Rubberbutt
Adding a third child to our family, my parents realized that a bigger house would need to come with that. With the new, bigger house, came more work hours for my papi. English being his second language, he was struggling to move up in a high demanding sales company where the language wasn’t exactly his forte. Any chance to put in more hours at the office; he was the first one to it. This particular week he had taken two extra night shifts, leaving him with little sleep.
He received a call to come into the office moments before dinner, kissed my mom goodbye, and started the car out the driveway.
 “Chess, make sure to put enough newspaper so the pumpkins look really full. Our house has to look perfect.”
My cold, bony, five-year-old bottom sat Indian style on the long driveway of 308 Park Blvd. My tiny fingers grabbing each piece of The S.F. Chronicle, crumbling them into balls, and stuffing them into the pumpkin Halloween decorations to be seen by the trick-or-treaters next week. Persistently fixing my falling, oversized straps on my denim overalls and wiping away my runny nose with my sleeve, I sat fixated on the outcome of each paper ball.
“Not enough paper on that one. That one has too much. We gotta hurry though, mom said dinner is soon.”
My hands sped and my mind wandered. The excitement of Halloween, decorations, and the fall day caused my five-year-old mind to escape.
A few sounds of a car engine, a blow of exhaust to my face, and the noise of the Mexican music coming from my papi’s car later, I realized my peaceful pumpkin stuffing had turned into somewhat of a monster truck show.
I was the underdog. I was losing miserably.
The sounds of a mariachi band coming from above my head, I couldn’t tell if I was in some sort of bad Mexican dream or if a team of them had just piled on top of me.
The ragged, bumpy tires rolled up my slender and bony back. The tire of my papi’s car rolled over my denim overalls as I sat, Indian style, in our driveway. Almost reaching my neck, I formed the loudest sound my little body could.
The tire kept rolling on the denim landing strip.
Finally, my brother snapped out of his mystical decorating trance and became aware that his little sister was trapped underneath papi’s Toyota 4Runner. Several screams later, the Toyota came to a halt, and proceeded in the opposite direction, off of my denim overalls.
A quick rush to Peninsula Hospital and a few X-rays later, my five-year-old self had survived an SUV practically belly flopping on her.
My mom held back her tears and wrapped a blanket over me, “are you going to be okay?” She asked me.
“No,” said my papi from behind, “I won’t.”
He carried me tight to the car with the same overalls that had just been run over by his Toyota 4Runner, holding onto the stain from the rubber tire.
Though I was going to be okay, the nickname my grandpa gave me moments later would haunt me in schoolyards for years to come.
My grandpa yelled from behind, “Hey Rubberbutt! You got some rubber left over from that tire there.”
I immediately began to sob.