SCHOOL
The most memorable event in elementary school happened when a kid with the surname of Macedo and I, began to play with 22’s as if they were firecrackers. Since the cartridges didn’t have any flints to light up, we decided the best way to make them go “bang” was to place them on the floor and drop heavy rocks on them. It seemed like fun, just like fireworks at Christmas and New Years, even though there was a slight notion of danger in the air, an element that made it all the better. My experience with Dracula had to me to some extent, numbed to dangerous activities. It starts to grow in you after awhile, you begin to like such things, and when there’s nothing of the like going on, there’s a repulsive sense of boredom. Everything was going according to plan, we had a group of spectators around us, and we had the power to ignite many childlike smiles in our perimeter. But all of the sudden, my classmate Felipe, had a confused looked in his face, he was touching his left temple with the palm of his hand; he lifted his hand from his head and I could see a tiny streak of blood, he was grazed by the bullet. His soccer game has been interrupted. Since I had detonated all my 22’s, and Macedo was the one who threw the rock that fired the bullet, he was the one who got in trouble; he got expelled form school. His father, an MD, came to school and picked him up. I never saw Macedo again; he probably ended up in private school. This was the first time I realized that doctors, those who heal people, also kept guns and ammo and their houses.
Middle school was also unforgettable, since we lived by the beach and the school I attended was also close to the water, it was more appealing to go and play at the ruins that the storm left when the sea swallowed the first two streets next to the waterfront, than to go to class. There was one hotel that kept its ground and was not destroyed. It just tilted into the sand at a 45 degree angle. We would miss classes and go to our tilt hotel to smoke cigarettes, drink booze, and tell tall tales. It was around this time that I commenced to write my first poems. Poetry that I would write for the pretty girls in my classroom and that later on I would arrange music to it using my father’s guitar. The song went something like this:
Todo ha sido diferente
Todo ha sido malamente
Nunca vino nuestro tiempo
Nunca pude quererte
Cuando tú te asomabas
Por tu linda ventana
Cuando nos amamos
En la playa
Nunca pude quererte
My father did not have much patience to teach me to play, he tried once or twice, and then perhaps, he gave up. So I would grab his Japanese classical guitar, and basically, teach my self to play. The same way I taught myself to shoot his guns at stray dogs, when he was not around; I think he always thought his guns were secure in his hiding place.
The most memorable event in elementary school happened when a kid with the surname of Macedo and I, began to play with 22’s as if they were firecrackers. Since the cartridges didn’t have any flints to light up, we decided the best way to make them go “bang” was to place them on the floor and drop heavy rocks on them. It seemed like fun, just like fireworks at Christmas and New Years, even though there was a slight notion of danger in the air, an element that made it all the better. My experience with Dracula had to me to some extent, numbed to dangerous activities. It starts to grow in you after awhile, you begin to like such things, and when there’s nothing of the like going on, there’s a repulsive sense of boredom. Everything was going according to plan, we had a group of spectators around us, and we had the power to ignite many childlike smiles in our perimeter. But all of the sudden, my classmate Felipe, had a confused looked in his face, he was touching his left temple with the palm of his hand; he lifted his hand from his head and I could see a tiny streak of blood, he was grazed by the bullet. His soccer game has been interrupted. Since I had detonated all my 22’s, and Macedo was the one who threw the rock that fired the bullet, he was the one who got in trouble; he got expelled form school. His father, an MD, came to school and picked him up. I never saw Macedo again; he probably ended up in private school. This was the first time I realized that doctors, those who heal people, also kept guns and ammo and their houses.
Middle school was also unforgettable, since we lived by the beach and the school I attended was also close to the water, it was more appealing to go and play at the ruins that the storm left when the sea swallowed the first two streets next to the waterfront, than to go to class. There was one hotel that kept its ground and was not destroyed. It just tilted into the sand at a 45 degree angle. We would miss classes and go to our tilt hotel to smoke cigarettes, drink booze, and tell tall tales. It was around this time that I commenced to write my first poems. Poetry that I would write for the pretty girls in my classroom and that later on I would arrange music to it using my father’s guitar. The song went something like this:
Todo ha sido diferente
Todo ha sido malamente
Nunca vino nuestro tiempo
Nunca pude quererte
Cuando tú te asomabas
Por tu linda ventana
Cuando nos amamos
En la playa
Nunca pude quererte
My father did not have much patience to teach me to play, he tried once or twice, and then perhaps, he gave up. So I would grab his Japanese classical guitar, and basically, teach my self to play. The same way I taught myself to shoot his guns at stray dogs, when he was not around; I think he always thought his guns were secure in his hiding place.
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