Note: in Spanish we called my brother by his middle name, Eduardo, while in English we called him John, which is the translation of his first name, Juan.

As I continue to unravel my history and life's story in search of connection with my roots, I am discovering that in order to survive in my culture of birth in Latin America and then in my adopted culture in Canada, my true core, my authentic self was completely negated. There was no place for nurturing or loving because basic survival came first. Since I was the oldest sibling I believe I had a natural instinct for survival but my brother John, the youngest, did not have that instinct and regrettably he became our family tragedy.

I am trying to write from my deepest self about the injustice that happened to John.

What is there to learn from this story? What is there to learn about his life?

John was the youngest child in a family of five. Neither parent had the emotional integrity or wholeness to be present to him and support him. They were simply unable to love and cherish him. But John was a beacon, a light that nobody saw because we were all so engulfed in our darkness, misery and suffering, trying to adapt to a new land and a new culture. When a new family comes to Canada as an immigrant family, they encounter all sorts of prejudices. It is an incredible shock to have to adjust to a new culture without any knowledge of how to do it. We missed our old land, which we had left for a better future and better opportunities and we never expected the hardships that we encountered here, each member of the family struggling in a different way.

John was the family's emotional sponge, he did not know how to articulate his pain or deal with loss, he just absorbed everyone else's. He had no one to guide him and witness his emotions with love and care. He looked to me for help but I was so full of my own despair and anger. My parents were unable to analyse and understand all the issues as they were overcome with the unrelenting reality of looking after shelter, food and clothing. Each member of the family had to fend for himself or herself, and John, the little one, suffered the most and paid with his life.

My father had a mission and that was to arrive in Canada first and look after the family as the breadwinner. Then my mother and the children joined him leaving our extended family behind. John lost being able to play outdoors in the warm weather surrounded by loving people like his aunt, cousin and grandmother who spoke a language he understood. He was so little when he arrived in Canada and unable to make sense of all the changes.

The education system failed him miserably too by allowing him to advance without anyone really monitoring or even caring whether he was learning. When he first started school, he did not understand the teacher. He had no clue what was happening around him. He longed for my grandmother and aunt and to be able to play outdoors and not spend most of his day penned in an apartment, or inside a classroom full of foreigners and foreign sounds.

School for a little child is an adjustment in itself but when you add a new country, a new culture, new food, a new language and a new climate to the equation, you have a recipe for a troubled youth. To add to his misery, John endured chronic tonsillitis until he grew out of it in his teen years.

I became even less available to him when I got married and then my middle brother also got married. John was devastated by all the changes and his loneliness drove him to become friends with someone who lived in his building, someone who had a bad reputation.

In remembering my brother John on his birthday I pray that he did not die in vain, that there are lessons to be learned from this terrible tragedy. Here is my letter to him.

Dear John:

As your 37th birthday is approaching I am writing this letter to tell you that it has taken me about as many years to come to terms with your life and maybe with my own life as well. You were born on a grey Sunday morning at 10:00 o'clock on November 7, 1965. I was a scrawny 10 year-old kid. You had pure innocence and lack of understanding about our family, no knowledge of the tremendous, hideous pain you would experience in your 23 years of life. John, you have been gone for almost 14 years now. And for close to 14 years I kept the part of my heart and soul where you live locked up tight. It is so very painful to think about you and that is why I try not to although sometimes, for a few moments, I allow myself to bring you into mind.

John, my poor brother, you were awfully misunderstood and unloved. I am not writing to beg for your forgiveness because I don't expect forgiveness from you no matter if you are one the highest beings in the universe because of what happened to you, should never have happened. By writing to you I am unlocking the door that I closed so long ago as well as opening the wound that was created the day you were born. You see, mom and dad made me responsible for you, they gave me so much responsibility that I was robbed of my sense of self.

In North America, there is a saying about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, my dearest little brother, by no fault of your own you were probably born in the wrong family at the wrong time. Your oldest sister that you always loved and looked up to could do nothing to save you because she was fighting tooth and nail for her own survival. My dearest, the only thing I can tell you is that when I saw you lying in the bed at St. Mike's, hooked up to all the life support equipment, I felt that you were finally in peace. I felt a tremendous relief. I honestly did not know how to help you.

John, I must tell how awfully sorry I am about your life. When you were a baby, I looked after you, but how angry I was about it. I was angry that I had to look after everybody and that there was no room for me. How I cried the day that I was washing you, you were about 6 or 8 months old and you slipped from my hands and you cut your eyebrow. I held you in my arms and I cried with you until mom came home from work. You got a scar in that eyebrow that never went away. I fed you, told you stories, taught you to walk and talk. I also used to become impatient and angry when you did not sleep.

You were three years old when dad left us to come to Canada. We were separated from him for about a year. You contracted some form of hepatitis and the doctor said it was from missing dad, that it was from longing and grief. Every time a plane flew over the house, you looked at the sky, waved your little hand and said that dad was on that plane. You slept with a picture of dad under your pillow.

