all drown in our sleep! But back then, it never seemed to be a concern. On the contrary, that much rain was a fun thing, because every time the neighborhood flooded, Jorge and I would go out to splash around with the other kids on the block. We spent the day splashing in the water, jumping and swimming and covering ourselves in mud. The fact that the street wasn’t paved didn’t matter much to us because we knew how to take advantage of such a benefit. Plus, we were children. And we were happy.

Sometimes, when my dad saw us splashing around in the puddles, he’d say, “When we have the money, I’ll take you to an awesome pool.”

If at the time, someone would have told me about everything I would later go on to do, I would have laughed. Me, a poor kid from Ocotlán, hosting a talk radio show with people listening in from all over the world? Impossible!

But nothing is.

*   *   *

As is the case with the vast majority of the immigrants in this country, I grew up in a rather poor family that didn’t have much in the way of resources, but what we did have was a strong work ethic and a great family spirit. My dad worked for Celanese Mexicana, a textile factory that had a plant in the city at the time, while my mom was in charge of taking care of the house and of us. Their attitude and outlook on life taught me that you have to really make an effort if you want to progress, and that you can’t be afraid of challenges and problems.

The house we grew up in had a back patio, where my parents liked to keep plants and trees. I still have a picture of me with one of my cousins sitting out there.

When I show this photo to my children, they ask me: “Papá, why are your shoes all worn-out and with holes?”

“Because that’s all we had,” I reply. This always brings out a bit of a laugh, because despite my worn-out shoes, I look quite happy in the picture.

Of course, because to be happy you don’t need new shoes or lots of money.

I guess another reason why my shoes looked like that was because I was the second child to be born, which isn’t always a good thing since you tend to get hand-me-downs. The shoes had obviously once belonged to my brother.

I distinctly remember that as soon as my mom saw a hole in my brother’s pants, she automatically gave them to me, after fixing up the hole with one of those iron-on patches.

“But I don’t want these old pants, Mamá. Why are you giving them to me?” I would ask, a bit disappointed.

“It’s okay. Just put them on,” was her only answer.

So I had no choice but to walk around with more patches than an old tire, because that’s how it was: I got shirts, shoes, and everything that came along with them . . . even the bangs my brother had to endure years before. Thanks to the practice my father had gotten with my brother, the smacks I got were even more severe, and maybe that’s why I’m more resistant to such things today. At least, that’s my theory!

I always thought that when I had my own children, I wouldn’t do to them what was done to me: be forced to wear my older sibling’s clothes. Fortunately, I was able to fulfill my promise, though it might have something to do with the fact that they’re so far apart in age that handing down clothes wouldn’t make any sense.

When we were in elementary school, my brother, Jorge, was very studious. He always got good grades, and my parents rewarded him for it. And as if that weren’t enough, he was a great soccer player as well, and everyone at school respected him. I also looked up to my older brother back in those days; I wanted to do everything that he did, and I always tried to do things that would make him proud of me.

But all that changed when he started high school. He began hanging out with the wrong crowd and started drinking. Little by little, he forgot about his schoolwork and even soccer, to the extent that for his entire senior year, he was skipping classes to go drinking with friends, either at a liquor store near the school or at a pool hall. One day, our dad saw him staggering down the road, completely drunk, when he was supposed to have been in class. And that was it, because our dad gave him a lashing on his back to teach him how to behave himself. But it didn’t work, because my brother didn’t change his ways, and his grades started to drop. To try to hide this, he got together with some of his friends with the idea of bribing their teachers. There was one who liked to drink tequila, and together—between the money they had from working plus whatever they were able to gather—they were able to buy a couple of bottles. But the plan quickly fell apart when our dad found out what my brother was planning to do, and although he disciplined him again, by then it was too late: He barely finished high school after passing a set of special exams that took place during the holidays. It was a true shame, because despite his great athletic talent, my brother lost his chance at pursuing a career as a professional soccer player that might have carried him as far as Guadalajara and to one of the club teams there, Atlas. It was truly sad to see how alcohol wore down his strengths and abilities drink by drink.

