This was me when I was 11. I couldn’t find pictures of when I was 12. So I thought, this is just as close. Last year, after the basement was finally completed, my mom piled all of our pictures, hers from the 80’s and mine from the 90’s and packed them tight in a large container. I could barely get to them but I managed to snag these before everything on top of the container began to wobble.

The middle picture with the stairs, that’s me right outside the apartment. It was a two-bedrooms, one-bath 700-square-foot apartment. It’s got a bright alley-style kitchen. The living room’s got plenty of room. It was located a block from a park. A park (bottom left corner) which my friends and I had spent countless hours playing on the swings and getting our free sponsored lunches during the beautiful SoCal summer days.

Our unit was located right across from the club house. It came with ups and downs. Like every time there’s a party, we would hear the music booming, people shrieking, and water splashing directly from the living room. It drove my step-dad insane at times. He was partly deaf and the screaming and splashing sound of the party-goers weren’t helping him tune his guitar.

I occupied the master bedroom with the walk-in closet while my mom and step-dad occupied the spare bedroom. I have no idea why then. However, now, I have a slight idea. I think it’s so my mom would have the walk-in closet to keep her important documents from my step-father.

My step-father, sometimes, could be quite unstable emotionally. His moods can change with a snap of a finger. Sometimes, he’s even more emotional than actors on screen.

Although there were ups and downs, the years spent in that apartment were the best years of my life. It’s the biggest place I’ve ever lived, except now. A lot of things happened in that apartment like the endless days and nights when my friends spent over getting tutored by my mom and the nights I spent in my room excitedly pouring my effort into a jigsaw. Now, those were good times.