My dearest John, when we finally arrived in Toronto and dad was here to greet us, you were very happy. But then as time went on you began to miss our aunt, cousins, grandmother, the outdoors and our language. That November, in 1969, you turned 4 years old. The following fall you had to start school and you did not speak English. We lived in an apartment and mom walked you to school. You were the last child out the class because you had trouble putting on your snowsuit and boots. When I went with dad to the parent-teacher interview, the teacher said that "John was a delight, he spends the day drawing pictures" and that did not change much for the next six years of school. You were an immigrant kid and the teachers did not know what to do with you.

Dad was always working, 12-16 hours a day at two jobs; our middle brother had his own problems adjusting,
and fitting in school; and Mom was emotionally frozen and lost in the face of this tremendous change in language, culture and climate. At that time, I was about 15 years old and worried about my own school stuff, and how I did not fit in this culture and how much I hated everything and did not have time for you. You suffered so much and nobody noticed, because we were all trying to survive. I used to get so frustrated. One time you were bothering me and I pushed you away from me. You hit your mouth on the couch and hurt your gums and teeth. You were only 5 years old.

When you were 10 years old I got married. I know you missed me. Three years later our middle brother got married and you were left all by yourself with mom and dad. They worked evenings and came home late. And you did not know what to do with your loneliness and the anger that surrounded you. When you were in grade 5 or 6, mom and dad asked me to call your teacher. The teacher said to me something about sending you to see the school psychologist and I told her that there was nothing wrong with you.

You made friends with a kid that went to your school and lived in the same building. One night you came to my door because this kid had punctured your chest in a fight. I took you to the hospital.

But John, you had so many gifts. You could play the Spanish guitar by ear. I think you played to connect with dad because you knew how much he enjoyed listening to the sound of the guitar. You were an amazing swimmer. I taught you to swim when you were six or seven years old and you swam like a fish. In high school you were picked to be part of the school swim team but you did not participate because you lacked confidence. You had an incredible talent for drawing and photography. You took beautiful pictures.

I feel I really didn't know you all that well but I do know that you were always trying to figure out why we hated each other so much in our family. You wanted to know why didn't we pack it in, and just return to our home country if we missed it so much. You could not find the answers. You went to therapy for awhile and then you eventually stopped.

As I write this, my heart breaks. I know you truly loved people. You loved your friends and even mom and dad. You had a girlfriend. You loved camping and fishing. You always had a smile in your face. But you started hanging out with the wrong crowd and that got you into trouble. I found you a really good lawyer.

You always worked and always had a job. You always tried to go to school. In your last year you were going to college to get a printer's certificate but did not have the required math skills and so the course was difficult for you. Your last job was cleaning offices. You had learned to buff floors and did a great job.

You had bought yourself a motorcycle and wiped out a few times and came home with cuts and bruises... With the passage of time, the memory of your life becomes sketchy, but the reality is that I feel the weight of this fact: I deeply resented being saddled with the responsibility of your life, which mom and dad passed on to me.

You ran away to our place of birth during the winter of 1988, and were away for about three months - I am not sure of all the details. When you visited our extended family for that short period of time, my uncle managed to connect you with somebody who could get you a gun.

A short while after your return you got into a fight and lost a tooth. My poor little Latino brother, what a difficult and sad life you had. I knelt and prayed God to protect you. But no one succeeded in giving you what you really needed, which was love and compassion. You decided to go away from us on February 7, 1989.

The day before you took your own life, you told dad it was a great idea for people to donate their organs. The doctor at St. Mike's said that they could keep you on life support and you would become a vegetable or we could pull the plug and donate your organs. We thought that you would be happier knowing that you could help others with your heart, your liver, and your eyes. The person who received your liver sent a beautiful plaque through the hospital thanking our family for having donated your liver. John, you continue to live on in those people and by giving other families hope, in the face of our sorrow.

On your last day you gave your girlfriend a bouquet of red roses for Valentine's Day. John, you died in your girlfriend's presence. This was an incredibly painful experience for her. At the time of your death my heart was shut and I could not let her in. She placed the roses on your casket.

In your night table, Mom found a small bible in which a passage was marked, one from the Apostle John that talks about love. It is clear to me that even the day before your death, you were trying to understand love. Today, I look around and see so much in the world that I could not see before. I can truly see what love can accomplish. And with this found knowledge, I know that there are thousands of Latino boys in North America and Latin America that are not loved into being by their own families. The Latin families living in North America are too busy surviving where the dominant culture feels that it is superior. Why should it bother with 'hoodlums' is the message it gives: kick the Latino boys, let them die. It's OK, don't bother to teach them the language, to write or read. He is happy drawing all day.

John, thank you for the gift of your life. I am so truly sorry for your suffering. Nobody deserves to suffer like that. I honestly believe that your soul and spirit are now at a better place, that you have found the peace that was not available to you on earth. Well, I know that I am just trying to cope by thinking this in order to feel better, to stop feeling the pain and sorrow at the loss of you in the world... What I truly know in my soul is that your loss was a terrible tragedy that left a great hole in the fabric of our family.