The Life of Derek

Every once in a while you hear of someone and you wish that their life was fictional. Your mind does a double take and questions if this person is really living this horrific reality. You want to question if what you are hearing is true but something tells you there is no room for speculation. The adversity is real. For the story I want to tell tonight, is a story that I never heard. I saw it firsthand.

I saw Derek, a six year old boy that had nothing to live for but at his age he didn’t understand. He had a mental disability that made him different than most of the other kids. He struggled in school, trying to learn English and forget Spanish.

I saw his grandmother, Juana, who was struggling to stay afloat as a seamstress. She loved Derek more than anything, and did what she could help him. Because she was an illegal immigrant, she couldn’t do much.

I saw the house where Derek and his grandmother lived. It was a small place buried in the middle of the Hispanic community. There were two bed rooms. One was for Juana and Derek and the other one was for a lady named Ana Maria who rented the room for her and her 3 sons. The garage served as a working space for Juana and the living room also had a bed for Derek’s father for when he returned home.

I saw Derek’s father the day he came home from jail. Why he was there I was never sure, but it had something to do with substance abuse. It’s my guess that is why Derek’s mother had left him.

I saw Derek’s mother, living on the other side of town with a different man, starting a new family. She blamed Derek’s father for his disability and inability to learn. She said it was the drugs. I want to say that she was better off with her new life but she could never escape her past.

I saw the pictures of Derek’s two older brothers who I never met because they were both in juvenile detention centers for gang violence and drug possession. One was 16 and the other 14. I don’t know if Derek knew where they were or what they had done but he missed them.

A year later, I saw a framed picture of his oldest brother that was put up in commemoration of his death. A few days after getting released for the detention center Derek’s brother was killed in a car accident. His friend, who was driving the car, was intoxicated. Once again, I’m not sure if Derek knew what exactly happened to his brother. All he knew was that he missed him.

I saw the look on Derek’s face the day his father lost it. His dad sat there with a bottle of wine in his hand and tears in his eyes, trying to fight the urge to drink. I remember trying to calm his dad down but the more I said the louder and more frustrated he became. Derek had seen his father overcome with emotion before but not like this.

It would be an understatement to say that Derek has emotional scars. Some run deeper than others but each has its mark. I used to wonder if he would ever heal but something told me that he already was.

They say that the body of child is very resilient. They can recover from surgery and broken bones a lot faster than an adult. I’m sure that also goes for the heart of a child.

Ever though there are so many unanswered questions in his life, I think the fact that Derek doesn’t know everything gives him a fighting chance. Instead seeing the tragedy that everyone else does, he might be able to see something different.

He has hope. I might not see it, but it’s there.