Click here to read chapter one.

I’m not dead, so thank you God for my health, but what now? Where are you taking me? I just closed my eyes and thought of my options.

Option 1: Fight this as much as I can so I can stay in the U.S.

Option 2: Go to Colombia and find my way back.

Option 3: My Father lives in Spain, in Barcelona. That didn’t sound so bad. I haven’t seen my Pops for about seventeen years. Maybe it’s time to go see him again.

# # #

My Father has lived in Spain for like 25 years. He’s a good man but did a lot of stupid things to have us in the best living conditions without realizing we would have wanted more time with him than the material things he gave us. He was born to be a musician. Played trombone with one of the most influential groups in Colombia at the time, Los Ocho de Colombia.

He was the youngest one in the band and when he was in his mid-20’s when he met my mother. She worked in Caracol, the main Radio and TV station in Colombia to this day. She was a secretary there, and one day Los Ocho were going to perform live on her station. So they met and fell in love right away and went everywhere together.

Some years later they had my brother Danny, and five years after that they had me. Everything was great, but you know how good money looks, especially in large quantities, and how bad some friendships can be. He started to move around some “stuff” from here to there, and then in larger quantities while he was on tour.

We were living great. Had a beautiful, huge house, a couple of cars, but then one day he wasn’t around anymore. Since I was only a kid, my mother told me that he was always working and performing here and there, but years later my mother told me he served five years in prison. This was in Colombia.

I was riding my (cool) bike one day when I saw him from far away. I pedaled as fast as I could to get to him. I can still remember the first thing I said to him, “How were the shows?” And he laughed and said “Great!”

We spent the next two or three years together doing well, but one day he came to my mother and said he was going to work in the U.S. with the band, touring. But my mother didn’t want to hear it. She was so mad I remember her crying and throwing stuff at him.

He left and a week later he came back, so he would leave four times out of the whole year for the next year, and our home was always fuller and better. I always had the best toys out of everyone around. At least, I shared them with my friends!

And like before, he left one day but this time never came back. What my mom said was that he got caught somewhere in Florida, and spent close to three years in prison, but never opened his mouth, so the Big Man sends him to Spain after getting deported from the U.S. And that’s where he has been ever since.

He’s done some stupid things out there too, but it’s worked out for the most part and he even remarried. He did serve some time in Spain also. Spain is fucking beautiful. My father wants me to come and see him. I will very soon, hopefully.

# # #

I guess I was falling asleep and then I heard a bell ring. Count time was over. It’s now time to go out and check out the place. In B.T.C., the Broward Transitional Center, you have breakfast at 6 a.m., lunch at noon, and dinner at 5 p.m. You are not obligated to eat, but they give you a very small amount of food, so you want to eat all three meals and more if you can. There is also the commissary, which you can order food and things twice a week.

Mind you, this place is not for criminals. They have one messed up hoop to play basketball in. Mud to play soccer in, which is a little ass area the size of a pool. Some weights to work out with. A volleyball net over some mud also.

In the day, it’s in the rooms where you hang out, they have T.V.s, some broken pool tables, and about eight candy, soup and soda machines. The best thing here is the cable T.V. Because we get to watch all the soccer we wanted, from all over the world, on GOLTV.

With all the shit you just went through, you feel like releasing all that energy on something or even someone, so we just started to play soccer. It felt good to kick the ball again. All the guys I went in with and I were a quickly united group; we stuck together and looked out for each other.

We formed a nice little team to play. One day, when it’s our turn, we had happened to play a little better than the guys that beat the team before us so they get bitter and insulting, so we laugh and make more goals as they are now starting to play dirtier than before, and just where do you think this is going to end? In a fight of course, five against five, though it didn’t last more than thirty seconds, and no one really got busted, ever.

Since then, these guys did not like us very much. Sore losers. Gotta love ‘em though.

There goes that bell ringing. It’s count time again. I need to take a shower. I must have taken a long shower cause when I got out of the bathroom, count time was over. I got dressed and left my cell room to meet the tribe.

I’d go to the Colombian rooms, which there are three at this time. In B.T.C. The Chinese run some of the phone cards. Arabs and Middle Easterners have cigarettes, the Colombians run the medicine, the drinks, the laundry room, the recreation room (which I took over some days later), the diner and kitchen, the library, and three of us were trustees.

Not only that, but if anyone needed advice, paperwork of any type or even a favor, they knew they could count on the Colombian corner (La Esquinita Colombiana) everyone was very nice. As soon as I got there, they fed me, gave me hope and advice. I was OK there.

Weeks went by and I had nothing but my bass guitar in the Office of Property. I found out I could get to it and keep it in my cell room, so I did. I wrote some songs, but I needed my guitar, so I told my girl to bring me my acoustic guitar. I wrote more songs. Most of which you heard or will hear in the future.

It’s about a month that I’ve been locked up, and now I get to move to the Colombian room, cause one of them left to be released. I’m in room #313 with Jason (alias “El Gambito”), a 26-year-old kid with a great heart, lots of love for soccer, and a big appetite. He got stopped on a plane coming from Chicago to Orlando, where he lives. This was his second month looked up. He got deported some weeks later.

Then there was El Señor Farfan (alias “Papa Pitufo”). A 60-year-old funny fucking guy with the soul of a 20-year-old, with a great spirit. He got picked up in his own home getting arrested and handcuffed in front of his children and wife. He also got deported some weeks later.

And finally, there was Luis (alias “El Lobo”). This guy was one of the most stand-up guys I have ever met. He spoke no bullshit. Told the truth always and had a cool ass sense of humor. He got taken from his work like he had committed a crime. He wanted to go into business with me and open a barber shop.

In front of our room there was room #311 where Don Andres (alias “El Jefe”) lived. He was one of the trustees. He set us up with all three rooms together with T.V.s, DVD players, microwaves and fans. He was like a Godfather, even to the Haitians. Everybody loved him.

This poor man was asking for asylum for a year and one week here. The Judge promised him that he would give him asylum and let him stay in the United States, and at the last court hearing the Judge said, “I don’t know what you mean by promises.” He got deported shortly after that.

There was also Eduardo (alias “El Venezolano”), this man was one of the smartest people there. He was a professor, had been a resident for over 20 years and they still came and got him over something that he got no explanation for, then later found out he was being charged for someone else with the same name and address (identity theft) but couldn’t prove it. He also got deported.

Martin (alias “El Chacho”) had been here for 17 months studying the Immigration System. He knew everything there was to know about fighting to stay in the U.S. He was fighting for asylum for over 20 months. He is now at home in Miami with his family.

You meet many people. They come and go. I remember all of them, but I would bore you by mentioning every single one of them. I will always remember all of them.