dagosd2000 wrote:THE BIRTH DEFECT
We were all sittin' around drinkin' in the street that night in front of the little store. The tequila and the cuahmas were on the hood of an old broken down wreck of a car parked on the side of the street. The sun was going down and I always liked feeling like that when the sun is going down on a summer night in that canyon. The colonia was underneath everything and no one seemed to notice us.
The bragging was going on about who got in the worst car accidents. My Mexican son in law said he got his head shoved through the windshield and he's got the scars to prove it. Another guy says he wrapped his car around a lamp post not far down the street and went to the hospital with broken ribs. The last yarn ended it all when another dude said he crashed head on into a truck ,the guy sitting next to him went through the windshield and was killed. No one could come up with a lie or anything else to top that one. We all had a drink for that one.
Meanwhile I saw the kids starting to move the soccer game towards our direction. One of the kids had a protrusion in his chest. They call it a pidgeon breast I think. One of the guys drinkin' with us said that that boy was his son.He said his son's condition was the result of a birth defect. The kid looked around eight or nine.
At the time I was involved with Children's Hospital in San Diego working with kids across the border who were in need of medical help. Children's Hospital had a clinic in one of the local hospitals and would give medical attention to people who were poor. I told the father that I thought I could get his son's condition examined free by the staff at the hospital.
The father began to cry and then we all started too. We must have been a sight all crying like that, drunk in the canyon. I told the father that I'd come back in a few days on a Tuesday to take his son to the clinic.We were all looking at the boy playing soccer with that pidgeon breast. It was sad,but I was happy because I thought I could help.
When I returned Tuesday, I went to the kid's house. His father,who'd been drinking with us in the canyon, was shoveling some dirt in the front. He looked up at me.
"Que pasa?"he asked me.
"Donde esta tu hijo?"
The father looked puzzled. He told me his son was with his grandmother. I don't know why, but I didn't say anything.
I saw the father again once in a while. Never saw his son. When I'd see the father drinking in the canyon with the neighborhood crew ,I'd take my drinking into town.
Roger . . . This one hit home, for some reason. Although the circumstances were different, the story was the exact same thing.
Some people just don't get it. You can't help some people..
-Rick Farris






