When I was 6 years old, I lived in Santa Ana, California with my single-parent mother. While my mom worked two fulltime jobs so we could afford our small apartment and make ends meet, I found solace in television. But one moment in particular changed my life forever...
On the last day of Christmas break, Annie (the 1982 version) was playing on TV. I remember watching the children running around singing and dancing, having the time of their lives. It was in that moment where everything finally made sense. I looked over at my mother and said, "Mom, I want to be that. I want to be an orphan!"
She gave me a funny look and said in Spanish, "Que? Estas loco? (Are you crazy?)" before glancing at the TV and saying, "Oh, son actors! (They're actors!)"
"Well, that's what I want to be," I replied. "I wanna be an actor."
"No mijo, es para ninos ricos," she said, explaining, "That's for rich kids." Those kids had training -- training we didn't have the money for. I learned in that moment to place my dream on hold, but a couple weeks later something wonderful happened.
A fellow thespian at school informed me the community center was doing a kids' improv class for only $12.50. My friend, who may or may not have himself been a nino ricos, had asked her parents about it and they gave her a $20 bill. I went home and asked my mom for a $20 bill, but she shook her head, saying, "No mijo. No ay dinero para eso."
I understood: There was no money for that. After all, that money could buy us food or launder our clothes. It hurt me knowing that she saw the disappointment on my face. I asked, "Well, if I can make the money myself, can I take the class?"
"Mijo," she said, "if you can make your own way, you can do anything."
For a brief moment, I felt optimistic. Then I realized: What kind of job would hire a 6-year-old? Later that week, my mom and I were walking home from school when I saw a man rummaging through a trash can. "What's he doing?" I asked her.
She replied, "Oh, bende los botes."
"Wait, he sells the bottles? You can make money from trash?" I asked. She nodded.
That was all the confirmation I needed. When we arrived home, I ran straight into the closet and grabbed a wire hanger. I unhinged it to make it a long skinny metal finger. For nearly two weeks, I was unstoppable. It became my mission to collect as many bottles as I could, and I was totally fearless in doing it. I crashed quinceaneras and all sorts of gatherings. I was on fire!
Finally, I went to the local Food 4 Less dragging huge garbage bags of bottles behind me. They weighed all my bags of recyclables and gave me $6.42.
All that fucking work for $6.42? It was so disheartening. Still, I had my heart set on that improv class so I took to the parks and parties once more and in another two weeks, I earned the remaining balance -- the exact amount I needed to register for the class.
The class changed my life. I remember like it was yesterday. The teacher would shout out an animal and the kids pretended to be a lion, a tiger, a bear -- you know, all the cliche actor games and exercises. I could hear people enjoying my renditions of each animal, not laughing at me but laughing with me. I knew this was where I belonged. I had found my tribe.
When the class was over, I had adrenaline I'd never experienced before. I spent nearly a month collecting recyclables to pay for this hour-and-a-half class. I asked myself right then and there, Do I want to do that again for another class? The answer was yes. Yes, I did.
I collected cans for years, using that money toward classes and training, all before I was 10 years old. I did it to find my community. In hindsight, I realize I was also searching for my own identity. This felt right, and if the only way of getting there was by fishing for bottles and cans, so be it.
I learned a big lesson. There's no shame in getting a little dirty to make your dreams come true. It's like my Ama said: "If you can make your own way, you can do anything." @harveyguillen
This story is part of Out's 2021 Pride Issue, which is on newsstands on now! To get your own copy directly, support queer media and subscribe -- or download yours for Amazon, Kindle, Nook, or Apple News.
