I built a shoeshine box and made money in my creative
childhood.
I shined shoes next to The White House supermarket and the
newsstand on Prospect Avenue in The South Bronx of America.
One day, three older well-dressed Puerto Rican kids made fun
of my two-dollar sneakers in front of pretty girls sitting on the hood of a
car.
I looked at their expensive shoes and gave up pride in
working for a living.
I wish my mother took a welfare check like your parents do,
I said quietly.
The girls burst into laughter as the three boys turned red
with shame.
They tried to beat me up but the girls protected me from the
bullies.
I was like the kid in a fable that said the king has no
clothes on.
I learned that telling the truth could get me hurt in the
USA.
I’ll be lying if I said I didn’t mind dying for the truth.
In the city of illegal guns and roses, I lived opposite a
funeral parlor. The block is like death row because down the hill and across
the river is Riker’s Island Prison.
There’s Jesus and the
Apostles on the face of a clock in my mother’s little kitchen.
Every night, I ran of
time.
But more often than not, I used to get a last supper unlike
some other kids.
I escaped by looking into the mystery of the universe. I
craved higher education. I wanted to build dreams and make them reality. I
wanted Bronx School of Science.
Then it’s off to M.I.T.
It’s hard to believe what happened to my life.
Now would be a good time for you to be scared of me.
How To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks
By Danny Aponte of P.S 161
Super hero at last! Yay!
LOL
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