Tio Juan Monologue

Anders Magnuson
4/5th hour ELA
Mr. McCormick
Tio Juan Chapter
Back in Guatemala I had everything. I had a farm, I had family, I had friends, but when we moved to America I lost everything. Not really everything, I have a family, but only my niece can understand me; i can’t communicate with anyone in this country. I just wish that I could go back to Guatemala I remember the days where life was good, the air was clear and the sun was shining. I remember and miss when I had the happiness of being part of something. I was walking along the border of the family farm; i was around 17 years old at the time. I was rash and stupid. It was the early evening and I was bored, my friend Jesus found me and told me that they were going out to drink. “Come on Tio Juan, it's just one night.” Jesus whined.
“I can’t, I have to stay at the farm and make sure the coyotes don't get in with the chickens and kill all our food.” I replied.
I tried arguing with him, but they just wouldn’t give in. “Tio Juan, if you don’t get out and live you won’t be happy with your life.” he pleaded. I knew it was wrong, but I gave in and went with him. That night we never came back to the farm, because we were walking back to the farm, when a police officer came up to us and asked
“Are you boys old enough to drink.” Because we were noticeably drunk the police officer didn’t have to ask if we were drinking.
“Yes,” mumbled jesus as he fell
over.
“Alright if you’re old enough to drink let's see some ID,” the police man proclaimed. As Jesus was getting out his ID he made a run for it. Me, still not completely knowing what's going on, ran after him.
“Get back here!” the policeman yelled as he ran after us. Eventually he caught up to us and tackled us, “Give it up!” he yelled as we were squirming under him, “It’s over you're under arrest!” Jesus somehow got his arm free and punched him and I kicked him but we were caught and we couldn’t get away.
We both were sentenced to jail for a few years. During the trial, I saw the looks on the faces of all my friends and family; they were all disappointed. All the sneers I expected were replaced with just the sad looks of disappointment. I saw how my parents and my siblings seemed to give up at the sight of me. I was rotting in a jail cell, withering in my own sorrow for about a month. The cold nights, and the constant breeze that sent a shiver up my bones frightened me to the core. Then my parents and family posted bail, nearly bankrupting the farm. I was happy, but also surprised, after the trial I didn’t think that anyone cared for my life anymore, especially my parents. From what happened, I changed; from the cold, dark, and hard cell, I was opened up to the farm and the beautiful world. When I moved to America, however, I forgot those things; I had no one to talk to, and nowhere to go. I had lost any meaning that I had in my life. I was back in the cell. My great nephew, Gonzalo, watches me all day, like a babysitter. He takes me around Cleveland, showing me things that I never knew was here. One day, we walked down Gibb street and I spotted it, a vacant lot that had a lot of trash in it, but you could see there was some people growing gardens in it. I walked over to the lot and got a closer look, Gonzalo came running after me because he didn’t know where I was going. I got to the lot and saw multiple people, but one white man I saw growing what looked to be corn was doing very well, “Your plants are doing well,” I said, “Do you have any past experience farming.” The man gave me a confused look and went back to what he was planting. Gonzalo grabbed my shoulder and said something in English that I didn’t understand, then he pulled me away from the lot and walked me home. That night my niece, Gonzalo’s mom, asked me how was my day, “Good actually,” I replied, “We went pasted this vacant lot on Gibb Street that some people were turning into a garden. Do you think I could start a garden there?” “Sure uncle,” my niece replied, “Let me buy you a trowel and some seeds and you can do the rest.” That day, and the next day where I was waiting for her to buy the supplies made me quite excited. I know it's probably common for a man my age to get excited, but I was excited. When I got the trowel and the seeds, I practically ran to the lot on Gibb Street. I staked a plot of land not too far from the road, but not directly on it. I worked the land just like I used to on the family farm; i studied where the sun will shine, smelled the dirt, and even tasted it like my father did. I worked the soil, making perfect rows. Finally I opened the seeds; the seeds were sweet pepper seeds and I had worked with them before. They were all more familiar to me than this confusing country; I planted the seeds and sat back and relaxed. I realized that this little plot was my farm and it was my escape from this cell, and a thought came into my head, maybe I can have a life and a purpose in America. Maybe I can be happy.