Returning to my Birthplace

Returning to Santiago de Chile wasn’t to connect with relatives, but with something equally important — stories.

Even though I didn’t speak Spanish, my family lived in Belgium, and I was raised in Canada, I had a connection to Chile. On paper, that connection was my birth certificate, but really, it was all the stories my father told me.

Stories about military plane excursions, dining with a world-class chef in a house of a “serial killer,” an unexpected pregnancy, and more. But to read those, you’ll need to subscribe. These aren't just family anecdotes; they're windows into human nature, resilience, and the power of narrative to shape our lives and understanding of the world. If you're passionate about uncovering such insights, or learning to tell your own, subscribing unlocks a world of deeper exploration and exclusive content with Born Without Borders.

I’ll write my parents’ stories here one day, but this post is about the love for my father.

At the time, I didn’t know what it meant to travel with a 13-year-old boy. Heck, knowing the arrogance caused the low self-esteem teenagers possess, I probably thought I was doing him a favor. Now, seventeen years and dozens of students later, I know what it means to travel with a 13-year-old. Hell.

Yet, my father endured and created the following:

17 years later, my fully developed prefrontal cortex should mean better decision-making skills, impulse control, and the ability to think about long-term consequences. Aside from better decisions in sunglasses, the rest is up for debate. But I’ll let you be the judge.

Not only did my father hone my hosting skills, but he made sure I was well-versed in socio-political discussions by the time I was seven. I wasn’t allowed the same movies or shows as my peers — movies that celebrated violence like Rambo or Power Rangers. But I could watch sex scenes, war movies that scar you for life, and South Park, but only if my father saw I could make sense of the subversive humor. If not, he’d explain it to me.

In other words, if you’ve read anything on Born Without Borders, my father’s influence shines through. If my father's unconventional approach to critical thinking and cultural awareness resonates with you, you'll find even more frameworks and actionable insights in my Cultural Psychology & Global Perspectives Classes, designed to help you make sense of the complex, subversive world around you.

A Poem

The Six Most Important Things my Father Taught Me

Lesson one.

The Six Most Important Things my Father Taught Me

Lesson one.

His hands, beat from handling ropes on sailing boats,

wrap around my body like oceans to continents.

His palm lines are the currents that saw too many deaths,

but now they are forgiving as they grip onto my chest. 

He picks me up and throws me; I’m suspended in the air.

I’m not scared because even as he pushes me towards the sun,

I know that he won’t drop me. 

Lesson one: He won’t drop me. 

Lesson two.

“You know I thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em, 

cause I don’t fucking need em” Jay Z. 

It’s the nineties.

I’m six and already listening to misogynistic music.

My father’s wondering why I’m refusing to listen to his tastes.

He used to place Miles Davis next to my mother’s belly

hoping that I’d one day become a musician 

but what he didn’t envision is the day I spank my mom.

So wrong, I know, but so is half of what you see on MTV.

    That’s the day he grabs me and I learn lesson two.

Lesson two: Tu madre es todo. 

Lesson three.

“Goedemorgen! Water op de Kieke borst.” 

Good morning! Water on the chicken breast,

is what he says as he splashes freezing water on my chest.

He then makes me breakfast, eggs and bacon,

My mind’s in bed, yet he drills multiplication tables into my head

And if I’m mistaken, he’ll find another way to break in. 

If I complain, he’ll tell his tales of all the times he was beat

into a man that always landed back on his feet.

I don’t hear him whine when the lawnmower slices his hand.

I don’t hear him complain when he refuses to take painkillers after surgery. 

I don’t hear him squeak every week he cuts into his fingers.

     Will he ever learn how to hold a knife?

I do seen him cry though.

I see him cry after half the petty drunken fights.

I see him cry when I make him feel smaller than he is.

I see him cry when he’s overwhelmed by earth’s gifts. 

I see him cry more than any man I know. 

Lesson three. Man up and cry.

Lesson four.

I’m ten and drawing cartoons of Osama and Bush morphed into buffoons. 

I learn about the holocaust, and that fascism is capitalism in decay.

At sixteen, I believe the production of too many useful things 

results in too many useless people.

I’m wandering so far left that my feet and mind leave the ground 

and my father must bring me back around like a revolution.

Castro and cocaine, corruption and financial gain. 

The game changes its name, and the essence doesn’t change.

Lesson four: Criminals take power. 

Lesson five.

The scent of salt gives itself away with the ocean’s spray;

sometimes merged with seaweed, other times with fish.

The mineral trace of iron gives it the anthropomorphic twist.

That subtle smell of blood tells us we’re somehow akin.

It comes in beige, white, pink, and black; we can feel it on our skin. 

It even makes it to the mountains, the rivers and the streams.

It accompanies our dishes, our flavours, and our lives. 

It’s no surprise that the earth gives us what we need 

as long as we don’t fail to see that all is connected.

Lesson five: Love our earth. 

Lesson six:

     Read, write, send, fail, read, write, send, fail.

     Repeat. 

     Read, write, send, fail, read, write, send, fail.

     Repeat.

     Read, write, send, fail, read, write, send, fail.

     Repeat.

     Read, write, send, prevail, read, write, send, prevail.

     Repeat.

Lesson six: Time is on your side.

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