I'm only worth that much?

My birthday each year consists of tacos and a piñata. Having May 5^th as a birthday has always been fun for me, as I celebrate “Cinco de Mayo.” Growing up I always had a complexion which tanned in the summer and stayed most of the winter, which I inherited from my grandmother’s Lebanese side. I have dark brown hair and deep brown eyes, inherited from my dad. Because of these traits that made me stand out from the family norm, especially my pale, blonde-haired, blue-eyed cousin, my dad called me his “Mexican Baby,” which later changed him to calling me Maritza or Marisa instead of Marissa. This conjured up quite the story, told and retold by my dad.

                This is how the story goes:

My parents had gone to Mexico, and had brought home an unexpected souveneir: a baby. Yup, a baby. While wondering down the street, looking for a souveneir, they saw a woman sitting on the side of the rode holding an adorable baby. My mom and dad thought it was the cutest baby they had ever seen, so of course, they asked my mother if they could have me. She told them yes-but only in exchange for two packs of cigarettes. My parents, not being smokers, had to find the nearest store and buy two packs of cigarettes which they brought back to the lady and exchanged for their first child.

 This story, though short and simple, has been told hundreds of times. There are slight variations my dad tells, and now other family members tell, depending on who they are sharing the story with. As a matter of fact, many of my younger cousins truly believe that I came from Mexico, and was traded for two packages of cigarettes.

The different, simple elements of this story really add to the mystique that falls around it, and the believability of the story, especially for children. The Mexico made so much sense when I was young; I guess I assumed every child in Mexico had their birthday on Cinco de Mayo. The cigarettes added a certain element, because no one in my family smoked; the fact two packs were always specified, creating a sense of credibility for my father.

Growing up, the story was something I almost sometimes believed. It was intriguing and mysterious. Could it really be true? I would often muse. Now that I’m older, and yes I still hear the story frequently, I muse now Really? Only two packs of cigarettes? I must be worth more than that.

 This story, made up on a whim to explain how dark I was compared to my cousin, has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It has made my family laugh endlessly with the many witty jokes that stem from it. It has made my younger cousins view me with wonder. I don’t know what my life would be without the constant, amusing jokes from my dad. But again I ask, really dad, only two packs?