Leaving Mexico wasn’t just about packing bags—it was about final hurdles, heartfelt goodbyes, and tough promises. In Chapter 6 of Should I Stay or Should I Go?, Efraín Ochoa faces unexpected bureaucracy, emotional farewells, and a lingering sense of uncertainty before his move to Los Angeles.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 6  “Leaving Mexico”

As I neared the finish line, one final obstacle emerged. The admissions committee at UCLA sent me an email requesting an alternative translation of my title, as the initial version had apparently fallen short of their expectations. Time was of the essence, and the pressure to resolve the issue quickly weighed heavily on me.

In a somewhat absurd and convoluted solution, I ultimately had to dispatch my original title from Mexico to UCLA via FedEx, allowing the admissions committee to verify its authenticity and confirm that I was, indeed, the rightful owner. The experience felt surreal, but I was relieved that this unorthodox measure would finally put the matter to rest.

As I prepared to embark on my journey to Los Angeles, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t shake the prescience that my dad's health was more fragile than he let on, and that I might not have the chance to share my graduation day with him.

A week or two before my departure, I sat down with him, determined to give him the chance to voice any concerns or hesitations. I needed to know if he truly supported my leaving or if he wished for me to stay.

His response was swift as if he had already anticipated the question.

“No, no, no,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. His voice was firm, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. “Go do your thing. I’ll be fine.”

I recognized the reassurance for what it was—his attempt to give me the freedom to chase my dreams without the burden of guilt. But beneath his words, I sensed a quiet resignation, as if he were steeling himself for the possibility that he might not be around to witness my graduation.

As we sat together, the only thing he asked of me was to take care of my mom. If I decided to stay in the States, he wanted me to bring her to live in the same country as me, to help her start anew when he was gone.

In that moment, love and gratitude for my dad overwhelmed me. His selflessness and unwavering support left an indelible mark on me. I silently vowed to honor his words—to make him proud and to take care of my mom, no matter what the future held.

Before leaving for Los Angeles, I made a point to visit Steve at his home. The Herb Ritts photo of Madonna still sat proudly atop his chiffonier, a centerpiece commemorating the memorable night we had shared.

Yet Steve seemed subdued.

He confided in me that his stories of attending the Madonna concert had inadvertently made him a target for theft. Someone had taken advantage of his excitement and broken into his house, making off with an unknown quantity of valuables.

Steve’s habit of keeping large sums of cash at home only added to the uncertainty of the situation. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, wondering if my gift had unwittingly contributed to his misfortune.