You probably know me for my poetry, or for my translations of the Mabinogion. But for once I’m going to talk about myself; rather, about the definitive event in my life.

First, some background history of my family.

The earliest records I can find of my López ancestors date back around 1022 in Lugo, in Galicia, Spain. The first name “Ambrosio” López suggests a Celtic heritage, specifically Brythonic; indeed, Lugo was in the former colony of Britonia. However, as that colony disappeared over a century earlier, and I cannot trace my ancestors back that far, there is no documented confirmation that I have Celtic Britons among my ancestors. Still, I wonder if that’s why I love the Mabinogion so much.

My López ancestors continued to live in Lugo until modern times. In 1700, with the death of King Charles II, last of the Habsburgs, they fled the country just in time to avoid the War of the Spanish Succession the following July. They moved to Veracruz, in the Viceroyalty of New Spain, where they continued to live after the War of Mexican independence.

On October 23, 1835, Mexico’s first constitution was repealed, and my great-great-great-grandfather Tomás López moved with his family to New Iberia, Louisiana, USA; four years later it would be incorporated as a city.

After the last Union troops left Louisiana in 1877, Tomás’s seventh son Fernando López (my great-great-grandfather) moved west to Bodie, California; he was too late for the gold rush of the previous year. Consequently, he later moved on to Los Angeles, and my family has lived there to this day.

This background is necessary to understand my story. Also necessary is a bit of my own backstory, which I will cover briefly here.

Although I am Mexican-American, I grew up speaking English only. It wasn’t until high school that I started to learn Spanish, but after four years I can now speak it well enough to hold a conversation with a native Spanish-speaker.

With that backstory out of the way, I can now begin the strangest event of my life.

It was February 20, 2014, around 3 pm, when I had my strange visitor (I was living alone at the time).

He was an older man, bearded, dressed like an old-time priest. His clothes were so old-fashioned that I wondered if he’d gotten lost on the way to the movie set. Surely a real priest wouldn’t dress like that.

“Hello, sir,” I said.

He spoke to me in a foreign language. At first I couldn’t quite place it; it sounded something like Spanish, but it was definitely not Mexican Spanish. My initial thought was that it might be Castilian Spanish—Spanish as they speak it in Spain. I tried again.

“Hola, señor. Bienvenido a mi casa.”

He furrowed his eyebrows as though he just barely understood some of what I’d said.

“Quid istuc est dicere?” he said.

Slowly I realized that this older fellow wasn’t speaking Spanish at all, but Latin. I hadn’t realized it earlier because he was speaking with a peculiar accent.

Still, why speak to me in Latin, even if he was a priest?

I only knew a bit of Latin, mostly from church, but I tried to communicate.

“Ave, magister,” I said. “Domus mea tibi domus est.”

He laughed heartily. I think I had the accent wrong or something, but he seemed to know what I had said.

“Quaero furem conducere,” he said.

“…Quid istuc est dicere?”

“Furem,” he repeated. “Magnum thesaurum furari.”

Great thesaurus? What was he talking about?

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you, and I think you may have the wrong house.”

He stared into my eyes. “Myrddin sum, et Myrddin me significat.”

It was as though he had stolen my voice. My mouth hung open, but no sound came out of it.

“Myrddin.” That was no Latin name: it was Welsh! That was the accent I couldn’t place!

“Myrddin.” There was a Welsh bard by that name; he was the namesake for the wizard Merlin in Arthurian legend.

Reason told me that this was definitely a method actor who had gotten lost on his way to a movie set.

My heart told me that was not only wrong, but foolish.

“Myrddin, domine?” I said.

“Me ipsum.”

That was only the beginning, but that was the least strange part of my tale.

It’s what he’s known for Being too loud and poor Like literally dead broke Butt of everyone’s joke Certainly not taken seriously Full of so much toxic envy Symptoms of an imposter Never on any sort of roster Habitually overthinking Confidence ever shrinking Seldom on the winning side Invariably desperate to hide

These feelings that we all feel Therefore we must remember These feelings are not always real

Music had unofficially raised me. From the moment I was born until now. An escape from the yelling, the stress of school, and life itself. I could strum my guitar for hours. Sing until my voice couldn’t take it.

I wasn’t good at either by any means. But I practiced and practiced until I finally reached that point. That time when I walked onto that stage with my closest friends beside me and played our hearts out to the ten or so people there.

That day wasn’t the starting point for our fame but that was the start of my love for performing our music life for the world to see.

…because momma didn’t raise me right. I know that, now, but only after years of therapy: Physical and mental. It takes a lot of work to disentangle one’s self from such an inauspicious beginning. For that, though, I really do have to—again—thank my brother Lawrence for sticking with me. There were many nights when I felt like giving up and Mr and Mrs Cohen, my new parents, would remind me that I was their son now, that they had chosen me, and there was nothing in life that couldn’t be settled with a little hard work and a whole lot of pizza. (And did we ever eat our fair share of pepperoni!)

The love of the Cohen family brought me through the darkest times. Really, all of my extended family: The Walshes, Wangs, Steinbrenners. (I even love the Perkinses, some of the time.) Interesting thing, this, experiencing love after so many years of what I now understand to be abuse and manipulation, fear and control.

I think, at its core, this is what drove me to pursue my doctorate, to commit my working life—and, I must say, a large amount of my personal life—to providing therapy to those who have had rough starts in life. It is so very precarious, the path we start upon, so very meaningful and fragile. I still wake some nights in a cold sweat, certain that I am shackled, convinced I’m in the cold-wet darkness of a prison, not the periwinkle walls of my warm, safe room.

