On my 15th birthday I was told I was getting a puppy. I flipped with joy. Finally, the thing I had wanted the most was coming to me! I couldn't wait. It came from a litter of puppies my grandmother's dog had had.
Okay, now you might be asking, where did she come from? My grandmother had been living in Mexico, but moved into Alabama, following her child, my dad, finally. I met her when I was 12. She was nice old lady who didn't speak a word of English. Good thing I had never forgotten my Spanish.
But, the puppy didn't do much. It sat there and stared gloomly at whatever its face was pointed at. I tried my best to get the puppy to play. For two days my heart cracked, and on the third, it broke. Something in me gave up. The loss of Tom, my very best friend, and now this? The dog I had been promised, gone? My parents were lying! The dog wasn't dead, just hiding somewhere. I wouldn't hear what they were saying to me, my ears were blocked. I screamed at them English words I later wondered if they knew.
That day I jumped out in the street and crossed the tracks into the East Side and hid in one of Tom's favorite hiding places. I didn't want anyone here to see me cry. No matter what side of the track I was on, if anyone saw me cry, I'd be done and over with.
I suddenly kicked out of the store. I tried to enter one day after school, but the man yelled at me and warned that if I ever came he would call the police. He was tired of me hanging around and not buying. I hard tried for a volunteer job, but the man wouldn't let me volunteer. I stamped Racist on his mermory and never entered the store again after he yelled at me.
I began thinking more and more what I had left behind in Florida. Maybe I would be the leader of the gang now. Maybe I would be the one raping young girls. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. What if I had become a leader? What if I had started taking their drugs? What if I had started fucking girls at parties on people's dining tables? What if. What if. What if. The questions just rang through my head, twisting themselves together.
Going to the East Side I asked about such gangs and parties. Almost a week later I was picked up by a gang. They were all guys, and looked tough as nails. Acted that way too. Before they fully allowed me to join, each had gotten the chance of beating me up. There, I was in. I was part of a gang again. This time when I was offered joints I took them, but then again, hadn't Tom been smoking marijuana too? When I was 16 someone brought in crack. We all had it. The other guys took so much, they forgot they had even taken it. I remembered everything. I, myself, hadn't done anything, but one of the guys had called his girlfriend, and I guess she called some of her friends, because there was suddenly a group of girls there with us. Several of them came on to me, but I pushed them away, still content to watch the other guys play.
Then I tried coke. I tried it in my room, so I have no worries of having done anything bad. I had made sure I couldn't by cuffing myself to my own bed and hiding the key from myself. It took me an hour when I was normal to find it again. That way, I knew I hadn't been at a party, maybe having sex with some strange girl.
When I was 12 Tom had showed me something really strange. It was in books. Guys with guys and girls with girls. He explained everything and when I understood took me to see one of his homosexual friends. At first I was scared at the man would try something with me, but Tom was there. I didn't go around that man until I felt strong enough to fight him off if he did try something. I'm glad he never did.
At 16 I had been reliving my life as a six year old, and it was giving me a buzz. I loved it. I still hadn't had sex, and I didn't want to. Watching other people seemed to calm my own hormones. I watched as guys and girls from the West Side, repsected kids, came and screwed with strangers.One day I heard the name of all the parties I been going to: "urgies." Or, that's what I thought it was.
Around the middle of my 16th year I was introduced to spray painting and graffiti. Now here was something I went crazy over.
And it wasn't just the artwork or the thrill of doing something I shouldn't.
It was the paint fumes.
Everytime I snuffed them before I painted. It gave me an edge the others didn't have on their graffiti. A lot of my spray paintings had yellow. A lot of yellow.
Okay, now you might be asking, where did she come from? My grandmother had been living in Mexico, but moved into Alabama, following her child, my dad, finally. I met her when I was 12. She was nice old lady who didn't speak a word of English. Good thing I had never forgotten my Spanish.
But, the puppy didn't do much. It sat there and stared gloomly at whatever its face was pointed at. I tried my best to get the puppy to play. For two days my heart cracked, and on the third, it broke. Something in me gave up. The loss of Tom, my very best friend, and now this? The dog I had been promised, gone? My parents were lying! The dog wasn't dead, just hiding somewhere. I wouldn't hear what they were saying to me, my ears were blocked. I screamed at them English words I later wondered if they knew.
That day I jumped out in the street and crossed the tracks into the East Side and hid in one of Tom's favorite hiding places. I didn't want anyone here to see me cry. No matter what side of the track I was on, if anyone saw me cry, I'd be done and over with.
I suddenly kicked out of the store. I tried to enter one day after school, but the man yelled at me and warned that if I ever came he would call the police. He was tired of me hanging around and not buying. I hard tried for a volunteer job, but the man wouldn't let me volunteer. I stamped Racist on his mermory and never entered the store again after he yelled at me.
I began thinking more and more what I had left behind in Florida. Maybe I would be the leader of the gang now. Maybe I would be the one raping young girls. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. What if I had become a leader? What if I had started taking their drugs? What if I had started fucking girls at parties on people's dining tables? What if. What if. What if. The questions just rang through my head, twisting themselves together.
Going to the East Side I asked about such gangs and parties. Almost a week later I was picked up by a gang. They were all guys, and looked tough as nails. Acted that way too. Before they fully allowed me to join, each had gotten the chance of beating me up. There, I was in. I was part of a gang again. This time when I was offered joints I took them, but then again, hadn't Tom been smoking marijuana too? When I was 16 someone brought in crack. We all had it. The other guys took so much, they forgot they had even taken it. I remembered everything. I, myself, hadn't done anything, but one of the guys had called his girlfriend, and I guess she called some of her friends, because there was suddenly a group of girls there with us. Several of them came on to me, but I pushed them away, still content to watch the other guys play.
Then I tried coke. I tried it in my room, so I have no worries of having done anything bad. I had made sure I couldn't by cuffing myself to my own bed and hiding the key from myself. It took me an hour when I was normal to find it again. That way, I knew I hadn't been at a party, maybe having sex with some strange girl.
When I was 12 Tom had showed me something really strange. It was in books. Guys with guys and girls with girls. He explained everything and when I understood took me to see one of his homosexual friends. At first I was scared at the man would try something with me, but Tom was there. I didn't go around that man until I felt strong enough to fight him off if he did try something. I'm glad he never did.
At 16 I had been reliving my life as a six year old, and it was giving me a buzz. I loved it. I still hadn't had sex, and I didn't want to. Watching other people seemed to calm my own hormones. I watched as guys and girls from the West Side, repsected kids, came and screwed with strangers.One day I heard the name of all the parties I been going to: "urgies." Or, that's what I thought it was.
Around the middle of my 16th year I was introduced to spray painting and graffiti. Now here was something I went crazy over.
And it wasn't just the artwork or the thrill of doing something I shouldn't.
It was the paint fumes.
Everytime I snuffed them before I painted. It gave me an edge the others didn't have on their graffiti. A lot of my spray paintings had yellow. A lot of yellow.
