Latina Boy

Latin music, especially the Spanish Guitar, fills me with emotion. It makes me feel - I am not sure how to express it - I want to cry when I hear it but at the same time it makes me feel good.

I was wondering why. It has occurred to me that for 6months when I was 12 I lived in a Latin country, minus my father and no other bullies or paedophiles around. I was happy for those six months. I seem to recall my days just spent swimming in the beautiful clear sea and playing in the sunshine. All to a Latin music background.

I don't think it is just that. I have a love hate thing going with all things Latin. I feel Latina are my people. Yet at the same time I do not fit in with them at all. I don't speak the language for a start except with my hands! (My mother chose not to teach us her native Latin tongue.) Yes, I talk with my hands. I have the passion too. Here in England people are likely to think I am upset or angry when all I am is excited! It always puzzled me until John and I drove to Barcelona (1000 miles plus in 2002 - my first euro road trip). In a restaurant, I looked around and could see that everyone was fighting! At least I realised that to a non Latin or UK person, the people did look like they were fighting, hands flying, strong facial expression, loud voices. But no one was fighting. It was normal Latin passion.

I have no roots. I don't come from anywhere. I was born in 58. By 71 I had lived in 5 different countries and visited countless others. By 85 I had lived in 33 different homes. I had been to so many schools I have lost count.

I saw so many different peoples, customs, exciting and exotic places. I also was in a constant state of loss and nowhere or no time or no how to grieve. Always moving, nothing was permanent. With all my childhood friends I knew how it would end before it started-with loss. I knew it was temporary. Yet I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop myself getting close. And I couldn't say no to predators. I needed the comfort. The approval. The love. I was a child and didn't know it wasn't love. I just knew it wasn't fists or derision so it must be love. I was an easy target-be nice to me, don't scare me or hurt me, and I will respond the way you want me to.

Predators exist in all countries-at least the ones I was in. Yes, I was abused in five different countries and 3 different continents. How about that.

When I recall those countries, I recall the excitement, the smells, the exoticness, the winters, the tropical suns, the pungent food, the cakes, the dryness, the heat, the jet liners, the long haul flights. They are what I recall first. I recall the other stuff later. I do know what country I was in and what year by whatever trauma I experienced there and then.

Building good memories, which I started in 97 but didn't really get off the ground until 02, when we made out first road trip on the Continent (I had gone on my own on a 2 week road trip in 97 to New England and Canada). Now I automatically think of those trips we have made, or I have made, in 02, 03, 04 until this year. And now when I think of Xmas I think of Xmas 07-good memories of Xmas which I made myself. I can't forget the dark years but I have made, and will continue to make, light years with which to build good memories that I can recall with pleasure whenever I wish to.

Yes I live in light years now, casting a shadow with my past. But that shadow didn't exist when it was all dark. Today my days are coloured and have light and shade. I remember the last few years and my memories are in colour. Further back and it is dark and dank and lifeless, like looking into the never ending depth of a hole in the ground. The suffocating, filthy aloneness of a hole deep, deep, down. With a foot hold for me to find and haul my way out.

I found it and I did climb out.