My September 11th… I was born and raised in a very non-traditional part of the country for Mexican-Americans—Kansas. But it was home and there were others who looked like me and were surviving in similarly poor conditions. The street in front of our house was dirt, just like our yard, except for the occasional patch of crabgrass.

In a two-bedroom house for a family of six with two girls and two boys, we had neither running water nor inside kitchen or bathroom facilities. Bitter cold winters whistled through the non-insulated lath and slat walls. Hot scorching summers—humid and plagued by blood-thirsty mosquitoes—created even more misery.

Unbeknownst to my parents, I had started drinking by age 12 (maybe earlier while on dad’s lap sipping his beer). The older guys in the neighborhood gathered next door in the basement to escape the heat, listening to music and socializing. Socializing was cigarettes and alcohol—the gateways to marijuana and heroin for these older guys. Lingering was the pungent, musty smell, with the occasional hypodermic needle, bent handle spoon, and belt left lying around. Though my friends and I drank from the partially consumed long neck bottles of beer, near-empty wine bottles and secreted quarts of “home brew,” we were too afraid to sample the rest of the unattended goodies. At least I was. I knew my dad would kill me.

Surprisingly in this environment, I was cautioned about the negative effects of alcohol (“Hey, look at your Tio Pancho!”), although the real message was actually, “Do as I tell you, not as I do!” The other saying we heard was, “Dime con quien andas y te digo quien eres.” (Tell me who you run with and I’ll tell who you are.)

So began my downward spiral, perfecting deceit and disguise. By age 17, I was hospitalized for duodenal ulcers. My not-so-dumb doctor knew what I was up to, never mentioning it to my parents. My mother never truly knew what to ask, relating it genetically to her own gastro-intestinal problems. The doctor, straight in my face said, “Keep it up and you are going to become an alcoholic and die!!!” I wasn’t about to listen to him. Besides, his sides of the railroad tracks weren’t my reality.

Academically, I was doing well in high school and was awarded a $500 scholarship to the local junior college, but by the second semester of my freshman year, drinking was now more important and I dropped out to go to work full-time for the city Health & Sanitation Department. At age 19, I moved to western Kansas to work for the Kansas State Department of Health - Migrant Health Services, and pursued drinking with greater fervor.

Nine months later, I was married with a child on the way. My wife and I drank to excess all too often during the six months we had known each other before marriage. It did not change after marriage, nor for next 18 years. Progressively, our drinking with children in tow became worse. We become more dysfunctional as a family.

Twenty-five years after being hospitalized with ulcers, the doctor’s admonition came to pass; only I had “died” within from a broken heart. Xavier, my second son (known to his friends as “X”), was broadsided by a police officer after Xavier allegedly ran a stop sign under the influence of alcohol. He died instantly within a mile of his home at 3:23 a.m. on September 11, 1988. Only 18 years old, X apparently also didn’t do as he was told; he did exactly as he was shown by my example. He had two inept role models who often drove and drank in his presence.

September 11th is the day I quit drinking too, wishing I had died instead of X. Today, 19 years later and alcohol free, the pain persists. The emptiness, the “what if” are a constant companion to my broken heart. I’m finally letting the rest of the world back into my life—particularly my other three sons, step children, and grandchildren. And through Divine Intervention—realizing that I will never be given any more than I can handle—I have been afforded an opportunity to make a difference. Today, I am a behavioral health counselor helping recovering alcoholics in Pinal County and helping a community prevent the same mistakes I made.

--Rodolfo, Eloy