I was born and raised in the Central Valley. My parents own a small vegetable farm in Madera. Now that spring has arrived, I’ve gotten the first farmer’s tan of the new year. My arms and neck are red; the remaining body parts are all bright white.
My early childhood was spent on a farm in Clovis, on land that is now covered with houses that all look the same. It is impossible now for me to go back there and put an image to all those scattered memories; the farm is gone; the hill where tall trees surrounded our rented two story house is flattened.
            I’ve always tried to identify; I’ve always been searching for ways to feel like I’m a part of something. I’m still looking for something. I’ve been through all kinds of phases. I always felt I belonged to my family; that one thing has been constant; nevertheless the one thing is not perfect, it does not fulfill all my needs to belong.
            As a kid, I was very interested in learning. I was really interested in history. I identified with my country. For me, my country was a part of who I was, so I learned as much as I could about my country. I was most interested in wars we had fought, and less interested in why we fought them. I was very interested in the presidents; my favorite president had been John F. Kennedy. In reality I knew nothing about the real America, but I was full of grand illusions about what my country meant.
            As a kid, I was also very fond of my religion. I firmly bought into the Catholic tradition. I had firm beliefs about what was right and what was wrong. I firmly believed there was a god, that god was good, and there was life after death. I grew up thinking my family was perfect; my god was perfect, my country was perfect, and that life was beautiful and full of meaning.
            It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I began to realize that the difference between my childhood, and reality, was the difference between day and night. Growing up is like learning to walk right side up after walking upside down. I discovered only the contradictions. I relearned the world as it really is. Eventually, I had a nervous breakdown.. All the things I feared became true, and I had to face the facts, and I had to choose between life and death.
            At first I chose life, but I had to make compromises. I had to get drunk. I had to get high; things I never had to do before, I was having to do just to get by. Then came a point where I realized I had to really choose: live with dignity, or die in shame. It was a difficult choice at first, but with the help of my family, I chose to live with dignity.
 Now I am finally walking right side up. No illusions, no drugs, no distractions. I am forced to experience everything with the same mind; I can’t escape; I can’t feel numb, and even when I sleep, I am forced to experience things I don’t want to. I am better off now. I have faced my fears; I have even chased my fears down thier little holes around and around for days at end. They are still there, but they are much less intimidating.
            This is why culture is important. For me personally, it is the only reason why I live, and the only reason I ever chose to go on living. Culture is the most important things we have to offer each other. So I would say that any culture is my culture, I can accept anyone as long as I know they have feelings like I have feelings.