About Life

I had just turned 11 years old when I arrived in NY after a month-long trip over land – illegally – from El Salvador. It was February – winter. Cold!

Family members who had at some point or another, before me, taken the same trek over land seeking a better life all lived in the same roach-infested house on Clinton Street, Hempstead, NY. We occupied the first floor of the house. We also had the basement, though we rarely used it for living, as it was very, very humid down there. The basement was more of a storage area than anything else. Even the roaches opted not to hang out down there. On the first floor we had one large bedroom, a waiting room between the main door leading to the inside of the house and the door that led to the street, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. The small room that was the waiting area between the main door into the house and the door to the street served as my mother’s bedroom – cracked windows and all – and the large bedroom served as a dormitory for one of my 2 sisters and her son, and 3 brothers. Another sister slept on the sofa bed in the living room and I slept on a fold-away mattress in the hallway. At some point other nephews and another older sister joined us in the same house but my mind has blocked out the sleeping arrangements made then.

On the second floor of the house lived another family. In what should have been the garage lived yet another family. Ironically enough, a Nassau County police officer was our landlord. Surely he knew that there were way too many people living in his house. Given the bad state of the house and the number of roaches crawling all over the place it was certainly a fire hazard. Still, rent was cheap, and we had no other choice.

Since we were all brought to the US by human-trafficking “coyotes”, my mother, brothers and sisters all had to work very long hours in order to pay back the money owed. After all, the trip was not for free. Initially I spent most of my days alone in the house. Eventually my mother registered me in the local elementary school; Washington Elementary School, about 5 blocks from the house.

Hempstead – at the time and now – was/is mostly composed of blacks and Hispanics. There were lots of newly-arrived Central Americans, blacks, few Asians and about 2 whites. Throughout my life in Hempstead there were always racial issues dividing the community, and schools were where problems usually got started.

It was decided I would enter into the 4th grade at Washington Elementary. It was primarily because that grade was the only one with enough space for another body and not really because of my age. Besides, it was already February, and very late in the school year. I was put in Mrs. Washington’s class. She was an older sweet looking black lady. A large woman she always wore flowery dresses and had a pair of glasses on her face complete with the chain used to hang them on her neck when she was not using them. I didn’t understand English so I have no idea what she was saying, ever. Because of that I can’t say for sure whether she was nice, funny or mean. I like to think she was nice.

I was mostly bored in class. I was the only Hispanic kid there, and all the other kids were black, including my teacher. No one spoke Spanish and I was far from starting to understand any English. I felt isolated.

During breakfast – as a poor family we qualified for school breakfast – and lunch I stayed to myself pretty much the whole time. Often I would get into some sort of fight or argument over a black student saying something in my direction that I did not understand and laughing right after it.

My sister’s son, the one living with us, is a couple of years younger than me. He arrived in NY some time before I did, so he knew more words in English than I did. At one point he shared with me a trick he used to get out of class all the time. He told me to raise my hand and when the teacher looked my way I was to say “ken-a-go chu-la-bachu”. I had no clue what this meant, but I was determined to try anything to add some range of excitement to my day in school.

The next day in class, after we were done putting our hands on our chest and just standing there while someone said some words at the front of the class; I raised my hand while Mrs. Washington was writing something on the green board. She looked at me and nodded. I said “ken-a-go chu-la-bachu” and she responded by saying something and at the same time pointing to the door. I understood this meant I was free to leave the classroom. I did. I was not sure where to go, for how long, or what to do while I was outside of the classroom, but I was happy I could walk out and do my own thing. I left the classroom and walked the halls for a while. I finally sat on a staircase and wondered about what I was supposed to be doing, or whether I was meant to bring something back to class with me when I returned. Not knowing these details made me feel a bit anxious about returning to class. Eventually I made my way back. Mrs. Washington stopped talking and put her hands on her waist as I walked in. She said some things in my direction, but I had no clue what she was saying. I walked past her while she was talking and I returned to my seat in the back of the room. In the afternoon I tried to get out of the classroom again, but this time Mrs. Washington said “no”. That word I understood.