Despite being so young, I was well aware of everything that was going on with my brother. I could see how my parents were suffering. And also, during that same time, I watched how alcohol damaged my dad, who drank excessively throughout my childhood. Oftentimes he wouldn’t come home at night, choosing instead to go drinking with my maternal grandfather. Despite his drinking too much and losing his composure, I know that he was always true to his principles, because on some of these drunken occasions, my grandfather would bring women over to see if he would succumb, but my dad always remained faithful.

All I can say about my dad’s drinking is that it truly hurt me to see him like that. Especially when our mom wouldn’t let him in the house and he had to spend the night outside. And when he would show up drunk, he would often become aggressive and physically attack us, something which hurt less in the body than it did in the heart. But he was my dad, and I loved him a lot.

When I finally confronted him, he promised me that he would stop drinking. He used to swear to it, especially during Holy Week. Sometimes he succeeded in keeping his word, but other times he didn’t, and that made me feel betrayed. I think that was the moment when I learned how important it is to fulfill the promises you make, because every time he promised me something, I would feel a sense of peace and serenity in my heart that let me know that everything was going to be all right. But then, when he broke his promises, I’d feel a deep sense of pain, and my whole world would start to crumble.

Alcohol can take control over you, and sometimes my dad would try to conceal it so he could continue to drink. Sometimes I’d go up to him, take the glass of whatever from his hand, and smell it.

“Is there alcohol in this, Dad? Are you lying to me?”

“No, look, I have the soda can right here.”

“No, Dad, this smells like alcohol.”

My dad would feel embarrassed, but sometimes he would get angry enough to hit me. “Mind your own business!” he’d say.

This isn’t life, I thought. It doesn’t make sense to work so hard just to end up wasting the money you earn on getting drunk. During times like these, I’d usually hole up in my room and pull my hair out in frustration at feeling so helpless.

In time, my dad’s taste for alcohol began to decrease. Drinking gave him horrible headaches, and one day he said, God, my family and I can’t continue to suffer because of my habit. And with conviction and discipline, he was able to cut down on his drinking.

Even though I was only seven, I had learned a valuable lesson: There’s no logic in wasting your life on alcohol. Or any vice, for that matter. The pain and disappointment I suffered as a result of my dad’s and brother’s alcoholism was so powerful that I knew, even at that age, that such a life was not for me. I saw no benefit in it. I just couldn’t understand why they liked to drink so much if all it did was make them angry and short-tempered, as if they were always having a tough time about something. For that reason, to this day, I neither drink nor smoke. So far, thanks to God and to exercise, I’ve been able to keep that promise to myself and my family.

*   *   *

I remember, back behind the house I grew up in, there was a lime tree that had a special significance for me: the possibility of helping the family. When I was old enough to understand the economic needs we had, I decided to pick the limes and bag them up, five at a time, and set them out on a little table that I’d set up in front of the house. There, I’d set up shop, and sell the limes to people passing by.

Sales weren’t great, but they came. As time went on, I started to think about ways to make my little business grow, until one day I thought, Why don’t I also sell bags of ice? So that’s what I did: I put bags of water in the freezer—one of the few luxuries we could afford—and when they froze, I’d set them out on the table with the limes. Now that I had more to offer, I could attract more clients. Finally, my mom suggested, “Put the lime and the ice together.”

And so I started selling bags of lime-flavored ice. While it didn’t make me a millionaire, the sales did increase a bit. That was my first experience as a businessperson, as well as my first opportunity to help my parents out economically.

Getting interested in helping the family was something I learned from my parents, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. Both sides of my family are hardworking and enterprising people, besides being generous. It didn’t matter that they came from an economically disadvantaged situation; they all worked hard and never hesitated to help one another when needed, especially when it came to other family members.

In school, I had a few friends whose parents had lost their jobs, and they dealt with it by sitting around the house, wasting time. That really bothered me, because I couldn’t understand how someone could lose their job and just sit around idly, playing with their thumbs. Why not go out each and every morning and look for a new job? Or why not just invent one?

I was used to seeing the opposite in my own family. Each day, I’d see my parents get up early, ready to start the day. My mom got us ready for school and my dad went off to work, regardless of whether it was raining or whether he was tired or things weren’t going well at his job. That’s how it had always been, and so every morning he’d head out the door with the belief that one way or another, his efforts would yield results.

