Gerardo Silva walks along a diving board at the Brownsville Natatorium with an expressionless gaze. As the board bends, Silva propels himself skyward, swinging his arms above his head. He is perpendicular with the pool for a moment before executing a summersault. He tumbles toward the water, uncoiling in time to meet the surface as flat as a paddle.
His 5-foot-4-inch, 120-pound build creates minimal splash. He lifts himself out of the water as a panel of four poolside judges hold up their scorecards. An announcer relays their assessment on a 10-point scale.
“7, 6, 5, 5.”
Silva is satisfied.
“I did pretty good,” he said.
Silva, who goes by Jerry, isn’t immediately concerned with his scorecard. Instead, he scans a nearby bench for something more pertinent — a towel. Once he spots the teal cloth, he wraps it around his muscular shoulders.
In all, there will be 11 dives for Silva, each measuring one meter in height. It’s the first day of the Brownsville Pre-Regional Showcase, a two-day event for many of the Rio Grande Valley’s swim programs to prepare for district competition. Silva represents the Edinburg North Cougars.
Until his next dive, Silva sits in the warm December sunshine. He mingles with other divers, trading jokes and snacking on a sandwich. He carries himself like the other kids in attendance: genial when dry, competitive when soaked.
But what separates Silva from his peers is apparent upon meeting him. The 17-year-old sports four tattoos on his upper body, all of equal significance and different meaning. A rosary wraps around his neck, the crucifix etched over his heart. His mother’s name, Satonina, is inked in elegant cursive on his left pectoral. “Only God can judge me” proclaims from his upper back while the outline of the state of Texas rests on his right ribcage.
Silva received the tattoos when he was 14, a period of misdirection and little guidance. It was a time when he was content to simply be alive.
MI VIDA LOCA
Silva was born the sixth of seven children. He grew up in Muniz, a neighborhood on the eastern edge of Edinburg. He lived with his mother and three of his brothers: Angel, 21, Frank, 19, and Gabriel 13.
Silva’s mother was a housekeeper and a single mom. She’d work while the children were at school, earning $40 a day. The family of five shared a two-bedroom home. Though living conditions were modest, their mother’s earnings, along with food stamps, were enough for the essentials.
But Silva knew from a young age not all was well with his mom. Normally an outgoing personality, she would at times grow silent and obsessively clean the family’s home, a means of concealing a drug and alcohol addiction.
Satonina ingested beer and cocaine, and smoked marijuana on a daily basis. The boys confronted her to no avail.
“She would do the basic stuff for us, like clean and wash,” Angel said. “That would be her excuse. That she did everything she needed to do.”
Though their mother provided food and shelter, she did not give her sons guidance. While Satonina took her regimen of substances, Silva and his brother Frank roamed the streets, becoming involved in its nefarious elements. The duo eventually joined the Loco Trece gang (Crazy 13), a number that equaled Silva’s age at the time. He was jumped into the gang in his friend’s backyard.
Silva’s activities in Loco Trece ranged from innocuous to violent. He and his friends would smoke marijuana and take pills before short-changing the ice cream man one day, only to be shot at by rival gangs in drive-bys the next. Silva was never struck by a bullet. His cohorts weren’t so lucky.
“One guy got shot in the leg,” he said. “Another was in a coma.”
In seventh grade, Silva took his street life to Sauceda Middle School in Donna, selling drugs in the band hall and starting a gang fight in the cafeteria.
“I threw a chair at this big kid,” Silva said. “He was from another gang and he was running his mouth, so I shut him up.”
SUPPORT STRUCTURE
After the cafeteria brawl, Silva became known to Debra Harris, and was later placed in her math class as an eighth grader.
In class, Silva could be irritable, disruptive and disrespectful. His role in the lunchroom fight meant he had to eat in Harris’ classroom. While the two ate their meals, Silva revealed a more thoughtful side of himself.
“We would talk about God,” Harris said. “He would ask me, ‘Do you believe people can change?’”
From those religions conversations, Silva revealed his home life to his teacher. At the time, family friends had already called Child Protective Services on his mother for her unyielding drug use. The children stayed with relatives close by.
