I’ve never done anything like this, but I can’t sleep.  Maybe these words will remain my secret, and I will try to make sense of things on my own, for better or worse.  But whichever way the wind that makes up my life blows, this is me and this is my story.

Whomever you may be, rest assured of one thing, I’ve never shared or trusted anyone with these thoughts.  Maybe I am now because you’re far removed from anything and everything I know, maybe because you’re a complete stranger, or maybe because I know there’s a likely probability I don’t send this out, and it’s nothing more than an entry of words on paper that I can look at, dissect, and try to assign a tangible solution to. Even though I know it’s unrealistic to think the reality of my situation can be fixed by reading it over and over on a piece paper.

But, here goes the reality of my life –  what it is the grown man behind this ink has made it to be.

The possibility of my release is accompanied by a very real possibility. It’s probable that my life will come to its end.  I’ve thought about this enough to know that I’m not afraid. That, in and of itself, saddens me.  Has it really gotten to the point that my own death is a concept that I welcome with open arms?  No, not welcome, but rather ‘accept’.  I guess everything I’ve been through and done has conditioned me to accept the reality of a violent death. I guess what saddens me is that I know by ‘accepting’ what’s to come, I failed her. I failed my hero…

Mine is the typical ‘Hispanic kid from the other side of the track’ story.  As a boy, Spiderman was my superhero. I refused to wear any underwear that didn’t have Spiderman emblazoned on them, and I refused to go to school if I didn’t have my Spiderman backpack and Spiderman lunchbox safely packed inside.

It wasn’t until one person after another started giving up on me for my poor life choices, that I realized my real ‘hero’ had actually always been a beautiful woman who lived in my home. My hero was my grandmother. My beautiful grandma, my mother, and she was stronger than Spiderman.

I was 13 years old when I learned my ‘mom’ was actually my grandmother and to what extent she had gone to make sure I was a part of her life. You see, I was born in El Salvador, and a mother’s loving embrace was not meant for me.  My real mother was rejected by my father, so I was, in turn, rejected by my mother.  After she delivered me, she gave me away in El Salvador before returning to the U.S.

My hero would not be denied her grandson though.  When her daughter came back home without her expected child and eventually confessed to what she’d done with me, my hero made a very costly and dangerous trip to a very poor and violent country to retreat the little guy who turned out to be me. If you were to ask her though, she’d say she only did it because she was told I had pretty green eyes – and I do.

So yes, I’m a ‘Dreamer’, or more accurately – I was. With the immigration issues dominating the political spectrum, I prefer not to mention it because there are men and women who have made far better choices and accomplished so much more than myself.  It would be unfair to them, in my opinion, to include myself in a conversation that would better serve them if those such as myself were far removed from it. From the depth of my heart I admire and am deeply proud of the men and women who were able to accomplish things that would otherwise not have been possible in our country. They made our people more, our lives relevant, and lifted us high. I’m truly sorry for every way I failed in my part and gave the Trump administration ammunition to use against us.

So while my hero did everything she could to protect me, there was one person she couldn’t save me from.  Me.  She couldn’t save me from myself.  I became a part of the street life that surrounded me. I’m not sure what hurt the most, the tears running down my hero’s face with every dollar discovered in my jeans while doing laundry (jeans she could not have afforded), knowing it was drug money she was looking at, or the way she would promise in a soft voice, with tired eyes, that things would get better and we would move to a nicer place. Then I’d watch her work harder and longer hours at a chicken plant that had a history of discriminating against immigrant workers, paying them below the minimum wage.  It was a common practice all the way through the 90’s.

What I now know, as a grown man who has been in prison for the last 13 ½ years, is that it was her love and the memory of her soft voice that got through to me eventually in a way nothing else could. You see, I was never supposed to know a mother’s love, but God sent me an angel when I was nothing more than a tiny little guy.  That angel will always and forever be my hero.

I had always viewed evil as a universal principle, and not so much as a malignant driven entity. It was just another way of doing things, the opposite of doing things the ‘right’ way, as defined by the law. And in my world, ‘evil’ was stronger and much more effective than ‘good’. I became fully absorbed in a lifestyle that brought me face-to-face with the government’s war on drugs, not to mention the reality of the wars behind drugs – attempted kidnappings of my person and the tragic loss of close friends to murder, suicide and kidnapping when the money or drug ransom could not be met.

My education throughout my teenage years and until I came to prison consisted of stratagems that minimized competition. A favored approach was one that required patience and time, something not found in abundance in a teenager’s life, but something taught by the older and more learned individuals on the corner. The stratagem was to force a drastic fluctuation in prices. This required preparing in advance and aligning yourself with a very deep well to pull from. Selling dope is a poor man’s hustle, regardless what rappers preach.  And poor men are seldom trusted with money or financial instruments. As a rule, only those who save more than they spend financially survive this tactic.

I learned that most followed the creed promoted by rappers, spending in abundance, completely confident the drug game would be there tomorrow.   And it will be, but only for those who are not in debt and understand the stratagems.

The end result, however, often led to the ghetto version of unemployment. Violent confrontations, home invasions, kidnappings, to name a few, took place to supplement the lack of income. That led to a deeper understanding of working and moving within a decentralized unit or group, often of only three, waiting and watching for other units to stabilize and establish their identity and then re-negotiating everything into an effective network again, weeding out the weak, unnecessary, and problematic players. Until you have to do it all over again.

Thus was my education, and the engine that brought me here.   I didn’t fully grasp the English language until sometime around middle school, and my first comprehendible sentence was something along the lines of, “Don’t play with me, Bitch.”

I was 21 years old when I came to prison, with my reputation flawlessly intact. Four years into my sentence, the state of Texas confirmed me as an active member of Mexikanemi, otherwise known as the Mexican Mafia, and placed me in administrative segregation, where I have been ever since – nine years and counting.

Why am I writing this?  I’m, honestly, not sure. All I know is that I can’t sleep. I lost my hero, and I’m just trying to make sense of what’s in front of me. I’m being deported to a country I haven’t visited since I was first abandoned there. Sometimes, I whisper words into the wind, hoping they find my hero and let her know I’m going back to where it all started, alone and among strangers.  Maybe I had always been destined to die there.  There’s no family awaiting me there and nowhere to go. Yet, I can honestly say I’m not afraid and not sure why.  I know I’m going to die there.

Maybe I’m writing this to reach out and seek the only thing I can arm and defend myself with – knowledge, wisdom, and an understanding of what I can expect once I reached El Salvador.  I suppose what I am looking for is someone of my nationality who could guide me and explain what I can expect once I reach El Salvador.

So, this is me, and this is my story, and if this reaches the House of God and the doorway to heaven, please send word to my hero.   Tell her I love her, and I’m going home…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.   Wilmer Portillo has an amazing ability to express himself through writing, and I hope he hears from someone in El Salvador.  He can be contacted at:
Wilmer Portillo #01356973
McConnell
3001 South Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102