That afternoon at home I asked my nephew what the phrase meant. He told me I was asking for permission to go to the boy’s room, and that I should not take too long to return to the classroom. I understood why Mrs. Washington was not very happy that I had taken so long to return. From then on I asked to go to the boy’s room once in the morning and once in the afternoon. I rarely used the boy’s room at all, but I used the time to wonder around the school and discover spaces I had not seen before. The multi-use cafeteria/theatre/gym space was my favorite. I always got back to the classroom in good time, I think, because Mrs. Washington never received me with her hands on her waist again.

When I was in El Salvador, I remember that school was very different. I was in a multi-grade classroom, so there were various ages in one room with one teacher. We did a lot of writing exercises, we repeated those exercises many times during class, and when we thought we were finished, we had to go home and write some more. Literally I would wear my pencil down to the nub. I also had to use both sides of the notebook page. We were very poor. Buying a pen was considered a luxury, so I was given only one pencil and had to use it all up before I was given another. I had the one thin notebook, and had to take very good care of it unless I wanted to get a beating. I had one pair of shoes for everything, and not only for school, but for everything! I had one uniform shirt and one pair of pants to take care of during the week. These things were not renewed unless I was no longer able to wear or use them.

Back at Washington Elementary I had several nice, thick notebooks, different clothes to wear almost daily, and many colored pens and pencils. While in Mrs. Washington’s class I spent the day doodling on my notebooks. If she were ever to check my notes all she would have found would have been senseless, but colorful, doodles.

During the early-to-mid 80’s in many urban cities in the US, crack was fast becoming an epidemic. Hempstead was not spared. There were crack vials left on the ground all over the place, especially parks and school grounds. Without knowing what these things were I used to collect them on my walk to school. These vials looked like shortened Bic’s pens, and had different color caps. The caps were green, red, blue and, every-so-often, white. Sometimes there were tiny bits of white powdery stones still left in them, so I would sit in the back of the class and empty these vials on to a couple of clean notebook pages. Parallel to this, I was still getting used to living in a heated house, and the hot water showers in the morning were doing a number on my scalp and skin so I would often go days without showering. There I was, in the very back of the classroom, mixing my head dandruff with the white stuff coming out of those vials to see how much I could collect on a given day. This is how I filled my days; collecting vials and playing with crap on my notebook in between bathroom breaks. Good thing Mrs. Washington never discovered what I was doing back there; else I would have had a lot of explaining to do, in Spanish.

Throughout those first few months in school I had no clue what I was supposed to be doing. I learned about getting out of class every once-in-a-while, and about collecting those little colorful vials to play with. I also enjoyed having more paper, pencils and pens than I had ever seen in my life. But class, I had no clue what class was about.

The next year, in 5th grade, I was put into the first all-Spanish class there was at Washington Elementary. I had no idea there were so many other Spanish kids at school. I had never seen them. I was finally in a classroom full of Spanish speaking kids. Even the teacher spoke Spanish. Well, she spoke Spanglish, so it took me a while to fully understand her. She was a very mean teacher, though. Of course we didn’t help our cause, as we were always speaking out of turn and searching for new ways to tick her off. Her name was Mrs. Panuco, a Puerto Rican lady; short, stocky and also wore glasses. The school text books were all in English, but she spoke Spanglish most of the time because none of us spoke very good English. Once a day I was pulled out of class and taken to one-on-one English classes with a very pretty young woman whose name I cannot recall. I do remember her face, though.

The only things I remember learning in 5th grade were English words with the pretty teacher, how to avoid getting a book thrown my way by mean Mrs. Panuco when she had a fit, and that I loved computers. There were a couple of Apple computers at the back of the classroom. If we hurried to do our work and finished early, Mrs. Panuco would let us go to the computer to play word or math games on it. I loved it. Finally something I could really dig my teeth into and not have to worry about speaking the language to be able to do. This fun was short-lived, though, as I did not see or touch a computer again until well past high school.

