Sir Dyno's book "midst of my confusion"
- Thread starter datfrenchmane
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Chapter One
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As I entered fifth grade I began to notice other Mexican kids in my school constantly getting picked on. For some reason Mexicans became an issue to white kids, the same white kids that had been my friends since kindergarten. I too began getting picked on. But what could I do? I was always outnumbered. One day as I was walking to my class after recess, I saw three white boys chasing a young Mexican kid calling him names. No teachers were around because everybody was already walking back to their classrooms. I tried to ignore it but it burned me up inside. One of the boys tripped the Mexican kid and they all began laughing. I just looked down and went to class.
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As I entered fifth grade I began to notice other Mexican kids in my school constantly getting picked on. For some reason Mexicans became an issue to white kids, the same white kids that had been my friends since kindergarten. I too began getting picked on. But what could I do? I was always outnumbered. One day as I was walking to my class after recess, I saw three white boys chasing a young Mexican kid calling him names. No teachers were around because everybody was already walking back to their classrooms. I tried to ignore it but it burned me up inside. One of the boys tripped the Mexican kid and they all began laughing. I just looked down and went to class.
When I went home I talked to my dad about it.
"Papa, were you ever picked on cause you were Mexican when you were young?" He looked at me then sat down . I could tell that he was trying to figure out what to tell me. "Where I grew up, all I knew were Mexicanos," and paused for a second.
"Are you having problems at school mijo?"
"Oh no, I was just asking. I just saw a Mexican kid being bullied around today."
I was lying. I was ashamed to tell him that I was being picked on almost everyday.
"Mijo, don't you ever let someone make you feel lower than them because of the color of your skin. I will never tell you to fight! But there is a difference in fighting and defending yourself. Don't ever shame our family blood by ever letting another put you down. Your great grandfather brought his family to Texas hoping we would make a better life for ourselves. And he never let another man put him down."
"Papa, were you ever picked on cause you were Mexican when you were young?" He looked at me then sat down . I could tell that he was trying to figure out what to tell me. "Where I grew up, all I knew were Mexicanos," and paused for a second.
"Are you having problems at school mijo?"
"Oh no, I was just asking. I just saw a Mexican kid being bullied around today."
I was lying. I was ashamed to tell him that I was being picked on almost everyday.
"Mijo, don't you ever let someone make you feel lower than them because of the color of your skin. I will never tell you to fight! But there is a difference in fighting and defending yourself. Don't ever shame our family blood by ever letting another put you down. Your great grandfather brought his family to Texas hoping we would make a better life for ourselves. And he never let another man put him down."
Here's da rest of Chaper oNe
I agreed and didn't say anything else.
The next day during my lunch recess I walked to the bathroom. It was between a classroom and the cafeteria, so there was hardly any teachers or anyone there. As I was walking out I was stopped at the door by six white kids.
“What are you doing, Beaner? Eating tacos sitting on the toilet?” He looked at his friends to get approval, feeling better as they all laughed. When he saw that they were enjoying it he laughed harder.
“At least he knows where he belongs,” said one of the other boys.
Then the tallest of them stepped up and pushed me against the wall. I looked down the hallway hoping a teacher would come. I only saw the Mexican kid from the day before watching.
I pushed him back and said, “Don’t you ever push me!”
They were all eating sunflower seeds and they began spitting them at me, pinning me against the bathroom wall. My heart was racing, my hands were sweaty. I was scared. Then I remembered my father and what he told me. My great grandfather would be ashamed of me for not standing my ground. I had sunflower seeds stuck to me with spit. I could hear them laughing. But it felt like a dream where the faster I tried to move, the slower I became. I began to fight the tears I felt coming. They noticed I was scared and laughed at me even more.
“So what are you going to do about it, you little burrito eating wetback.”
Then, just as one was going to call me a sissy, I attacked.
“Don’t ever call me a Beaner! I’m Mexican!”
I attacked with all my strength as if it were a fight for my life. I punched the taller one right on his mouth. I kicked two other boys and I pushed two more against the wall. I could feel Zapata and Villa fighting along with me, inside of me, in my blood. I felt the rage of my people inside of me, wanting justice for over five hundred years. We had been beaten, raped, killed and mocked. I refused to stand for it any longer.
