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I just pulled a page out of my computer’s hard drive tonight and added it to the blog.  I wrote it over a year ago and have not edited it. I find that the self-state I was in when I wrote some of my pieces is not the same self-state I am in when I try to go back and reread or edit them — which makes the process of doing so just about impossible for me to do.

I was playing ‘hard ball’ when I wrote the following.  Today I can hear the crack of the bat as if I hit the ball so hard it flew over the two tall rusty steel Mexican-American boundary walls to the south of my house.  That ball flies so far and so fast and so hard that it crashes through some poor unsuspecting house owner’s front window and out a back one, spraying shards of glass in every direction.  Of course, this would be an accident.  There was nothing accidental about what my parents did to me.

Be careful when you read this.

I  placed it with

++MY CHILDHOOD STORIES

that I am trying to organize a bit better over time.

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This story describes why I was not allowed to attend my own high school graduation.  The story is an ugly one.

*Age 17 – What My Parents Taught Me About Racism

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