Middle school was not easy. In the sixth grade at Alberta B. Gray S. Middle School (I can’t remember what the B and the S stand for) I was put in Mrs. Moore’s class. We were mixed Spanish and black students. Most of us where of age, but there were some older kids in there, too. Mrs. Moore could not have been past 32 years old. She was beautiful – in a manly kind-of-way – black, thin, dressed well, did not wear glasses and was always acting like she was about ready to kick someone’s ass.

Mrs. Moore was a tough cookie. If we did not do our homework she would make us squat against the wall and stay there for the better part the morning’s first period. When it was cold outside, and we were repeat offenders of not doing our homework, she would make us squat against the hot room heater. The heater was the old type, the kind that is made of heavy steel pipes and has hot water running through it. It hurt. Both my back and thighs hurt. I was constantly on that thing because I never did my homework. Mrs. Moore was so mean and tough she even challenged the bigger and older boys in the classroom to take arguments outside to the field a couple of times. None of the boys ever took her up on it, but I bet if they did she would have kicked some butt. This is how tuff Mrs. Moore was.

During my middle school years I was constantly bullied by various bigger students, I did very poorly in my classes, and there were fights all the time between Hispanic and black students. At one point the fights got so bad the school had to be closed for 3 days while the community figured out what to do about the racial issues. We were on the evening news and everything. The fights were always between Hispanics and blacks, always.

Aside from the fighting, raging hormones and the bullying, there were a couple of classes I did like in middle school. The classes I liked the most were French, Spanish (because I could mess with the teacher who had never traveled outside of the US and spoke Spanish with almost as bad an accent as I spoke English), and music because the teacher always paid special attention to me for some reason. Still, it was in middle school that I swore I never wanted to be a teacher, especially to middle school students. I was 1,000% sure of it!

The classes I liked were never because of the content, but rather because of the treatment of the teachers. Few things interested me at school. What I enjoyed most was going home to tinker with things one of my older brothers fixed. He took apart TV’s and other electronic things to fix to make extra money. This is what the basement in the house was used for in addition to storage. It was his shop. Most of the fixing work took place during the weekends when he did not have to be working at one job or another. During the week I had the run of the place since I was mostly on my own. Being a latchkey kid had its advantages! I would try to see if I could make a motor spin while connecting it to the wall socket. I would try the same thing with small light bulbs. Lots of sparks, and nothing worked, but I didn’t kill myself or burn down the house in the process. The teachers whose class I liked were the ones I often told about my experiments in the basement. These teachers would listen, smile, and pat me on the shoulder while encouraging me to continue with my crazy experiments. Surely they had no clue what I was talking about since my English was still rough, but they were nice enough to listen.

If school were to have been more hands-on, more about the things I wanted to tinker with and learn about I would have been a better student, I am sure of it. At home I read books about electronics, computer programming, about lasers, airplane designs, about musical instruments, about how radio waves travel, and about how microphones work. This is why I never did any homework. I was reading the stuff that I actually liked and cared about. My mother and older brothers and sisters would not get home until about midnight on weeknights so I had little problem getting away with not doing my school work.

At school it was always about very complex and unreal rules about speaking that I seldom heard practiced given the ubiquitous Ebonics and Spanglish both at home and at school that surrounded me. Things in school text-books were foreign and out of context for me; out of reach. Things such as electronics where it for me as I was fascinated by circuit boards, electricity, signals and how wings create lift by taking advantage of their design.

So it was that school never interested me. It was the bitter pill I had to swallow in order to keep myself away from beatings and being screamed at all of the time by my mother. Sure, I understood what it meant to be uneducated as my mother never made it past 2nd grade and most of my older brothers and sisters never graduated from high school, and their jobs were about cleaning this or that office or parking lot from 6am through 11pm. But I still hated school.

It’s funny how now I dedicate myself to working in schools. Growing up in a time when the immigration explosion in the US caught many off guard and being stuck in a one-language classroom throughout elementary, middle and high school taught me a lot. It taught me about what to steer away from when defining my own approach to teaching.

