We’ve never been a family with a lot of money. With Mom working in a day care and Pops in construction, there wasn’t ever a whole lot to go around. And when I got old enough, I was putting in summers working with him to afford the couple of football camps I went to, uniforms, extra spending money, even my college application fees. But I’ve never doubted a day in my life that they love me. That I wasn’t the most important person in their lives. And one of my biggest reminders was Pops doing everything he could to rearrange his schedule for one morning in August to make sure I started the school year on a high note and with a full stomach.
I didn’t think we’d be doing this anymore. That last year was it. Honestly hadn’t even crossed my mind that he’d be calling this morning. But, shit, if I didn’t almost cry when I answered and heard him ask, “I’m taking a break right now; you got five minutes?” before immediately starting in with “Are you eating enough?”
For him, I’ve got all day.
“¿Listo?”
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
Pops starts laughing, covering his mouth so crumbs don’t fly out. “You said the same thing fourteen years ago before you started pre-Kinder. Remember what happened an hour later?”
Of course I do. He’s got to tell this story every year on this day. Even told everyone at my high school graduation party a few months ago, all my best friends and their families in the room, Pops standing at the front, mic in hand, with a picture of me from that morning being projected on the wall behind him, smiling wide and holding on to a backpack decorated with soccer balls. Pretty sure he’s going to have this ready to tell again at my college graduationandat my wedding. “You had my—”
“I had your teacher calling me because ‘Gabi hasn’t stopped crying for his Papa since you dropped him off,’ ” he finishes for me. “Was at work for maybe twenty minutes and had to leave and go back to your school just to get you to stop. And you remember what I told you?”
“I—yeah. That change is scary.”
“But you’re my boy,” he says. “Vamos, hijo. Tu puedes. Porque tu eresmihijo. And the world needs you to go back in there and learn and get really smart. And look at you now. In college. All grown up, but still my son. My baby boy.”
“Ya, Pops.”
“I’ll tell you a secret though, Gabi. Something I never admitted about that day.” He grabs for his bandana, dabbing at his eyes talking about“Pinche salsa, mas picante.”I watch as his eyes stay watery and deep in thought and I realize how alike we look; same deep brown skin, same buzzed haircut (his peppered with some gray now), same smile whether it’s a small one or all teeth. The only big difference is his short, scruffy beard and mustache compared with my almost complete inability to grow facial hair. “I was glad she called me that morning. That I got to hug you a little more. Because I cried too, all the way to whatever hotel off Shoreline we were building. Sad tears because you were growing up too fast. And happy tears because I was thinking about the man you’d become. And when we dropped you off at college, I cried again. More sad tears because I’d have to go home and see your room emptier than it’s ever been. But more happy tears too, because the man I dreamed you’d be is nothing compared with who you’re turning out to be.”
Yeah, I’m crying over some fruit and oatmeal right now, missing my Pops and really wishing I could hug him.
“You got this, boy. You’ve spent summers out here with me building homes all day and still making time for drills at night, and it’s paying off now. Everyone is seeing how special you are.”
I take a second to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and sniff up some mocos. Let out a laugh when Pops tells me, “Chinga’o. Only one of us gets to be a chillón today, Gabi.”
“I’m good,” I say back. “I’m not crying.”
“Bueno. I’ve got to get back to work and you need to be getting to class. Make us proud. Y recuerdas, everything you’ve ever dreamed of, you’re going to achieve. As long as it’s your dream, I’ll always be here to support you through it. You’re going to be someone’s hero one day, with a great story to tell. And that story starts today.”
“I know, Pops. I will.”
“And I’ll talk to you later, okay? Love you, boy. Be smart. And safe, alright? Pues, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean by that. I know how you are with the girls. A Piña man’s always got a line of them. Hell, I was just like that too, having a lot of fun at your age. You might’ve had a few older brothers and sisters around if I wasn’t at least being careful. So you better be—”
“I am.I—I will. Love you too, Pops.”
7
ARE WE IN A SIMULATIONÀLA THE MATRIX?
That’s what I see walking into my very first college class, written big and bold across the whiteboard. Underneath that, taking up way less space, are PROFESSOR COOLIDGE and PHILOSOPHY 1300: INTRODUCTION TO THINKING.
I’m going to hate this class. Calling it now. Hearing about philosophy from a couple friends’ older sisters, I knew in my heart to expect as much, but I was trying not to knock a whole class and subject before walking into the room. Now? It’s a fact I don’t have to spend any time thinking about. We’re not going to be friends. My bullshit meter has never gone off so intensely. As someone who’s gotten at least pretty alright at thinking over the last eighteen years and a few months, I can confidently say that there is a right answer to that question up on the board, but Iknowwe’re about to spend the entire class having a wholediscussion about how the wrong answers could be valid and we should hear them out.
I let out a loud sigh as I start walking farther into the theater-style classroom, up a few rows before dropping into a chair close to the aisle. I get my laptop out, pull up the Notes app, and do everything I can to hopefully force (or, at the very least, trick) my brain to try to listen and be studious. I’ve always been a better-than-average student, and I’m not letting a class where we talk about what movies we’re living in instead of actually learning tank that.
But, for the record, no, this isn’t a simulation likeThe Matrix. And call me a killjoy or a hater when I say no amount of talking or thinking about it will change that.
“Gabriel Piña,” this guy I’m assuming is Professor Coolidge—maybe early forties, white, wearing a sportscoat over a polo shirt and jeans—calls, loud enough for the whole room to go quiet. Everyone’s looking around with him, trying to find a face to the name.Myname andmyface. Got to at least give props to him for pronouncingGabriellike my mom intended it.
“I—yes?” There’s the tiniest crack of nervousness in my voice. Doubt anyone heard it, but I definitely felt it. First day, first class—in thefirst minutes—and I’m already getting called out for something. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because my name happens to be at the top of his alphabetic roster.
Am I in trouble? Did I accidentally call this classtrashout loud?
“Ah, there you are!” He gives me a smile as he pivots to look up at me, and he starts taking steps in my direction. “Question for you: do you think?”