The first one I hit grabbed me from behind and kicked me. I could hear a teacher running toward us blowing her whistle. I punched one more kid in the stomach and he lost all wind. He fell on his knees, his mouth open, no sound coming out. What seemed like a minute later, he screamed and tears were coming down his cheeks. I laughed as the teacher took us all into the office. I was raging mad, and I didn’t even feel where I had been punched and kicked. I knew the spirit of my heroes were flowing in my blood during that fight. After that day, after that fight, I knew in my heart that I would never let anybody put me down or my Raza.
The next day I gathered they only six Mexicans from the fourth and fifth grade during lunch.
“We can’t let them push us around anymore. If we stick together and take care of each other nobody will never mess with us again,” I said as they kids were sitting close together. Also with us was the only Black kid in the fifth grade. He too was always getting picked on. Now there were seven of us, and I knew we would never be picked on again. I liked the feeling of power our group gave. We had started a gang. I guess they get started that easily. I never did let my Jefito’s know about the racism at my school. I never let my Jefito’s know about my gang either. Every morning we would meet by the sandbox before class started. Then we would meet for recess and lunch.
None of this ever affected my grades though. I would get all A’s on my report card. I think that’s one of the reasons I was never liked by the white kids. They couldn’t stand that fact that I was smarter than them. But we were never harassed again. They wouldn’t even pick on us when we were by ourselves. They knew that if they did something to one of us, they would have to answer to all of us. The little Mexican kid that saw the whole incident from the bathroom told everybody. He told all the kids that Joaquin had stood up to the white kids. He saw me punch, saw me kick. It had earned me respect from all of other kids.
Now, I remember that first time my father let me shoot his gun. We took a ride out to the country, and I anticipated every second. He loaded the bullets into a .38 revolver. Then before he let me shoot it, he said that I had to respect the gun. I should never aim at another man unless my familia was threatened. I remember holding the gun and aiming toward an old beer bottle. The rush of hearing the cracking sound as the gun kicked was so powerful that it made my entire body shake. My father would laugh as I missed every single shot. When it was his turn, he aimed wit precision, never missing his target.
I didn’t mean to go on so long about my childhood, but I felt that it was important to my story. Maybe it will give you a better understanding of me. Everything that happens to us as a child reflects on our adulthood. It’s the mold that shapes us into what we become.
I agreed and didn't say anything else.
The next day during my lunch recess I walked to the bathroom. It was between a classroom and the cafeteria, so there was hardly any teachers or anyone there. As I was walking out I was stopped at the door by six white kids.
“What are you doing, Beaner? Eating tacos sitting on the toilet?” He looked at his friends to get approval, feeling better as they all laughed. When he saw that they were enjoying it he laughed harder.
“At least he knows where he belongs,” said one of the other boys.
Then the tallest of them stepped up and pushed me against the wall. I looked down the hallway hoping a teacher would come. I only saw the Mexican kid from the day before watching.
I pushed him back and said, “Don’t you ever push me!”
They were all eating sunflower seeds and they began spitting them at me, pinning me against the bathroom wall. My heart was racing, my hands were sweaty. I was scared. Then I remembered my father and what he told me. My great grandfather would be ashamed of me for not standing my ground. I had sunflower seeds stuck to me with spit. I could hear them laughing. But it felt like a dream where the faster I tried to move, the slower I became. I began to fight the tears I felt coming. They noticed I was scared and laughed at me even more.
“So what are you going to do about it, you little burrito eating wetback.”
Then, just as one was going to call me a sissy, I attacked.
“Don’t ever call me a Beaner! I’m Mexican!”
I attacked with all my strength as if it were a fight for my life. I punched the taller one right on his mouth. I kicked two other boys and I pushed two more against the wall. I could feel Zapata and Villa fighting along with me, inside of me, in my blood. I felt the rage of my people inside of me, wanting justice for over five hundred years. We had been beaten, raped, killed and mocked. I refused to stand for it any longer.
The first one I hit grabbed me from behind and kicked me. I could hear a teacher running toward us blowing her whistle. I punched one more kid in the stomach and he lost all wind. He fell on his knees, his mouth open, no sound coming out. What seemed like a minute later, he screamed and tears were coming down his cheeks. I laughed as the teacher took us all into the office. I was raging mad, and I didn’t even feel where I had been punched and kicked. I knew the spirit of my heroes were flowing in my blood during that fight. After that day, after that fight, I knew in my heart that I would never let anybody put me down or my Raza.
The next day I gathered they only six Mexicans from the fourth and fifth grade during lunch.