Now I find myself addicted to the energy, curiosity, and imagination – and sure, the lack of focus/attention and silliness – of middle schoolers in particular. Sure, I very much enjoy working with loving and energetic elementary students, as well as seeing adulthood begin to take shape in high schoolers, but I love teaching middle school students. Mostly, because I have the opportunity to mend my past teachers’ shortcomings at the time when I came to hate my middle school years. My lessons are not overly filled with boring text-book academics but by experimentation and discovery. My kids know they can mess up in my classes – in fact it is one of my assessment criteria; that they venture into their unknown and experiment. I love that they are never afraid to try new things, that they love to create stories and that they (particularly boys) gravitate towards the technical. Girls tend to stick more to story-telling and graphics creation/manipulation endeavors and I take full advantage of their questions to ensure they are always learning what they wish to learn and not what the book tells them to learn. I enjoy seeing them take their learning seriously.

Of the things I swore I would stay away from when I was growing up – drugs, driving drunk, going to a Backstreet Boys concert – I find myself doing the first thing on my list; teaching middle school. Life has a way of making you swallow your own words at times. It’s a good thing the Backstreet Boys have not announced a reunion tour yet. Wait, have they?

One day when I was about ten years old, while living in El Puerto de La Libertad, El Salvador, I received a package. It was a heavy winter coat, complete with fur around the neck. It was brown cowhide-leather outside and white inside. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Along with the package came the good news; very soon I would see my mother again.

My mother left El Salvador when I was about six years old. One very early morning I remember she woke me up and took me outside of the room we all lived in and with a bag at her side told me that she had to go to the capital city of San Salvador to see about something at the hospital. She promised I would see her soon. She gave me a kiss and left. I was too sleepy to think anything of it. As the days went by and she did not return I learned that she had gone north to the US as so many other men and women were doing at the time.

Any ways, it was more than 35 Celsius in El Puerto de la Libertad and here I was wearing this brown leather coat as if it was snowing. I was glowing. I didn’t know what was cooler, that I would soon see my mother or that I had received that out-of-this-world coat. Deep inside I always feel bad because I think I was more excited about the coat.

Some time after getting the coat I was told I would soon leave to go north to the US with one of my older brothers. He lived in the capital city of San Salvador so I barely knew him, but I knew who he was so I was not scared. I was super excited to be leaving that small town, the war, and to be leaving the care of my sisters whom I didn’t have a good time with at all during the years I was under their care.

My older brother eventually arrived to get me and we set off in an old bus to Guatemala. It took forever to get there. After all, we were planning to enter the US illegally through Mexico, so getting on a plane was not in the cards for me. Of the thirty days we spent traveling north, very few details remain in my memory. I remember being in the cargo part of an eighteen-wheeler not knowing whether it was day or night. We got on many buses, and did a whole lot of walking. We also spent a lot of time waiting around hidden in houses or really crappy hotel rooms. The image of that nasty overflowing toilet in one hotel room in Monterrey, Mexico, still haunts me. I swear I can still smell it when I think about it.

At one point right before crossing the river over to the US we were caught by Mexican immigration authorities. There must have been about twenty people in our group. They put us on a bus and everything, but our “coyotes” (human traffickers) paid a bribe to the federal officers and we were let free to go and try to cross the river.  I even remember this one very large lady that was traveling in our group. The “coyotes” had a heck of time trying to get her across the river. They had rigged a rope from the Mexican side of the river to the US side. They inflated the black air bladder that came inside of car tires back then, and the idea was that you would sit with your butt in the center hole of this floating donut while you shimmied across the river with the help of one of these guys. Well, with this lady, I have no clue how they did it. I do remember when I got to the other side it took quite a while to see her come across since she was next after me.

Once we were on the US side there was more walking to do. Eventually we got into one of those really comfortable vans. The type of van that has a cushy captain’s chair, carpeting and everything. It was really cool! In El Salvador all we had was a light bulb (just one) to light our living space and a battery-operated radio. No TV, no fridge, no carpeting. You can imagine what this van must have been like for me. I felt like I was inside a castle. Plus, the engine made almost no noise as we drove on the highway. Whenever I get into that type of van now a days I always remember that ride from Texas to NY.

