Childhood in Mexico City

A photograph of the Mexico City Skyline. Demonstrating the livelihood of the city in which Adrián grew up in.

I grew up in Mexico City, a very active city both during the day and during the night.  Although the community is large with many streets, and great groups of diverse people, everybody seems to know each other.

My family consisted of my parents, seven brothers, one sister, and myself. We were all very different despite being so closely related in age – each sibling being apart in age by only two years or less. Due to our proximity in age, each of us was closest to the sibling that was immediately older and/or younger in age. This way, the sibling who was immediately older in age would have to take care of the younger one, and so on.

Adrián during his childhood years.
Adrián during his childhood years.

We had this system worked out, and it worked. It was like a chain of dependency. Despite being around each other often, we were definitely not the “typical” Mexican family that sat around the table for supper and exchanged stories and laughter. Instead, my mother would make food and store it; we were all expected to serve ourselves whenever we grew hungry. This created a very distant relationship between our parents and their children. But it also made us very independent at an early age. My parents did their best to educate us and teach us manners, but their very long work schedules, at times, made it very difficult for them to give us all the support we needed. I cannot complain, though. We never lacked food, clothing, or a shelter.

Our home was dominated by a strong male presence. I recall being aware of the gendered differences between the way that my brothers and I were treated as opposed to my sister and my mother. I accepted this difference without giving it much thought, because I assumed that Mexican households were run. We, as men, were taught to be auto-sufficient and independent. We were encouraged to make our own decisions and to provide for ourselves. Our father served as the example of the breadwinner. It was ironic though since my mother had to solicit a job so that she could help my father provide for all of us. Unfortunately, times were rough and the economy did not provide many job opportunities for folks like my father and so my mom had to take on increasing responsibility.

A recent photograph of Adrián’s Mother (2002).

My mother was a housewife for a large portion of her married life. However, eventually she did have to get a job in order to help my father pay the bills. She became a seamstress at a boutique in Mexico City. She would get paid very little to make custom clothes for the people who came into the shop. She was one of many underpaid seamstresses. Meanwhile, my father worked doing construction, as a government employee for the Federal District’s Area of Public Affairs as a government employee. He put up many of the streetlights that powered our community in the evenings. He worked extremely hard.

My father was devoted to his work, despite the low wages and the long hours. He spent most of his time away from home, leaving my mother, my brothers, and I alone during the day. Due to the high pressures of living in the city, my father developed a problem with alcoholism. I remember that from time, my father would come home drunk, angry at my mother for supposedly not doing enough to feed us – although she really did her best to do so. During these times, my father would scream at us and take us outside of the house. I remember feeling that this was a bad sign because I was well aware of what would happen next. It was difficult being such a small child and knowing that the two people you loved most in the world were hurting so badly. Nobody ever sat me down and explained it to me, I just remember knowing. My father hit my mother often.

A Photograph of Adrián’s Parents taken in the early 1990s.

One day when I was about eleven or twelve years old, my dad came home drunk and he took us outside of the house. I remember standing next to my brothers, not being able to say anything. We were flabbergasted. I just remember growing angry as I began to hear my mother screaming. Suddenly I punched the door and propped it open. Without much thought I jumped on my father’s back, hoping that it would distract him enough for my mother to get back on her feet. Thankfully my brothers reacted to this defense. They also came in and began to take action to protect my mother. While I was clinging on to my father’s back I became overwhelmed with emotion, I remember thinking that I could not tolerate for this to keep happening again. Since I was lost in thought, I did not notice that my mother had suddenly gotten up and had grabbed a pan from the kitchen to protect herself. I do not really remember what happened after that, I just remember that this affected our family’s dynamics. Nothing was the same after that evening.

I think that my mother felt the support that we had for her after we protected her during that violent moment, because she never allowed my father to hit her again. To be honest, I am not sure if he ever even tried. I like to believe that my mother never experienced my father’s violence ever again. I was very close to my mother and after that moment, I felt that she also felt closer to me. I feel like she appreciated my reaction to this violent situation. Regardless, I definitely felt a stronger mutual connection. This was a moment that really marked me as a person and represented my childhood. It was all very complex.

NEXT SECTION – Adolescence: The Cycle of Poverty and Vices