It was around this time that Silva received his tattoos at a friend’s house.
“He would come to school and show them off,” Harris said. “He would lift up his shirt and say, ‘Look what I got.’”
While Silva was having needles applied to his skin, he applied himself in the classroom through a science project. He worked with science teacher Jim Tauzel on calculating the trajectory of rockets as they fell to earth, eventually winning first place in a regional science fair. Tauzel offered the project to all his students, with Silva as the only taker.
The two teachers were the first adults with a vested interested in Silva’s future.
In the spring of 2012, Silva’s house was raided by authorities. They came for his brother Frank, who was still breaking into houses. A family on the ropes was dismantled by the CPS. Frank was taken to Dolph Briscoe prison in Dilley to serve a three-year sentence. Gabriel was placed in foster care while Angel lived with a friend. His brother’s imprisonment rattled Silva.
“I didn’t want to become like him,” he said. “I saw what would happen to me if I kept going down the path I was on.”
Silva knew the best way to remain clean was to live with Harris.
“There wasn’t anyone else in the family to take care of him,” Harris said.
CLEAN SLATE
Silva moved in with Harris before his freshman year in 2012 and was given boundaries. Silva was drug tested every two weeks. When he failed, his video game and skateboarding privileges were revoked. He was given a curfew and good grades were expected. Harris’ final creed was something new for Silva — he had to participate in a sport of his choosing.
Silva settled on diving through a process of elimination. Too small for football, too short for basketball and uninterested in running cross country. Silva’s streamlined physique and acrobatic athleticism lent itself to the diving board.
Harris moved Silva out of the Donna school district before the start of high school in order to give him a new beginning. Classmates at Sauceda knew of Silva’s gang activates, which hindered attempts to better himself.
At Edinburg North, Silva could be anyone. He dropped his acquaintances in Loco Trece and hasn’t spoken to them since.
“I want to become someone in life,” Silva said.
That’s not to say his past is invisible. He still carries the ink from his previous life. It was his tattoos which made a first impression on Fernando Delgado, Edinburg North’s swimming and diving coach.
“I wasn’t freaked out,” Delgado said. “I just had to ask what they were.”
Delgado initially wanted Silva to pull double duty as a swimmer and diver. Away from the board, however, Silva flopped. His lungs were heavily damaged by the volume of smoke he inhaled in Loco Trece. A stroke as simple as the 50-yard freestyle sent cramps along his ribcage.
Nonetheless, Delgado kept Silva on the team as a diver. He knew Silva needed somewhere to go after school to avoid trouble, but he saw an innate skill in him that was unteachable.
“He’s fearless,” Delgado said. “To be in diving you can’t be afraid.”
Silva credits his fearlessness to his rough upbringing. He survived random gunfire, why fret over a midair summersault?
“I’m not afraid of anything,” Silva said.
Silva is in the midst of a remarkable stretch of diving, dating back to January. He has placed in the top four in five of his last six meets.
His success in the pool is reflected in the classroom. Silva hopes to attend college and someday become a lawyer.
He still has a relationship with his mother, who lives with Angel in Edinburg. The two meet every weekend for two-hour visitations arranged by CPS. Silva harbors resentment for her many empty promises to clean up.
“She’s still the same person, but I love her. She’s my mom,” he said.
There are still more dives for Silva to complete at the Brownsville Natatorium. The next one on the list is the most complicated and involves a full twist followed by a one-and-a-half summersault. The looming task leaves the otherwise confident kid pessimistic.
“I don’t know about this one,” he said. “I’ve never tried it before.”
Silva assumes his position on the board. His back is to the pool, his arms held at shoulder height. His face is once again emotionless. He gathers momentum with a brisk pair of jumps before he once again leaps into the air. He twirls above the pool, his arms and legs in fluid motion before breaking the water with his outstretched hands.
He glides under the surface while the judges again give their verdict. Silva’s head buoys from below in time to hear the numbers read.
“5 1/2, 5, 5 1/2, 5.”
Jerry shows a charming smile, reaches for his customary towel and leans over to a fellow diver.
“That wasn’t so bad.”