We stopped for gas and to go to the bathroom every so often at the large gas stations next to the interstate. I remember the signs labeled “Exit” on the side of the road and feeling like we were going in circles because they all look alike except for the number. During one of the early stops, they bought us slices of yellow American cheese, a bag of Wonderbread and a two-litre bottle of Pepsi. I was in heaven. Remember the not having a fridge, TV, carpeting, and only one light bulb where I used to live? Well, this van was becoming more and more like a castle with every stop. I clutched that bottle of Pepsi and bag of Wonderbread the whole way thinking there were no more to be seen ever.

During the rid up to NY, we stopped in different states to drop off people from our group. It was always the same scene; people would get out of the van, hug some people good-bye and turn around and hug some other people hello. It was interesting, I thought. When we got into NY I was dead asleep, and still clutching to the Pepsi bottle and bag of Wonderbread. By this point there were only a few drops of soda inside the bottle and the very last piece of bread in the Wonderbread bag. I did not want to eat the last piece of bread nor drink the Pepsi for fear it would be the last time I’d ever have any of it.

The van had stopped and my brother woke me up and told me it was time to go. I didn’t say good-bye to anyone, but I did grab my bag of bread and bottle of soda. Those were coming with me anywhere I went, I swore. We got out of the van, crossed a wide street and all-of-a-sudden were in front of a house and my mom was standing at the door. It was February, so it was freezing cold outside. As I stepped into the house the heat hit me like a boxer’s punch. My mother hugging me made me even more hot, enough to sweat. I remember there was another older brother there and my two other older sisters were also waiting. I’m the youngest of eight, so everyone is older. All were smiling; embracing, saying nice things, and making me sweat even more with their hugs. But it was cool; mainly because I had never lived with any of these characters and only knew they were my family because every now-and-again they would visit when we all lived back in El Salvador

Eventually we made our way into the kitchen of the house. That was the only place what had enough light for us to all see each other fully. They were all in pajamas and my older traveling brother and I were in our coats and I had my hands full with my trinkets from the trip; my bread bag and soda bottle.

My jaw nearly dropped to the floor when someone opened the fridge in the kitchen. There were more Pepsi bottles and bags of bread in it. I could not believe it. There was more! A lot more! I was in utopia. Only then did I drop the bread bag and soda bottle I had been protecting since Texas. It was incredible.

This was my introduction to American abundance. Before that life for me was about eating beans and rice, tortillas, and drinking water mixed with sugar to make it taste different – we called it “azucarada”. We would eat chicken meat or ham sandwiches only at gatherings we were invited to everyone once in a blue moon. Drinking soda or eating meat was totally out of our price range, so being in front of this fridge made my senses go wild. I did not know what to do with so much. I still feel that way, and very often. Whenever I walk into a supermarket, or even a 7eleven with all its full and colorful fridges makes my senses go crazy every time.

I remember when was fourteen years old or so I used to accompany my mother to do grocery shopping at a not-so-nearby Pathmark about two towns away from where we lived. The store was located in Levittown, and we lived in Hempstead, NY.  There were no decent supermarkets in Hempstead at the time so we had to bus it to other towns to get things for the house.

I used to love going with my mother shopping because I got to pick out a treat or two while going up-and-down the isles. Topeka Pudding used to be my favorite. Since I collected soda cans and beer bottles during the week I also had coins at the ready should there be any good arcade machines in or near the store.

On one occasion after grocery shopping we decided to go to KFC to buy some chicken for the family to have lunch when we got back home.  It was Saturday. Since we were carrying grocery bags and were subject to the bus’ timetable, we could not venture too far away from the supermarket parking lot. Luckily there was a KFC right across the lot.

There was a huge line when we got to the KFC. It must have been fifteen people there waiting for service, as well as many cars lined up on the drive-up window. It was pretty crowded. As we’re standing there I noticed this “now hiring” sign near the cash register. I have worked since I was eight years old in some way or another to earn extra coins to feed my gaming habits – and because we were a pretty cash-strapped family since I can remember – so my mother was not surprised or shocked when I told her I was interested in asking about a job there. I left her standing in line while I made my way up to the cash register to ask for a job application.