He got his first job at the age of nine. Every morning before school, he’d go out into the street to sell Jell-O squares. He’d walk up and down the street yelling, Jell-O! Jell-O! and the people who wanted some would come up and buy it. He was very young, but that didn’t stop him from looking for ways to make a living. Later, he found work at a photography studio in Ocotlán, and when that job didn’t work out in the end, he moved to other places throughout Mexico where there were photography studios willing to hire him. That’s how he ended up spending time in places like Tepatitlán, Mexico City, and Tijuana. After that, still fairly young, he crossed the border in search of new opportunities, which is how he found himself in Cupertino, California, hard at work in the fields picking—or as we say in other parts of Mexico—harvesting apricots and, later, vegetables.

His initial plan was to stay there for about three years to earn enough money so he could get married, because he’d realized that he could make more money working in the fields in the United States than he could as a photographer in Mexico. Besides, by that time, he had already met the woman who would later become my mom. He’d fallen in love with her, and they were a couple. She was still living back in Ocotlán, and they kept in touch by sending each other letters, which was more common back then. E-mail obviously hadn’t been invented yet, and phone calls were all but impossible. It cost a fortune, and you had to have a phone in your home, or use your friend’s.

For my parents, distance and slow correspondence proved to be no barrier to maintaining a loving long-distance relationship. But of course, my mom would have liked to have him closer. She didn’t like the fact he’d planned on staying in the United States for so long, and didn’t care about the money he wanted to earn before returning to Mexico. All she wanted was for him not to be so far away, and so one day she decided to stop writing letters to my dad. That made him nervous. He kept on writing to her for some time, but as the weeks and months passed without a response, he knew that something was wrong and didn’t have to think long before making a decision. He clearly knew what his priorities were and went back to Ocotlán earlier than he’d planned: He didn’t want someone else to win over my mother’s heart, or for her to simply lose interest.

I don’t know what the reunion was like or what was said when they finally saw each other again, but I imagine it was full of emotion and affection. There’s a reason they’re still together, and have built a family together that has survived a number of ordeals throughout the years, and that inspires me to keep on going whenever problems come up in my own life.

After my father asked his future father-in-law (and my grandfather Don Bartolo) for his daughter’s hand in marriage, Don Bartolo asked my dad what his plans were going forward. My dad replied, “Well, Don Bartolo, if I can’t find a job here in Ocotlán, I’m going to have to go to Tijuana or even try to find a job in the United States.”

Apparently my grandfather didn’t like my dad’s answer at all, because the very next day he handed him a letter requesting my dad’s presence at the offices of Celanese Mexicana, a factory with a long-standing presence in Ocotlán that produced linen for making clothing. My grandfather Bartolo had worked as an electrician at the factory for many years, and used his connections there to get my dad a job interview. When he showed up at the offices, they gave him an aptitude test, and hired him shortly thereafter. And that’s the story of how Papa Tolo (which is how we lovingly referred to our grandfather Bartolo) gave him his daughter’s hand, along with a job, so they could move forward together.

My grandfather loved his daughter very much, and he wasn’t happy about the thought of having her move far away from him. My mom was his favorite daughter, because she was the one who was the most attentive to him and my grandmother. I remember, on more than one occasion, having to spend hours and hours in the hospital with my mom because no matter what else was going on, if her parents needed her, she wanted to be there for them.

As a worker for Celanese, my dad was able to join a labor union that helped people with limited resources get a home through Infonavit, the Mexican federal institute for workers’ housing. I was always struck by this, because I couldn’t understand how my dad could be spending so much time helping other people when, to me, it looked like we needed help ourselves.

“Hey, Dad, how come we don’t have a house and yet you’re helping other people get theirs?” I asked him once. I really didn’t understand it at the time, especially when I thought about our family’s economic difficulties, and the torrential rains that flooded our home every winter. The houses built by Infonavit certainly weren’t big, but I remember they did have a few amenities, like a finished bathroom, a kitchenette, a living room, paved streets. . . .

“Yes, son,” my dad replied, “but there are people who have greater needs than we do. At least we have a place to live, even if we have to pay rent. These other workers have no place at all.”

His explanation helped me understand an important truth, one that guides me to this day, and which I would practice years later, when I started working in the radio business: You have to help those who need it the most. No matter what you might be lacking in your own life, there’s always someone who could use your help. Always.

This outlook on life was something I learned not only from my dad, but also from my grandparents.

