The Lottery
It was just another day on a spring afternoon after a long day at school. I remember riding in the back of my school bus being one of the last to be taken home as usual. I could not wait to be dropped off, for my driver would always attempt to start meaningless conversations with others. Being one of the last on the bus always meant that I would be one of the lucky chosen as a dialogue partner. I am sure his intentions were good but I ignored him, as I would have ignored him now, for I was never interested in communicating with others. I never minded not knowing how others felt or thought about me or anything in particular. I guess you could say I was naïve and not very empathetic. I was exhausted and bored, with both my day and life. I could not wait to get home to play mindless video games on what it seemed to be another ordinary day in my ordinary life.
As I arrived home about an hour after my school was over, I did as I always did which consisted of picking up the mail and heading inside for a warm home-made meal. I would arrive late for a family lunch and would usually eat with my mother while my two sisters relaxed or studied in our old studio room. They had the chance to eat with my father before he headed to work. They have always managed to be early everywhere they went, even home from school though I went to the same school as them. I handed the mail to my mother and rushed to eat after eight long hours of school and petty snacks that kept me from starving. Half way through my meal I noticed that my mother had headed towards the studio with a particular letter at hand. She got the phone and dialed my father. In my family, we never called my father unless it was an important matter. I did not give it much thought. At first, I figured it was just another grown up problem, or perhaps a letter from a family member. Little did I know that the letter that my mother was holding would alter our way of life. The letter itself was highly questionable at its time. My mother thought was some sort of scam at first, at least, until she remembered the event and how that letter came to us. I must have been eleven years old, months before the letter came. My oldest sister would persist on us driving to a film developing store. Our camera’s film was full and it was about the third time my father had told her that we would go but could not make time for it. He had such a busy schedule during the week. It did not take many looks from my mother before my father decided to make a trip with all of us to the film developing store. As we arrived at that worn down building, I stood in the back with my sisters while my dad talked to the owner and my mom accompanied him. I would participate as the crowd while my sisters played the role of entertainers, mocking and make fun of the example pictures inside portraits that were for sale. I did not mind it for I was entertained. However my sisters sought for more, until one gazed her eyes upon a sign with a questionable incitement. She showed to my mother the opportunity to win a permanent residency to the United States through some sort of lottery. Both of my parents looked at it and did not give it much importance. My sister, however, was very passionate about the opportunity due to the countless times that my mother had mentioned my uncle having great times out there. She did not know how it worked or what had to be done. All she knew was that it could easily be obtainable by signing up and testing your luck. After numerous “please” and “I don’t usually ask for much!” statements made by my sisters, I found my parents applying separately for a chance to win the upcoming green card lottery that the United States provided to underrepresented countries. My parents still did not think much of it. Ever since my parents were kids, they never believed in games of chance or luck. It was probably because of the environment in which they were raised, such poor environment it was. After we