Carmen María Montiel - Stolen Identity

But this girl had black short hair barely to her shoulders. She always pulled my hair, but acted like she did nothing when I would look at her. It started when we were sitting in class, but progressed to her pulling my hair whenever she passed by me.

I asked her to stop, but her answer was: “What? What did I do?”

My dad was the problem solver for all of us. I told him what was happening and he suggested that I tell my teacher and then the principal, if the problem persisted. I did as he told me. But the problem continued. I went to the principal. The hair pulling got worse. So, I told my dad that I had done as he had said, but the problem was worse.

“Well, honey, you did the right thing,” he said. “The teacher and principal know what is going on, you also talked to her and nothing has happened. Now you have to take things into your own hands. The next time she pulls your hair, you pull hers but even harder than she has ever done to you.”

So, I did! A few days later, at dismissal time, while talking to friends, this girl passed me running and pulled my hair. This was the hardest of all. I dropped my backpack and followed her. She was running up the stairs. I caught up with her right in the middle of the staircase and pulled her hair so hard her head bent backwards. I turned around and picked up my backpack. That day was the last time she ever pulled my hair. Bullies have to be stopped.

Two years later, I faced another challenge when I started suffering from asthma. I missed a lot of days at school, and the teacher had already advised that if I missed another day, I could lose the year. By then I was in fourth grade. I was really worried because I did not want to get behind in school.

One morning right before we left for school, I was sitting in the living room arranging my books, when I heard my mother’s high heels coming down the stairs. “Oh no!” I thought. The routine was that when my mother came down, we were supposed to be having breakfast and I had not even started. I got up and ran to the kitchen when my feet got entangled and I fell, hitting the wall with my face. It was a matter of seconds but I saw how I was going to hit the wall. In a split second, I decided to turn my face sideways so I would not get disfigured since our walls were made of concrete. I turned to the right and heard my face crack when I hit the wall.

My father was in his study and came running when he heard the noise. That is how loud it was. My mother came running down the stairs and found me on the floor crying. My face was as red as a tomato and it hurt so badly.

My dad could had been a doctor. He examined me, touching my face to make sure no bones were broken.

“Your bones are good, but you had a good hit and cannot go to school,” he said.

“No! I cannot miss another day of school or I will lose the year. I have to go!”

“You cannot, plus I have to take you to have an x-ray.”

“No!” I cried harder. “I will lose the year. I have to go.”

My dad called one of his best friends, Filiberto. They grew up together and Daddy spent a lot of time with Filiberto while he was in med school. My father responded to his questions and when they finished talking, he said: “Okay, I am taking you to school, but this afternoon Filiberto is going to check you out.”

He took me to school with a bag of ice and instructed the nuns to make sure they got fresh ice every so often. By the time I got there, I had missed Mass and the classroom was locked. I sat down outside and waited for the class to come back. I could only imagine how bad I looked when I saw the faces of my friends as soon as they spotted me.

“What happened?” the teacher asked while all the girls stared at me with horror.

“I fell and hit the wall.”

“Why are you here? You should not be here.”

“You said if I missed another day, I would miss the year.”

“No, no. This is bad. You need to go back home. If you are well tomorrow, come, but you are not going to miss the year for today.”

I was taken to the principal’s office and my mother took me for x-rays later. No broken bones but my face turned purple, so ugly to the eye.

For a year or so I had a clot of blood inside my cheek that felt like a rock. It dissolved by itself over time.

Years later, my face would be almost disfigured again when my husband ran a red light in Tennessee. Nearly wintertime, we were driving to have dinner on a Saturday night in the icy rain when he ran the red light. He thought he could make it, but suddenly a pickup truck appeared in front of us. With the weather conditions, the brakes did not stop the car and we hit the truck. I hit the windshield. It did not hurt at the moment, but an iron-like smell started immediately and a hot liquid was coming down my face. I looked down and saw blood was everywhere. I started to scream.

Alejandro pushed me back in the seat and touched my forehead. I later learned he had put his fingers inside the wound.

“It is okay, Carmen. You do not have a fracture.”

Within seconds, fire trucks, police cars and ambulances surrounded us. I could not see much because I could not move as per instructions from my husband and the paramedics who arrived so fast. The blood flowed nonstop like it was coming from a water faucet. The smell was unbearable.

I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Once we got there, Alejandro asked me if I wanted to have Theresa, my best friend, called. I was at the emergency room for hours, having x-rays, exams and eight stitches on my brow where my hairline starts.

Theresa got both of us home. The car was a total loss. The pain was killing me. I went to bed and Theresa put my sweater in water. It was full of blood. Alejandro was going to trash it, but she said that if we wash it now, the blood will be gone. I had a sedative and slept, but when I woke up the next day and saw my face in the mirror, I was scared. I was completely disfigured.

The accident was mentioned on the news that night. My friends informed me on Monday when I showed up for class with a beret to cover my now disfigured forehead. Once again, I had a bruise coming down my head but now on the left side. Funny how bruises on faces roll down!

I was the director of the news station at East Tennessee State University and many times was out filming. One day while looking in the lens of a TV camera, a fellow student realized I had a terrible bruise on my left side. The forehead bruise was now on the lower part of my cheek and neck.

“My God, girl! Who is hitting you?” she said.

Little did I know that possibility was going to become reality later in my life.

The bruise kept on coming down at the same time it was disappearing to the point that it looked like a “hickey” on my neck. Everybody, people at school and the gym—the only places I frequented in that college town—commented that I had a “hickey”! It was embarrassing but what could I do? After all, I was married.

Thank God the pageant taught me to deal with false accusations, something I had to endure later to a greater magnitude while protecting my children.

It was a boring regular day of work for her. Every day she must have asked herself what happened to that popular blond girl from school. She was beautiful, popular, dedicated, always the beauty queen… But now?

She hated her post, hated that regular small office at the airport, where she sat to eat and her ass got bigger on a daily basis. Houston is not that important in the USA, not even for the weather forecast or for terrorists, but she requested this position because it allowed her to have a side job… Real estate!

Is she allowed to do that with a federal job?

Just like every other day, the days passed without anything happening to make her feel like a real FBI agent. All that sacrifice, study and training were reduced to a small office desk job.