The guy at the cash register was from either India or Pakistan or a neighboring country in that region of the world. I could tell by his accent. He wore a messed up mustache and thick glasses. He must have been in his late forties because his curly hair was mostly grey. He was going nuts behind the counter trying to get people out the door. He kept on going back to the kitchen, screaming orders and coming back to the counter to apologize to waiting – and anxious – customers.  I waited for him to notice me while I stood there looking at the craziness of him going back-and-forth to the back, tending to the drive-up window, apologizing to the counter customers and trying to keep his apron clean while tossing pieces of fried chicken into small colorful cardboard boxes and/or buckets.

“What’s up kid?” he asked in his thick accent when he finally noticed me. I went straight to it knowing he was in a bit of a bind. “Hey man, can I have a job application, please”, I responded while pointing at the “now hiring” sing behind the counter. “Hmmm” came the response, as he looked me over quickly. “Can you speak English?” he asked. “Of course”, I said. “How ‘bout Salvadorian?”, he asked. I didn’t know if it was a trick question or if he was just messing with me. “That too”, I said finally. “Good” he said. He turned around, fiddled with a couple of boxes and fetched a white apron from one of them. Without missing a beat he turned to me and threw the apron at my chest and said, “you’re hired”. He quickly followed with “now go in the back and tell that Salvadorean that I need original thigh, keel and breasts, as fast as he can make it”. With that he turned to the counter customers and continued to smile, apologize and take more orders.

I didn’t know what to do. I was holding the apron, and was smiling because all-of-a-sudden I had a real job, but I had not clue what the job was.  I went to the back of the line where my mother was standing with all the grocery bags next to her feet and told her the good news. “Good”, she said, “now go back there and do a good job”. That was it. I turned around and went to the counter again. The guy behind the counter just looked at me and pointed to the swinging door that led to the kitchen behind the counter area.

I was taken aback a little bit when I stepped into the kitchen.  There was this guy in his late twenties or early thirties sitting on an overturned bucket, legs wide open, wearing all white, with mounds of floured chicken all over the floor. He was holding a couple of pieces of chicken on his hand while he looked up at me and quickly asked (in Spanish) “what the hell does the Indian want?” He was flouring chicken as fast as he could so that he could then drown it in the hot oil in the frying vats behind him. The place was a wreck. I told him what the Indian had ordered me to tell him and he started teaching me about what kind of flour is used for “Original” versus “Crispy” recipe chicken. I got the hang of it fast, and before you knew it we had the tray-rack that passed chicken over to the person on the counter for serving full. That was a fun day!

The Salvadorean did not speak a word of Enlgish, and the Indian did not speak a word of Spanish. I have no clue how they communicated, but the Salvadorean told me that they used the universal language of signs. The Indian did a lot of pointing while the Salvadorean did an awful lot of smiling, saying “yes”, and nodding. He never understood anything the Indian ever said, he told me, but that is how they got the job done.

About two weeks after I started working I realized I had not been paid, and I went to the back office to ask the Indian. At the time I had no clue how much I would be paid, when or anything else. When I got to the office the Indian was there filling out paperwork and making orders for frozen chicken and such. I came in quietly and asked about my paycheck. He asked how long I had been working there and I told him it had been two weeks. As soon as I got out of school I would jump in a bus and got right to work until about 11pm. On the weekends I was there from early on until nearly midnight. We added up my hours and he was surprised I had racked up so many without complaining. After adding it all up, he finally looked at me in the eyes and asked me my age. “Fourteen”, I said proudly. “Shit” he said while looking down as his paperwork. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do kid.” He said. He told me that if any inspector ever came into the back to ask questions that I had to act as if I didn’t know how to speak English. If the inspector spoke Spanish I was to tell him/her that I was eighteen years old. Sure, I was tall, but passing for eighteen would have been a miracle. I nodded. He told me he needed to compute my hours and that I would have a check for the two weeks’ work the next day. I was so happy to get paid so much for the two weeks the next day.

I worked at KFC with the Indian and the Salvadorean for the entirety of that summer. Eventually a Jamaican and a pretty white-skin red-haired girl who would hide out in the bathroom with the Jamaican to have sex when business was slow joined us. The Salvadorean and I traded stories about El Salvador and made fun of the drive-up customers when we were bored. He would tell me about the different parts of the chicken and why the keel was the best part because of the soft cartilage in the middle to chew on. I got to take all sorts of KFC eats back home every night. After I stopped working there I think it took us a few years before we ever set foot in a KFC again.

