Yesterday the local bully knocked me down into the snow. He yelled at me, “Stupid spic! – go back to where you came from!” So I have to stand tough. I will not let out that this cut was actually deeper than any knife wound could be.
At least the knife leaves a mark of war – a mark of courage. This leaves a mark on the inside that no one sees. No courage in feelings!
I started wondering what we were doing here in the first place. We left Ecuador running away from something, looking for a place to hide from our fears. We came to the U.S. to have a better life. An opportunity for a better education, a place that offers the ladder of possibility. The Bronx is a place of a million such immigrant stories, this is just one of them. All the stories are the same, all with hope and possibilities, all but a dream to be fulfilled.
The problem that I see is that we are treated as misfits, and in the South Bronx we are awashed in a sea of misfits. What a perfect place to hide.
I hear my parents argue, that the point of coming to the U.S. was to find a better place. What is the point if it means having to live here.
In Spanish ‘qual es el punto’ can refer to the intent, the place or the time. What is the point? Is Hunts Point the highpoint of all this? Is it the point of breakthrough or breakdown. Or is it a point in time when I get initiated into the Savage Skulls, and time can never be turned back.
So when I got into a fight yesterday, simply because I was instigated by a gang member, I can start to see my parents concerns.
There has to be a better place. I heard my mother and father speak with such urgency of such a place, so I know that we will see it soon.
