Being an independent thinker with a "can do" attitude has not always worked out to be a good thing. Growing up in a family of seven in a poor section of La Puente, California taught me that I had to go get everything. As much as my parents wanted to provide the better things in life for my siblings and myself, they could not. In fact, we would make our own milk out of powder mixing it with warm water and placing the pitcher in the refrigerator before bed, hoping it was at least a little cold by morning. Beans, potatoes and twenty-three cent boxes of macaroni and cheese were all too common. There was never any Cub Scouts or Little League for us, just a hand me down bike from cousins that we had to share. All this left a bad taste in my mouth and forced me to realize that I had to take matters in to my own hands such as a paper route for earning money. When the bike had a flat, I would walk the route with my head through the hole in the saddlebags until I could repair the leaky tube. This type of independence lead to clashes with my parents, especially my alcoholic father.
             By age sixteen, I had taken all I could stand and at seventeen, tried to move out on my own with two friends into a low budget apartment. Because my dad ruled his house with an iron fist and the back of his hand, the answer to the question, "Would it be ok if I moved into an apartment with two friends?" was not just no, but "No and if you try we'll call the police and have you arrested as incorrigible." At that defining moment, the battle lines were drawn. I declared, "I will wait until I am eighteen, but not a day longer before I move out on my own!" Our family was and still is close. So close we celebrate each other's birthdays, from my grandmother of eighty-four to my six year old son each year as they come around. Yet, I backed up my declaration by having my belongings packed an
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