Whenever a neighbor was sick, my dad and grandparents would tell me, “Son, we made chilaquiles. Take them over to the neighbor who’s sick.”

My first reaction was, Great, that’s less for me, but I never refused and I did as I was told. I was too young at the time to fully understand what they were doing, but bit by bit I began to realize what it was they were teaching me: Always share my blessings with others. That lesson would echo throughout my entire life, and to this day it’s one of the guiding principles by which I live.

Whenever we’d go to the market, Papa Tolo would buy two or three extra tomatoes, and when it was time to head home, he’d say to me, “Okay, son, go knock on the neighbor’s door.”

It could have been any neighbor. I didn’t understand at the time, but I now know that it was someone who was sick or out of work.

“My grandpa sent me over with this,” I’d say when the neighbor would open the door. They were always quite surprised and very grateful.

But my grandpa’s generosity wasn’t limited to just friends and neighbors. I remember one Christmas in particular very well: I was around eleven at the time, and for months had been wanting a goalkeeper’s jersey, but when Christmas Day came, the jersey never arrived. Maybe Santa forgot, or had problems with his budget, but whatever the reason, I was crushed. The next day, I told my grandfather, who listened attentively.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get some juice together.”

Normally he’d invite me to sit down for some juice after exercising, but this time was different. In any case, I accepted the invitation, figuring we’d have some juice and continue talking.

The juice stand we liked to visit was located in an outdoor market that was open every Saturday and Sunday. On our way, we passed a stand selling clothes, and among them was an amazing jersey. It was blue with orange sleeves, much like the one worn by Jorge Campos when he was the goalkeeper for the Mexican national soccer team.

“I wanted one just like that,” I said. My grandfather stopped.

“Hey, can you take that one down for us, please?” he asked the guy running the stand.

“Whoa, yeah, just like this one,” I repeated, my eyes wide with excitement.

My grandfather asked me to try it on. In all honesty, I wasn’t looking for him to buy it for me. That wasn’t my intent. I just wanted to know what it felt like to wear it. I can’t lie. It felt good, though it was a little tight, and when I went to take it off, he said: “No, leave it on. It’s yours.”

Not only did I leave it on. I never wanted to take it off ever again! If a food stain got on the sleeve, I’d turn it inside out so nobody would notice. I even slept in it.

I don’t know if he’d intended to buy me the jersey when he invited me out for juice, or if it all just happened spontaneously. What I do know is that he made me very happy, and I’ll always be grateful for that unexpected gift.

But on my father’s side of the family, my grandparents were much poorer. I remember that at their house, there was no bathroom; instead, there was a latrine in the back. It was an adobe brick house with a tejabán—a tile-covered roof. The key to the front door was a massive antique key, and they hid it up under the edge of the roof. When we left school and went to visit them, we had to jump to reach the key. When you opened the door, you realized that it was just a one-room home with a dirt floor. I remember my grandmother Cuca would sweep and wet the floor to keep the dust down. The kitchen was separate from the house, and instead of a gas oven, it had a kerosene one. The light in the house also came from oil—in the form of lamps—because there was no electricity. It wasn’t until my dad eventually bought them one that my grandparents had a gas stove to cook with.

Behind the house, my grandmother had a small cornfield, and from time to time, we’d help her water it. And the latrine was right there in the middle of it. That’s how you go to the bathroom in the country: with chickens clucking all around you, giving you a bit of cover while you’re doing your business.

When I think back about the way my grandparents lived, and how hard they worked to make a better life for themselves, I better understand the great sense of dignity born from such a lifestyle. They’ve always been an inspiration to me, as are all people who get up every morning and—however difficult their situation may be—make an effort to better themselves and achieve their dreams.

My grandmother Cuca was fond of needlework, and would knit us sweaters and scarves. Sometimes, with spare fabric from Ocotlán Industries, she’d weave and sell floor mats. She never studied dressmaking; she just taught herself to sew by doing it. I remember, since her eyesight wasn’t so good, she’d ask us to help her by threading the needle. And there we sat, trying to stick that piece of thread through the tiny eye of that needle, until we managed to succeed.

My grandfather Chuy rented a plot of land to cultivate. Despite their poverty and the harsh difficulty of working in the field, he always had a snack for me when he saw that I was hungry. He was just as generous as my other grandfather, Bartolo.

