Page 42 - The Muse 2021

Chronicles of a Father’s Childhood
by Bibiana Eichenberg Pinto
8th Grade
Blue Ribbon
I used to tell my children this story, to teach them responsibility, to give them a good laugh, or just when they asked. I still remember the looks on their faces when I was telling it. Now, their cute faces are grown adult faces with no time for stories. My name is Geoffrey, and this is how a small and diverse group of people helped me become the man I am today.
This story begins in the small neighborhood of Greenwood in Los Angeles, California. I was about nine years old and infamous for having a quick temper. I lived in the small yet cozy house with my parents, and my three siblings, Rodrigo, Angela, and Hector. I despised Rodrigo at the time, he made fun of me and made me throw things at him just so he could laugh. We are good friends now, and he has become more mature, well, sort of. Hector was a baby at this time, so I really had no opinion on his existence, but Angela was my favorite sibling. She was absolutely amazing in every way, and by far the kindest person I ever met. Unfortunately, she would also be the person I hurt the most.
On Sundays, after lunch, Rodrigo and I would go to the park and play soccer with our friends. On this particular Sunday, soccer was not going to be as pleasant as it should
have been. When we were assigning ourselves positions, I was screaming at the top of my lungs that I wanted to be a striker, because, of course, it’s the most glorious position of all. But a four feet seven inches nine-year-old playing among thirteen-year-olds would never get that position. I was put in the back. The game started, and everyone was excited, even me. The level of excitement in any person gets shot up when a game starts. Even though I was in a bad mood, I tried my best to play defense, but the same kid kept dribbling past me and scoring.
“What is wrong with you?!”
“I thought you could play!”
“Why are you here if you can’t even defend one kid?!” “Back off,” I said, “you’re all just a bunch of dufuses!”
We lost the game, and everyone blamed me. My volcano of angry feelings started to boil, soon to explode. I could hear Rodrigo snickering in the back because he knew what was about to happen.
“I hate you! All of you! You are all so mean to me! Why did you put me in the back? I want to play in the front!” I said.
“You’re not playing in the front because you’re small and can’t play! If you can’t block one kid, how are you even supposed to score?” said one of the kids.
“Well I won’t play with you guys anymore!”
“That's great because we don’t need you!”
That was it. That one sentence made my whole volcano erupt. I shouted words, that I had learned from my brother
and which will not be repeated, so loud, that Hollywood heard it. I flung myself on the kids, hitting and kicking and pulling their hair. Through the crevices between the bodies of the kids attacking me, I could see Rodrigo in the back, laughing so much there were tears in his eyes. Soon after my mother came to fetch me. I got a good scolding and was sent to my room, but instead I went to the only place where the world felt right, my Grandmother’s house. She lived a few blocks away, which was convenient for me growing up. My Grandmother was quite a character. She wore fancy scarves with feathers that fell on the floor every time she walked, and so much makeup that half of it would transfer to my face when she kissed my cheek. My grandfather lived with her, but I never talked to him. We were very distant, the only time I ever talked to him was when we discussed sports. They lived in an old dark house with a big backyard that had three small houses in it. Although my grandmother was a rather strange woman, she was also a kind one. She let people from the
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1st Place at 20th Annual Beaux Arts Student Artist Showcase
Olivia Bueno, Grade 8