Album: Jon Secada

Release date: May 5, 1992

Track: 1

“You need to come.”

“I’m not going.”

“The entire generation will be there.”

“I’m not going and that’s final, Rodrigo.”

“Please reconsider.”

“I’m going to hang up. Sorry.”

I push the telescopic antenna back into its place and carry the phone back to its charger, in my parents’ room. My mum was watching cable, but asks what’s wrong. I reply nothing and leave, the sound of heavy rains intertwining with whatever dross was on CBS that afternoon.

Similar to yesterday’s post, this is a story set in the early 90s. I didn’t have a good time in my junior high/secondary school (providing both terms since we’ve got US and UK readers). There were three major cliques in my generation, and I belong to none. The one with the bullies were the worst, and as you can tell, they never faced the consequences of their actions.

Bullies are a strange breed. You can find a thousand papers and studies analysing them, and from my terrible experience, I usually identify bullies in two categories: the instigators, who bully for whatever shit they want to mess you up with, and the followers, their accomplices who might not start the bullying, but contribute by adding to it, or by remaining a silent lackey.

I’m not going to include his name, it doesn’t feel right. But the guy was a follower. Strangely enough, he was a good friend during elementary/primary school, and he was cool with the nickname he had (Oyuki, because of a terrible Mexican soap opera). But once we graduated from elementary/primary, he changed. Distant, blanking you on the hallways, never interceding if you were in a tough spot.

Once I finished junior high/secondary, I moved to another school, as far as I could from all the cliques. A couple of dudes were there, but it wasn’t strength in numbers any more and they never messed with me. The nightmare was over.

Then the call happened. Rodrigo, who was in a harmless clique called “los matados”. The bookworms MIGHT apply as an equivalent term, but its meaning conveys people who study way too much, sacrificing social life…a lie because they were a clique and were social. He calls me and asks if I’m sat down. You know what it means.

He proceeds to inform me that one of the bullies had an accident with a gun. The whole generation was attending the funeral. He gave me the details and, as you’ve read, I declined. I know it’s rude not to go to a funeral. I know it’s the worst possible look, but I just couldn’t face any of those people any longer. I regret it sometimes, but other times, I think it was for the best.

So, on that rainy afternoon, amidst the thunder and lightning, I plopped on my bed and turned my walkman on. It was a gift from my dad for surviving junior high/secondary. Both my parents were on a mournful estate. Earlier in the summer, my maternal grandfather had died. Later, my paternal grandmother passed away. I was fifteen and I had no grandparents from any side. I had no friends from earlier years. I was all alone, with my thoughts, just music as a companion.

I searched for any music, and I stopped at a station playing the charts. It was a peppy song, it was catchy, and its lyrics were obviously needy. But it was a great song. Later I would find that Jon Secada was part of Miami Sound Machine and Gloria Stefan pulled some strings to get him a record deal. The song would be a hit, both in its English and Spanish versions. I never “got” the sentiment. I guess I’m not mushy like that. I don’t think I ever thought about using it as a “pick me up” track in a mixtape. I don’t think about the song much these days, but it’s a great track. It’s just not attached to a good memory.

Right, that’s two days in a row with dead classmates. Three days in a row with mopey stuff. As The Icarus Line once whispered: “it gets better than this, I swear.”

Thanks for reading.

—Sam J. Valdés López