Going to my dad’s parents’ house always made me happy because they were always so kind to me, and taught me the value of hard work.

*   *   *

Education is vital. It’s the key to making us better people. But when I was a kid, I wasn’t really into studying. I just wasn’t a good student. As I mentioned, I was always ready to work, but I was far from the hardest-working student in the classroom. I talked too much during class, and I was punished and the school would call my parents all the time. I guess I must have had my teachers at the point of desperation, because one day one of them hit me on the arm—right on the conejo (a slang word for biceps)—with a switch from a tree. It hurt like crazy, and ended up leaving a scar that I still have today. On that occasion, my mom went in to talk with the teacher because, while she supported the school’s mission and agreed that I needed to be reprimanded if I did something wrong, she was shocked by this and thought the teacher had gone too far. When she asked for an explanation for what had happened, the teacher replied: “It’s because he won’t shut up.”

But I couldn’t help it. I liked seeing the other kids laughing loudly at the things I said. I still like it, and that’s why I spend a good part of my radio programs telling jokes. I love to hear people laughing.

Some time after that, the same teacher, exasperated again, hit me with another switch, right dead center in the middle of my back. I had trouble walking for several days. Today, it seems a brutal form of punishment, but that’s how it was at the time. And in the end, their strategy of spare the rod and spoil the child didn’t work, because I still love to talk to this day. And I think to myself, Whew!

I guess this facility for chatting with people is another thing I learned from my dad, who was also quite talkative and could make friends with anyone. And while I was just like him in that regard, I found it annoying when my dad did it, so much so that I didn’t even like going to places with him.

“No, I don’t want to go to the market with Dad! He’ll stop and talk with anyone!” I complained to my mom whenever she asked me to accompany him. Sometimes, he’d even change his entire schedule around so he could go and help someone, taking me with him.

I think the same thing is going on with my own children now, because they’ll also say they don’t want to go to places with me because I’ll stop and talk to just about anybody. And ironically, it even happened with my dad and me. Not long ago, when I went back to Ocotlán for a visit, we were driving back to the house in my uncle’s car, and I’d stop time and again to greet people I knew, including an old friend of mine from Valentín Gómez Farías Elementary School, which I attended when I was younger.

“You know what?” he said. “I’m stopping the car. You can bring your uncle’s car later.” And he got out and started walking away.

“Dang!” I thought. “If my dad got tired of so much socializing, and he used to tire me out when I was a kid, I guess I’m over it now!”

In the end, when it came to school, the only A’s I got were when my mom made alphabet soup. And I really did look for ways to be a better student, but I never found one that suited me. In the evening, when it came time to do my homework, I focused on the task at hand, on understanding what I was doing and doing it well. I sat there with my notebook and tried to work on the exercises that the teachers had asked us to complete, but something in my head prevented them from turning out correctly. It was as if the two of them—my brain and my homework—had gotten into an argument and were no longer speaking with one another. But I tried hard . . . that much I know for a fact.

And I have to say that not all of my teachers scolded me or beat me. One of them in particular, Ms. Blanca, whom I remember fondly, was always there to help me; she was very patient, and explained things to me slowly and calmly. To teachers like her and the others who were willing to spend hours after school working with me, I’ll be forever grateful, because thanks to them, I was able to pass the subjects that I struggled the most with, especially math. Actually, I have to admit, most subjects were difficult for me, and probably the only one that I really enjoyed was phys ed . . . and recess. When it came to those two, I could run around, exercise, and just have fun playing around with my friends.

And yes, I loved getting involved with every extracurricular activity that Valentín Gómez Farías Elementary School had to offer. I participated in folk dancing, choir, miming, school plays, and whatever other offering they had. It might have been something I got from my dad, because he loved the theater and always participated in church performances during Easter or Christmas. Now, whenever I’m standing in front of a microphone, a group of people, or one of the events that we’ve organized, I realize how useful it was to have participated in all those festivities: It took the edge off the stage fright that often affects people in those sorts of situations. And most people don’t know this, but I’m actually a really shy person. Nonetheless, it’s something I enjoy very much.

