Monday, September 5, 2011

Roberto William

He was born with an abundant amount of hair. From the beginning she knew this small boy-child of hers was, and is, hers. He definitely possesses her looks, so she says. Everyone else seems to think he looks more like his dad. "Think what they want," she tells herself. "He's me." Not only was the dark, newborn hair like hers, except for the fact that his would stick up straight like blades of grass, but as the years passed, more and more of her shrug it off-one day at a time-go with the flow-if it can't be changed then move along-attitude flowed out of him. The way he thinks. About the world, and the people in it. Of course, his eyes match hers, only his somehow look more brilliant, and the shape of his face is definitely inherited from her.

Aside from his mostly not completely predetermined mom's DNA personality, he is himself. His own unique person.

One of the most obvious stand-out physical attributes he has are his eyes. His blue, blue eyes. The stops and stares began way before he could understand the compliments people tossed his way, admiration of his Paul Newman eyes. "He has the most beautiful eyes...," they'd say. She agreed with all those wow compliments, yet she always made sure to tailgate them. "He, also, is such a nice boy, and so smart, too." She didn't want him to grow up thinking it was his handsome face, his pretty eyes that would take him safely through life. No. She wanted to ensure he knew how to stand strong. As a person. Less so as a look. As he grew, began to understand what people were saying to him, he also began to roll those baby blues. He'd heard enough. He wished he could paint them brown. Just to stop people from saying anything.

When he was about four and a half years old, she would drag him along with her to watch his only sis cheer for the local pee-wee football team. She soon realized that it wasn't a drag for him, it was the beginning of a booming talent. Entertaining people, without trying to.

While the little girls were dressed to the tee in their white and dark blue cheerleading outfits, standing in front of all the adoring parents, he stood off to the side. Far enough away so that the crowd didn't spend their time confused wondering if he was part of the cheer squad; yet, close enough to copy exactly what moves the girls made, the shouts they cheered.

He stood there. Or not. He really moved to the music. He never just stood. It was the girls who should have been pumping up the crowd but it really was him who brought smiles and laughter to the field on those fall mornings. The cheerleaders spun, bent, jumped, shouted, tossed, ran, raised arms, clapped. They did what cheerleaders do. Cheer.

So did he. He cheered. Wearing his jeans and a neatly tucked in t-shirt. Little did anyone realize that during practices, before the big game, he was watching every move. Every must do it right move. He practiced. And practiced some more.

He was the entertainment. Sometimes even more entertaining than the game itself.

Not much later as a group of girls danced to the Spice Girls in their garage, he would take over the show. Steal the limelight. Not intentionally, he just did. He was Mr. Personality. When the youngsters decided to perform for the other families in the neighborhood he was center stage, singing and dancing. The girls dancing and singing behind him joyfully laughed along with everyone else.

She remembers once upon a time, he was just a young 6 or 7 year old, when he decided it would be cool to shred the bottom portion of his jeans. Let his personality take over, she believed. Creative, artistic, funky jeans were all the rage for him that year. So creative. So cool. So him. He wore them everywhere. She thought it was fantastic. His ingenious idea.

The garage bathroom door needed to be painted. "Let me do it," he said, the lilt in his words told her it was really a question. She took the door off its hinges. Removed the doorknob. Lay it flat on the ground. After she painted the background an ocean blue and let it dry he began drawing using a pencil. For whatever reason, she never asked, he drew a picture of his dad and his sister holding hands. He wrote the word el baƱo on the top portion. For his dad. He speaks Spanish.

He has always been an interesting character. A unique one. Someone everyone should be so lucky to share their life with. She watches him. Admires him. Is proud of him.

As a young adult now, he truly does appreciate his good looks, his big blue eyes; yet it's his kindness, his spark for life, his energy, his personality that he really likes about himself. She does too. While he is lovely to look at, it's his concern for everything that she is most content with.

He continues to wow the world. His world.


  1. Fantastic glimpse into the spirit of your son! He sounds like he has charisma +10 and will find a way to make the world his own no matter where he goes or what he does. Brava!

  2. he's a great person, that's for sure... i am lucky... thanks, K.

  3. Wow! What a beautiful boy inside and out. I love how creative he is. I think he'll be a real force in this world. Oh and that hair! One of my daughter's was born with hair just like that. Stuck straight up and was black. I love every minute of it. It made me laugh all the time. Then one day it turned blonde and curly and that was that. But it sure was fun while it lasted. I really enjoyed your post.

  4. thanks tia. i am lucky. he is a good, good person. i know, right?, the hair... sad day when it no longer stood tall... thank goodness for pictures..