“We can’t let them push us around anymore. If we stick together and take care of each other nobody will never mess with us again,” I said as they kids were sitting close together. Also with us was the only Black kid in the fifth grade. He too was always getting picked on. Now there were seven of us, and I knew we would never be picked on again. I liked the feeling of power our group gave. We had started a gang. I guess they get started that easily. I never did let my Jefito’s know about the racism at my school. I never let my Jefito’s know about my gang either. Every morning we would meet by the sandbox before class started. Then we would meet for recess and lunch.
None of this ever affected my grades though. I would get all A’s on my report card. I think that’s one of the reasons I was never liked by the white kids. They couldn’t stand that fact that I was smarter than them. But we were never harassed again. They wouldn’t even pick on us when we were by ourselves. They knew that if they did something to one of us, they would have to answer to all of us. The little Mexican kid that saw the whole incident from the bathroom told everybody. He told all the kids that Joaquin had stood up to the white kids. He saw me punch, saw me kick. It had earned me respect from all of other kids.
Now, I remember that first time my father let me shoot his gun. We took a ride out to the country, and I anticipated every second. He loaded the bullets into a .38 revolver. Then before he let me shoot it, he said that I had to respect the gun. I should never aim at another man unless my familia was threatened. I remember holding the gun and aiming toward an old beer bottle. The rush of hearing the cracking sound as the gun kicked was so powerful that it made my entire body shake. My father would laugh as I missed every single shot. When it was his turn, he aimed wit precision, never missing his target.
I didn’t mean to go on so long about my childhood, but I felt that it was important to my story. Maybe it will give you a better understanding of me. Everything that happens to us as a child reflects on our adulthood. It’s the mold that shapes us into what we become.
Chapter 2
Six years had passed since that incident in school with the white boys.
"HEY LOCO! What's up for tonight, ese?" yelled out my homeboy Vince from across the hall at school.
"I don't know. Let's just go for a cruise in your primo's ranfla. I heard it's gonna be packed tonight, bro." I yelled back.
"Simon ese, I'll see if he'll lend it to me," as he walked into class.
Vince was my closest camarada since the fourth grade gang. We both lived on the same block. We never actually kept up with the gang. It was all just kid stuff. But no matter what happened, Vince was always there for me, no matter what the situation. He was dark with a solid build from working out all the time. His hair was always slicked back with Tres Flores. He was the kind of vato that loved to joke around, always laughing about something. But when he would get drunk, he would get into fights, especially when he was out with his primo. He lived with his mother and little sister in a small apartment. His father had passed away when he was ten years old. His Jefita would always invite Vince and I to church, hoping someday we would accept her invitation. For one reason or another we always found an excuse not to go.
Six years had passed since that incident in school with the white boys.
"HEY LOCO! What's up for tonight, ese?" yelled out my homeboy Vince from across the hall at school.
"I don't know. Let's just go for a cruise in your primo's ranfla. I heard it's gonna be packed tonight, bro." I yelled back.
"Simon ese, I'll see if he'll lend it to me," as he walked into class.
Vince was my closest camarada since the fourth grade gang. We both lived on the same block. We never actually kept up with the gang. It was all just kid stuff. But no matter what happened, Vince was always there for me, no matter what the situation. He was dark with a solid build from working out all the time. His hair was always slicked back with Tres Flores. He was the kind of vato that loved to joke around, always laughing about something. But when he would get drunk, he would get into fights, especially when he was out with his primo. He lived with his mother and little sister in a small apartment. His father had passed away when he was ten years old. His Jefita would always invite Vince and I to church, hoping someday we would accept her invitation. For one reason or another we always found an excuse not to go.
We were now in the tenth grade at the only high school in town. That meant that every teenager was there. Chicano's were deep. When I was a kid, the school was surrounded by a mostly white neighborhood. Most of the Mexican's and Blacks lived on the opposite side of town. Now the barrio I grew up in was full of cholos y cholas. We called it Barrio Apache. Even though all the Chicano's were from different barrios and district's in town, we all got along at school. Sometimes we would fight against other vatos from nearby towns, but that was it. After school all the Raza would hang out at a hamburger stand across the street from the high school, or at the park that was only a block away. During lunch you would find all the Raza playing handball in the back of the high school against the high walls of the cafeteria. We knew about gang warfare, but that happened in the surrounding towns. We were a small town with a population of about 50,000. I should have realized the disease of gang warfare would seep into our little town soon.