*   *   *

I remember quite well how, every day at lunchtime, I would buy a tostada—a fried tortilla—covered in red hot sauce from a bottle. And during recess, not having much money, the best I could hope for were some saltines with slices of tomato and onion. The other kids, especially those who were better off, ate their saltines with tuna. Their snacks looked tastier than mine, but deep down it didn’t matter much. And since we didn’t have much in the way of resources, the school gave us a free bottle of milk to drink during breakfast. Now, when I see the lunches available to my kids at school, I think about how different things are from what I used to eat when I was their age. We’ve come a very long way since then. I know that many other first-generation immigrants experience something similar when they think back to the way things were in our countries of origin. Oftentimes, the games we played were different, the schools are bigger and more advanced, and the food has a new, distinct flavor.

When it came to recess, like all children, I was ready to play. Especially soccer and capirucho, a game in which you dig a hole in the ground and place a small stick on top of it, which you then have to lift up with a larger stick. We also like to play a game called los quemados, where you’d make five little holes against the wall and throw a beanbag to see which one you could get it to land in. If the ball landed in a hole that corresponded to one of your friends, he had to go grab it and throw it back at us.

Soccer wasn’t just something we played during recess. We’d organize games among our friends and family members and play after school, or on the weekends. Nowadays, it’s a bit more complicated for the kids, because the streets are becoming busier with cars. But back then, in Ocotlán, playing in the streets was normal, and my friends and I would meet up in an empty lot near home or the school and clear away the weeds and trash. We’d use tree branches to mark the goals, and if a neighbor happened to be doing some sort of construction, we’d offer to help unload supplies from the trucks in exchange for a little lime with which we could paint white lines on the field. It took a lot of time and effort to do all of this, but in the end we weren’t even tired; instead, we were excited and proud of what we’d accomplished. But most important, we immediately got down to playing soccer, and boy, did we enjoy it! We’d spend hours there in that lot, scoring goals and trying to outdo the other team.

I started out playing goalkeeper, but since even the neighborhood dogs were taller than me, I switched to midfield, because I liked to run and go after the ball. Today, when my kids are playing soccer, I always tell them, Don’t just stand there; get moving and go after the ball!

Although playing in the streets was fairly common among the kids in Ocotlán, my mom didn’t like the idea, because—like any good mother—she was worried about us and didn’t want anything bad to happen. We always had to bundle up even when it was hot. Not once did I go out to play without hearing her calling after me, You’re going to get sick! Put on a sweater!

Similarly, whenever we’d walk to the creek, she’d supply us with at least three sandwiches in case we got hungry. We always grumbled and complained, because that seemed like too much, but there was no debating it with her. But of course, in the end, she always turned out to be right, because we ended up devouring everything she’d fixed for us, and now that I have children of my own and have to look after them to make sure they’re safe and sound, I understand her even more. In fact, I occasionally find myself doing the same things that she did, like when I tell them to put on a sweatshirt when it’s not even cold outside. And María, my wife, does the same whenever we go on a trip or some other excursion: She packs nuts, oranges, and granola in case someone gets hungry on the road.

At the time, I had no idea how much I would miss my mom a few years later, when I had to say good-bye to her.

*   *   *

As I write this book and look back over my childhood, playing with my friends, what I saw going on at home and the good and bad examples set by my family, I realize just how much it all meant to me and how much it contributed to the person I am today. My family taught me to be generous to others and to work hard. I also saw what alcohol can do to a person, which is why I’ve always tried to avoid it in my own life. The soccer games with friends and the way we “constructed” our fields helped me learn to be resourceful. And in school I learned not only basic skills, but also how to channel my inner strength and be at ease in public, giving me the first opportunity to realize how much I enjoyed talking with people and making them laugh.

CHAPTER 3

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn came from a bicycle.

You always imagine that achieving your dreams will be a wonderful moment of satisfaction and peace. That’s normally the case, at least until you start imagining new dreams and setting new goals.

But on this particular occasion, I learned that’s not always the case. And everything doesn’t always come out like peaches and cream.

I really wanted a bike, because it was so cool to watch other kids riding all over the place. Whenever we finished up a soccer game, some of my friends would hop on their bikes and leave. I remember thinking that a bike was something of a luxury for a kid, whereas for an adult, it was more normal: it was a means of getting to work, or transporting his family from place to place. The point is, I became obsessed with the idea of owning a bike so I could ride all over Ocotlán to play with my friends. But since my parents couldn’t buy me one, I had to settle on dreaming about it.

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