Momma still haunts me, even now.

How is it possible that someone my size could be intimidated by anyone, much less an old woman a third my size, hobbled by years of nicotine and bad choices? But it is not the full grown horse that can be tethered, it is the foal yet inside him that stopped trying to break away years ago.

Jake and Francis still write to me. I understand that it is from a place of desperation. That they have no other means; that manipulation is not something they are even aware of, so familiar has it become to them. They say that it is to make amends—that I am their only living relative, their brother—but that’s not it at all. They have seen my interviews, read my books, and they want my money to find its way into their accounts so they can buy opera CDs and cigarettes and Chocolate Eruption ice cream in the prison commissary.

I can’t do it.

I have forgiven them—they had the same mother (none of us had the same father)—but I can’t take that additional step, not yet. My own healing has not reached that level of maturity; the pain is still too real.

Besides, lest we forget, they tried to kill my friends!

Alas, it is at this point I must again apologize for jumping around so much. I did warn you in the first chapter that, while my fictional work is taught and well-edited, my faculties in writing memoir would be nothing of the sort. (I find those to be the best, most rewarding kind though, don’t you? Honest, unfiltered. Truthful.)

That said, going back to some amount of chronological narrative seems appropriate at this point. So, let me take you to when I first met Lawrence.

I knew something was happening upstairs. Momma and the boys had returned a few minutes before the commotion—The loud ‘bang’ I found out later was a gun shot. (How I wish I’d been free of my chains, how I may have prevented the death of that FBI agent.)

There was quiet again, before I became aware of a presence in the room with me. The TV was on, I think it was a parade, but I heard something else, something behind me. Little did I know at the time that this chance encounter would change my life forever; that it would lead to adventure, to rehabilitation, and eventually to my life turning around to such a degree that not only was I conferred multiple advanced degrees, both earned and honorary, but—much more importantly—a wife and children of my own; a new family!

There is no way for me to adequately express how such a simple gesture, a small moment of kindness, could alter my seemingly unalterable life-path.

That’s when my adopted brother Lawrence—Chunk, as we affectionally called him then—shared a candy bar with me.

A Baby Ruth…

Life was unfolding beautifully like patiently crafted origami art rigidly holding its own, stretching itself, recounting details of the journey.

This was the moment I wrote about on the neon green poster board I transformed into a visual vision. I still remember glueing clip art of big crowds and microphones while sitting on the round tarted rug in the middle of the spare room of my parents house, soft jazz hugging the walls as the windows welcomed Miami sunny summers.

I enjoyed summers at home. A break from the cold competitive campus life at Columbia University.

Simpler times I thought as I found rhythm in the timely taping of note cards beating the palm of my clammy hands.

They said 40 million people were viewing from hand held devices and another 12 million on a more traditional picture glowing from roaring TVs. None of my previous writing prepared me for this day - but when the White House Chief of Staff calls you answer.

I spent the last decade beseeching the attention of the academy. “The Oscar” and I finally made eye contact when I was handed 13 inches of golden excellence for Best Picture and Best Screenplay.

But on this day in front of of 52 million people and the President of The United States of America I was taking it back to the beginning. Grounding in my roots. Poetry.

Poet Laureate. Reciting at the Presidential Inauguration. My stomach folded up like origami as I sat front row and awaited my time to address the country poetically.

No one knows my real name But rather legacy of my work Raking a lock and covering tracks are a way to hazy fame

Every time I borrowed I left them scratching heads But always left a needle and a thread to follow

Like a woven parachute Or perhaps a quilt A cloak made of patchwork was but my trademark suit

A casual crime with a taste of wine Is no big leap for me Unless you count the turn of rope To barely even a thread

As skylights shatter and blood would spatter A fear, my heart would clench My fall would leave a legend In a patchwork pile, wretched

I’ll do this prompt tmr

Not writing…

Good Golly is what some of my friends call me down in the quarter. Quarter of Louisiana where we speak that New Orleans swing. I like to go to clubs and spout out my happy jams about life. In steps a fine forevermore looking so nice in a standard issue men’s fall green golf shirt and dress pants of navy. He looked to the microphone and events took place where his eyes met mine and I was shook. Could I see the future? I had him in an Olive theme my casual eyes did not dip to flirt. Instead of coy I played it boldly. Flipped my weighted hair over my shoulder and announced my name to the crowd. He smiled noticing that I gave him attention and a few other patrons entered the club. At command of the mic I just launched into whatever came to mind. “Burst of blue raspberry Sea of blueberry It was Evening that she picked The darkened blue spark tricked Up a notch to no surprise I can see sunset in your eyes Smoky cheese and bubbly drink She did not even think of the fellow in the rink. Quebec is where he came from, Blue raspberry wasn’t dumb spoke French and loved to dance; played hockey and missed his chance. Blueberry passed the mark Eyes made to see in the dark Head spinning in the clouds…” People got up and left as the next artist came up and started, “Licorice black brown eyes of my man…” and bought the house down. Nothing like that had ever been and they needed to move on. Golly was a laughing stock for the day. Picking herself up and went on to do great things as a poet.

Born in the last isle seat, at the old theatre Strand Tall, red, and heavy, the magical, stage curtain stand Acting and the make up, was part of my daily plan To dance, spin, and sing and the wave of my fan Soon time crept next to me, here in my ole’ seat The others were soon tapping, to my song and beat As I watch from the safety of my chair, I smile and see That my life has been on stage, since the age of wee My hurried and dark life, began in the seat in the back No matter how I try, I don’t ever want to go back So here I sit, alone and scared, on my final last day, The stage will fill with the others, and then the play