1 Carlos I want to live life on my own terms. But I’m Mexican, so mi familia is always there to guide me in everything I do, whether I want them to or not. Well, “guide” is too weak a word. “Dictate” is more like it. Mi'amá didn’t ask if I wanted to leave Mexico and move to Colorado to live with my brother Alex for my senior year of high school. She made the decision to send me back to America “for my own good”— her words, not mine. When the rest of mi familia backed her up, it was a done deal. Do they really think sending me back to the U.S. will prevent me from ending up six feet under or in jail? Ever since I got fired from the sugar mill two months ago, I’ve lived la vida loca. Nothing is ever gonna change that. I look out the small window as the plane soars above the snowcapped Rockies. I’m definitely not in Atencingo anymore . . . and I’m not in the suburbs of Chicago, either, where I lived my entire life before mi'amá made us pack up and move to Mexico during my sophomore year. When the plane lands, I watch other passengers scramble to get off. I hold back and let this whole situation sink in. I’m about to see my brother for