The Difference Between Growing Up and Getting Older

People make assumptions all the time. If you see a girl wearing tight and revealing clothes, you think whore. A boy wearing skinny jeans? Gay. A skinny person? Anorexic. A teenager with a baby? Teen Mom all over again. Some people even make these assumptions about others based on their race. I'm sure you've heard it before, but

appearances can be deceiving.

I don't know when my personality started to separate from my image, but they're two very different entities now. When people look at me, they think I'm a delinquent. They think I'm a gang-banger or a Satanist. They give me sidelong glances and whisper about me behind their hands as if I can't see in their eyes that they've already condemned me. People only see the fact that I have piercings on my ears and face and tattoos on my arms. They don't look at what the tattoos depict or think of why I may have gotten them. All they think about is that I have them, and they don't care if I have a reason or not.

To be honest, I fit their stereotype in many ways: I'm a Puerto Rican immigrant who barely finished high school, I'm a manual laborer, I go to community college part-time, and I'm a young father. I'm not overly intelligent, which contributed to how I almost dropped out of high school. Another factor was that my parents were illegal aliens, and barely managed to make minimum wage by adding both of their salaries together. I grew up with five siblings and my whole family (including cousins) lived together in a small house in southern California. Thanks to that background, I worked full time at 14 years old and continued a full-time job all throughout high school. I helped my parents stay out of debt and save up a bit of money in case of an emergency. I'm not especially handsome and I don't have any special skills except for my work ethic. All of my life, I'd never been handed anything except the chance at a public education, and there was no way I was going to let that opportunity slip away.

When I was still a kid, I envisioned myself in a different life. I imagined a life where my parents didn't fight, where my family didn't have to scrape by, where daily life wasn't a struggle. I imagined myself living in a place that I didn't fear sleeping in at night, a place free of crime and gunshots throughout the night. I imagined a life where I worked hard and made a difference in the community, in the lives of other people. I imagined myself helping others and being eager to go to work every morning. That's the life I dreamt of, but I never really reached it.

I'm not sad though. After graduating high school, I was offered a job as a contractor for a construction company. I was sent to Salt Lake City, Utah where I met my beautiful girlfriend, Amber. I decided to stay there and find full-time work so that I could be with her, and also because Salt Lake City had a lower cost-of-living than anywhere in California. We lived better than I had ever lived as a child. We had to budget and shop carefully, but we never struggled to make ends meet. We never fought or argued over money.

One night, after an especially long day at work, I was getting dressed in our bedroom when I noticed a small white box on the nightstand. Pulling on my shirt, I took a closer look. It was a pregnancy test. And the box was empty. I didn't panic or get upset, but I was a little confused. Amber was getting birth control shots and we always were safe about our intimacy together. It was only logical that she would want to be sure that she didn't get pregnant, but if we used protection and she was on birth control, why would she use the pregnancy test? I didn't know much about birth control, but I knew it was still possible for her to get pregnant, although the risk was much, much lower.

I considered looking for her, but I decided that she would tell me if she wanted me to know. So instead, I got comfortable in bed and started watching TV. I must have fallen asleep watching it because when I woke up, it was turned off, the room was dark, and Amber was sleeping quietly next to me, turned away from me. The clock said 3:27 and the box for the pregnancy test was gone.

***

When I got home the following evening, she was waiting for me in the living room in a t-shirt and shorts. Her eyes were conflicted, but otherwise, her expression was resigned. She nervously twirled some of her light brown hair around her finger. I knew what she was about to tell me.

"Tristan..." she began uncertainly.

"I know," I told her softly. I hugged her. She began to cry, and hugged me tightly. I rocked her back and forth, assuring her in low tones that everything would be all right. "Amber, stop that." I pulled back and kissed her forehead. "There's no need for tears."

"I was so afraid to tell you," she admitted, her voice shaky. She sniffed, not meeting my eyes.

"I would never leave you, or our child," I told her seriously. "We may not be ready to deal with this yet, but we'll do everything we can."

She nodded and I wiped her tears with my fingers. "I'm scared, Tristan. It's going to be really hard... we can't afford a baby."

"We'll make it work," I assured her, kissing her softly. "My parents took care of my five siblings on minimum wage. It won't be easy, but we can care for a child together."

"O-okay," she said, resting her cheek on my chest. We stayed that way for a long time, and I guided her back to our room. "I took a pregnancy test last night and it was positive... I must be at least three weeks pregnant."

"I saw the box on the nightstand," I said, curling up next to her in bed. I wrapped my arm around her waist. "I love you, Amber, and I promise that I'll be a good father to our child." I kissed her cheek.

"I love you, too, Tristan." She moved my hand to her belly, even though there would not be movement inside for a time yet. "And I believe you."

***Present Day***



My son, Martin, is four years old. I take him to pre-school and day care every day. Since it's so close to our apartment, we walk there together. People stare at me, this young tattooed and pierced Puerto Rican walking with his half-white child. Other parents judge me. They think I must be a bad parent because of my tattoos, or that I might teach my child to do bad things. I let them think that about me.

When I take Martin to school, they smile at me and wave, but I can see in their eyes that it's uncomfortable for them. I can't blame them for their first impressions, but that doesn't make it feel any better. I kiss my son's cheek and tell him that Mommy will pick him up when it's time to come home. He nods and his big brown eyes stare after me, watching as I leave, until I disappear over the hill. When I come home after work, he's always happy to see me.

I take my son to the park, to play dates, and to the arcade. I watch him play in the ball pit at McDonalds and we sing songs together from children's shows like Imagination Movers and The Magic School Bus. He sees me play the piano sometimes, and says he wants to learn how to play when he's older.

"Why wait until you're older?" I ask him, and pull him onto my lap. As strikes the keys with his little fingers, he giggles excitedly and it doesn't matter that the notes are never in a recognizable melody or tempo. When Martin smiles, there's nothing else in the world like it.