Moving to Daly City with a luggage full of skeletons

Saturday morning and the weather couldn't be more perfect. It's January and somehow Daly City has managed to act like spring has already begun.
Eight years ago, when I first stepped foot in this city, I could hardly believe the fog, the cold, and the red windburn on my cheeks. The insulation in our room was terrible since their was a crack in the glass window that never was mended, or even had planned to be. We froze ourselves to sleep every night.

Today, the same time of year I had arrived eight years ago, there is hardly a cloud in sight. There is no fog, there is no windburn on my cheeks. The sun is out, the clouds are gone, and it just seems to be an infinite blue spread on the sky around me.
As I write this blog, on a Saturday morning in early January, global warming seems to be doing Daly City a big favor.

Daly City never was my ideal town. The thousands of weird filipinos, the ghetto shopping malls, the impolite strangers, the poverty, the greed. Middle class immigrant America.

But after my parents divorce, their unemployment, and an ugly never ending courtcase, my life at sixteen was the least bit priveleged.
Due to the circumstances, my parent's relied on our relatives to bring us back to America, so we could work, go to college through aid, and finally have the life that was meant for us.
The ongoing court case was that of my father and his mother (my grandmother) over the inhertance that my grandfather had left - including school ownership and many pieces of property. My father felt the desire to move us out from Los Angeles, when I was ten, to the Philippines to finalize the case. I remember those years as the most bittersweet of my life.
I gained some wonderful friends, but also went many nights with out dinner, learned what depression really was, and had to witness the weirdest and ugliest relationship develop between my mother and my cheating deadbeat dad which somehow crumbled my dreams and hopes of any chances of happiness for the rest of my life.

Skeletons in my closet. My dad sucks. and now that I am a parent - I still can't believe how much balls and "douchebag-ness" he had to just get up and leave me, my sister, and my mother. My mother, by the way, has her moments but she didn't deserve, nor is she the kind of person that deserved, what had happened to her.



In reality, I am a middle class immigrant American. Although, born and raised until I was eleven years in Los Angeles, Ca. I am very much aware and knowledgeable of the customs,culture, and language of traditional Phillipine life. Of course, mixed in forever with the California girl I always was I can't really blame any one else in this city for thinking that I may be a weird Filipino as well.