From Barefoot to Stilettos, It's not for sissies

Foreword: Titanium Stilettos
From Barefoot to Stilettos is a memoir written with the hope to inspire and empower the inner warrior in each of us, dedicated to reminding us to walk tall each and every day, regardless of what we’re up against.
Repeatedly, my stilettos have proven their capacity to carry me through every trial, every storm, and every fire yet still emerge unscathed and ready to carry me another day. In my titanium stilettos rest the strength and power to kick in as many doors as it takes to get to my “yes.”
Chapter 1: Blood of Survivors
My family is one made up of fighters – people who’ve never understood the meaning of “no,” “can’t,” “stop,” “limits,” or “impossible.”
During World War II, my grandfather and his comrades dug holes with their bare hands and buried themselves in the sand to avoid attack by enemy tanks. The tanks rolled over them in their hiding places, and he and one other soldier were the only two to survive that encounter. The worst consequence that my grandfather suffered from that experience was painful arthritis for the rest of his life. At another point – not sure whether this was during the war or sometime else – my grandfather was shot in the head, but he survived that too, suffering only a scar and a plate in his head.
My grandfather had fled to America from Italy. From what I was told, his escape had something to do with his parents being shot by his best friend over land, and even more to do with being next on that hit list. So from the little bit I understand, he had to get out of that country, and he had to get out of there fast.
He escaped to Mexico first and then traveled to the United States – a path I’ll never understand given that he’d have bypassed the U.S. to get to Mexico. I never got the complete picture why he chose the route to Mexico first, but that would explain the make-up of my Italian-Mexican-American family.
He was around 36 years old and my grandmother was around the age of 13 when he met her in America and courted her briefly before offering her Mexican family a dowry of cows in exchange for her hand in marriage. As a result, the nature of their relationship was that he essentially became her father and her husband at once. She married so young, but immediately started having all these babies. I never understood her utter strength until I was all grown up.
My grandfather was my world from the start. I idolized him so much that when I got a little older, I even tried to learn to shave like him. He liked his shave the old-fashioned way – mixing the cream in the shaving cup, and then brushing it onto his face and shaving the hair away with a knife. When I got old enough to start shaving my legs, I went about it exactly the way my grandfather did his shaving.
I was with him during his final days, although, for some reason, my uncles didn’t want me around at the hospital. He always used to tell me that I was his favorite, and my grandmother would get upset with him for spending so much more time with me than with his other grandchildren. When he saw me from behind the mask he had to wear, his eyes would light up, and my grandmother would say, “Well, he knows Marie is here!” Still, my uncles were constantly ushering me out of the room.

One uncle, who was particularly jealous, hardened, and controlling, was always trying to put me in my place. I couldn’t understand why he treated me like such an outcast, since he was the one with a history of doing wrong by my grandparents, but I learned from him during my grandfather’s final days the necessity of considering the source. I had to realize that, no matter what he tried to take from me or the rest of our family, I had my grandfather’s love and that was all that mattered. I wasn’t going to let my uncle break me down because of his misery. My mother made sure of that, too. She had always stood her ground with her brothers throughout life and instilled in me the strength to not to take any crap from them or any man, no matter who he might be. In those days, I just shrugged him off and tried to focus on what mattered.

In the few moments I did get to spend alone with my grandfather before he passed away, I made sure I told him what a wonderful man he had been, how special he was to me, and that I would remember him forever.
So many things about my grandfather remain a mystery to me. For some reason, he has two separate birth certificates, so my family never knew his real age. Every time he told me about his life, his stories grew bigger and bigger – altogether, his tales have led me to believe that either he made it all up, or he had nine lives. In any case, he was truly a tough guy. For all his adventures, he was somewhere in his late 90’s by the time he passed away of natural causes. Regardless of how much truth or exaggeration fueled his tall tales, they laid the groundwork for the legacy I had to live up to. His imperturbable strength and his unbreakable spirit made him my idol.
Once he was gone, I realized that he had been my world, and I didn’t even have any pictures of him. All that I had left of him was his 48-star American flag he’d given me from World War II – and the blood of survivors pumping through my veins.
And how could I, with that gift from him, learn to ever take no for an answer?