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I went on my first trip to Mexico when I was three or four. I was such a baby that my relatives, who can’t even speak English, can all still recite my tearful cries of “I want my daaaadddddyyyy!” They say that my poor father couldn’t even go to the bathroom by himself. I have a jumble of memories from being in Mexico when I was young: getting first dibs on all my cousins’ toys, playing on the playground near my aunt’s house, translating for my brother, and my cousin Emmanuel saving me from a cockroach while I was on the potty. I had a couple of incidents in Mexico that I remember vividly. In one, I am sitting on the sidewalk outside my aunt’s house when I start getting itchy, then itchier and itchier. I go inside and tell everyone I am itching all over. I remember my grandmother pulling off my clothes and gasping “ormigas!” I had sat on a colony of red ants and they were, literally, in my pants. In another memory, I am playing with a doll and want to bring her upstairs to put her to bed. There is a dog at my aunt’s house who is sleeping at the foot of the stairs. I try to step quietly and carefully, but accidently step on the dog’s tail. The dog reacts instinctively and bites me through the foot. Everyone is understandably hysterical. I go to the hospital, but nothing is broken. I don’t even think I got stitches, but I do still have a scar.