Giving thanks … for being alive at UCLA

Giving thanks … for being alive at UCLA

Donald Carpenter-Rios

It’s the Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday, and like most
things, the weekend had its ups and downs. There was plenty of
football ­ that’s an up. There was plenty of turkey, potatoes
and ham, and when I was stuffed there was plenty more of Grandma’s
pumpkin pie ­ that’s an up.

But since I was sitting in front of the TV for four straight
days, carbo-loading like I’d be running a marathon this morning,
I’ve gained 10 pounds ­ that’s a down.

There were plenty of volunteers at the mission this year and
some celebrities showed up ­ that’s an up. There were more
homeless this year than last ­ that’s a down, and the number
of homeless women with children made it an even lower down.

But all in all, I have plenty to be thankful for. After all,
it’s Monday, the first school day after Thanksgiving, ninth week in
the quarter, and I’m still alive at UCLA. I like being alive. Most
of us take it for granted. So do I. And I’m thankful for it.

Life, in my eyes, is a little bit tenuous. I think that is
motivated by the kind of childhood I had. I used to think the way I
grew up was anomalous, and it was compared to the model offered to
me on television.

I wanted all the security the Brady Bunch had. The enormous
sprawling house, friendly brothers and sisters and parents ­
parents who listened, who helped, who bailed you out of every
problem. Ah, a pair of super-parents.

But the reality was (and still is) that life for a lot of us is
intimately connected to death. I did have brothers (no sisters
though).

And by the time I was five years old, three of them were dead
from congenital heart problems. I’ve learned that these heart
ailments are completely operable now, but then there was nothing to
save my little brothers’ lives.

I remember David most. We played together for hours, all day
actually. We lived in our self constructed fantasy world. I carried
him in my arms. He climbed on my back. I sang him to sleep. He ate
my Oreos.

One day when he was just past his first birthday, I sang him to
sleep. I came in to wake him up so we could play some more. There
were tents to make of bed sheets and cars to roll along the
book-lined roads we used to build on the cold linoleum. I walked
over to my mother who was ironing, that’s how she used to make ends
meet, and quietly told her, "David’s dead."

When I was in high school and forced to attend the ritual family
interrogation offered up by the new girlfriend’s parents, I used to
respond when asked what my parents did that, "my family is in the
iron and steel business."

After nods of approval and gasps of relief, I’d conclude, "my
mother irons and my father steals." That wasn’t entirely true
though ­ my father never has stolen.

He was too busy working to be bothered with stealing. Every
morning he’d load up his pickup truck with rakes of various sizes
and conditions, a big sweep broom, canvas bags, a five-gallon gas
can, a shovel, a very long green hose with a small brass nozzle and
that precious gleaming machine. That machine was a five-horse-power
Briggs and Stratton, front-throw lawnmower.

My father could work magic with that machine. He could transform
a bumpy, lumpy, scraggly patch of lifeless brown grass into the
smoothest sheet of green. Under his care, the ordinary lawn became
an endless plane of verdant life.

But good-paying jobs were hard to find, and though he worked
hard all day we had very little money. Certainly not enough to bury
my brothers in anything fancy.

Sometimes my mother would complain that he should spend less
time on Mrs. Hodges’ yard. But Dad would always answer that since
she was nearly 90 years old, and poorer than we were, if he didn’t
do it she’d try and probably end up killing herself.

We’d all laugh and inevitably he’d do Mrs. Hodges’ lawn. I was
never quite sure if we were laughing at the thought of Mrs. Hodges
dying mowing her own lawn or just the picture of her using Dad’s
lawnmower.

I remember one particularly exciting morning when my mother
announced that we were going to have the best breakfast imaginable.
Boy was I excited.

"What is it? What is it? Trix? Cheerios?" I pleaded, jumping up
and down at her apron.

"We are going to make an invention," she declared.

The excitement was just too much. With great deliberateness she
got out the bowls, the spoons, the bread, the milk and the
sugar.

"Okay," she said, "everyone gather ’round the table." We all
climbed onto our chairs, excitement beaming from our eyes. "We’re
going to make bread cereal."

We jumped up and down singing and dancing. "Yippee, we’re going
to make bread cereal!

How do you do it?" I asked.

"Well," she said waving her hands high in the air, "first you
take some bread and tear it all up." This was great. I had never
torn up bread before.

"Then you build a castle or a robot or an airplane in your bowl.
Then you pour in the milk, pour on the sugar. Voila! There it is
­ bread cereal!"

I was too excited about inventing breakfast to realize there was
nothing else to eat. And Mom was right, it was the best breakfast
I’ve ever had.

I guess I am thankful and lucky ­ thankful and lucky to be
alive. Imagine that ­ I’m still alive at UCLA.

Carpenter-Rios is a graduate student in Near Eastern languages
and cultures. His column appears regularly on alternate
Thursdays.