Marvin V. Acuna

Flea markets, promotional celluloid buttons, and Michael Jackson give birth to a seventh grade salesman.

The entrepreneurial spirit is embedded in my DNA. My father was an orphan who lived on the street and fended for himself from a very early age.

My mother is a 4^th grade drop out. Her father, my grandfather, was a raging alcoholic whose custom to spend all his pay at the local bar would leave the family of five with little. She dropped out to help bring money into the household for the essentials, food.

The tall stories of walking 500 miles in bare feet to fetch a pale of water were not folklore, but a true lifestyle.

My dad never knew his mother. His father was killed on the streets of Guatemala City. He did have an older brother, but he was no brother’s keeper.

My father skills were sharpened on the streets of Guatemala. From the knowledge I can recall about my father he was the Latino McGyver. I really feel he is an example of someone who did more with less. By age nineteen he already owned his first home and had a successful business as the local dry clean courier.

My mother spent many long evening’s assembling small gift packages that she and my grandfather would then sell to mom and pop vendors. As she became older and more confident as a communicator she encouraged my grandfather to branch out on his own. She had discovered where the employer was purchasing all the components at wholesale and she argued that they could literally triple the return of their sweat equity investment by simply purchasing the components themselves, building the packages, and then selling them to the vendors directly. She cut out the middle man.

The two greatest people I have ever met were the first ones.

Michael Jackson mania was in full swing when I was in the seventh grade. I even wore the infamous “Beat it” jacket. I was a huge fan and did not have any shame in my expression of that fact.

During one of the family visits to the flea market I stumbled upon a promotional button shop. Now it may have been there for years as the flea market was a family tradition. But, on this particular day the buttons on sale seemed invisible and the machine making them seemed to illuminate in the background. It was as if it called my name.

I couldn’t believe my eyes nor the truth I would learn. The promotional button shop could take any image and convert it into a button.

I returned with one of my favorite images of Michael Jackson and made a button. The Cheshire cat had nothing on me. I paraded around the flea market floor space with pride. It was a cool pin.

On Monday I dressed for school. Morning rituals and then as I walked out the door I placed the final touches on the school attire. My button!

It seemed to happen overnight, but doesn’t all success. As I navigated the corridors of the school and the playground of the small campus many students commented on the unique button.

Then it happened. I was offered money for the button. More money than I had paid for it. Can you say profit? Not sure I could, but I knew how to count. I was already taking algebra. Math was my subject. The numbers made sense to me and a business opportunity was born and a natural salesman emerged.

I’d now spend free time cutting images from any periodical I could get my little hands on and make new Michael Jackson buttons. The routine of the flea market was no longer simply a family trip, but a business trip to my wholesaler.

I entered St Patrick’s catholic school as a fugitive and emerged as the King of the schoolyard.