I learned that the Indian was not such a bad character. The Jamaican and the Salvadorean were both illegally in the country, and I was not supposed to even be working given my age, but he found ways to get around that to help us out.

I am totally advert to seeing children being slapped or beaten. Verbally or physically.

When I was 6yrs old my mother had to make the difficult decision to leave me behind while she sought to make her way illegally north into the US. We were living in a small “mesón” – row of rooms where families lived and shared a common courtyard and outside letrines. We were in El Puerto de La Libertad, El Salvador. It was during the time when El Salvador was engulfed in the worst part of a decade-old civil war. You can imagine the situation being so bad that she felt the best option was to leave her children and head into the unknown. One older brother was already living and working in NY, so she had a heading.

I was left under the care of an older sister. I have 3 brothers and 4 sisters. The 2 older sisters lived relatively close to each other in El Puerto de La Libertad. I lived with one of them. My father was never around when I was born so I just saw the man who was my biological father a couple of times in my life. So there I was, in the care of an older sister, father/motherless and, surely, behaving as bad as any 6-yr old would in that situation. The beatings did not take long to become routine. It got to a point that I behaved so badly that the sister I was under the care of had to enlist the help of the boyfriend of the other, also older, sister to beat the crap out of me. He was an army man, so they felt he was better qualified to turn me into a man. This went on for years, and all I can remember is how much I wanted to join to guerrillas so that I would have access to weapons. Crappy thought, I know.

Years later when I was already living in NY and reunited with my family, I remember I still behaved badly. My mother would beat me because I used to wet the bed up to when I was 13 years old or so. I did not do so well in school and was an all-around lazy student. By that time I was immune to the beatings. I was immune to the verbal attacks at school. Even when bullied, it didn’t affect me much.

The one experience that I do remember vividly to this day, and one that taught me the lessons all the beatings that came before it were supposed to. It involved one of my older brothers.

In school I fell in love with this one girl. I barely knew her name – one which I can’t recall now – but I was sure she was the one. Tall, thin, beautiful face and a nice smile. Of course I was too chicken to speak to her, so she did not know I existed. But I was determined to get her attention and win her love.

My older brother had just purchased yet another used car, but this one was really cool. It had tinted windows, was sporty, and even had one of those leather “bras” that runs across the front of the car and makes it look like it’s wearing the mask of Zorro. My brother would usually get home in the afternoon and lay on the sofa to take a nap. I was the official valet of the household and would always jump at the chance to go and park someone’s car in a better spot closer to the house. So it was no surprise to my brother that I would take his keys when he came in and laid down on the sofa. I took the keys, left the house and literally stole his car. The girl I was in love with lived more than an hour’s drive away, in one of the worst neighborhoods of NYC. I drove there; I didn’t care.

When I got to the girl’s block I decided to go around and park the car far enough that she did not spot me right away. I wanted to surprise her. Of course she lived in a massive co-op building. There was no way she was going to spot me from where she lived. As I was driving around the block, all of a sudden the car shut down. I had barely enough momentum to get the car to the side of the street so that it would not be blocking traffic. I tried to restart it and nothing. I was sure there was gas in it, so it was not a lack of gas that made it shut down. I tried and tried, and nothing. I popped the hood, and could not see a lose wire, anything smoking, or any other visual signal that indicated a fault on the engine. After tinkering around for about an hour with no success I got the courage to walk up to the girl’s apartment and say hello – and to ask for money because I knew I had to make my way back home and I did not have a cent on me. I went up the girl’s apartment and she was surprised to see me there. After the shock wore off I told her about my predicament and she gave me enough coins to get my butt into a city bus and go back home.

I must have been gone for 4 hours by the time I got home. One of my older sisters – not the same as in El Salvador – and my older brother (owner of the car) were home. My mother was home as well. She let me have it as soon as I walked into the house. After I told them where the car was my brother told me to join him for the ride so that we could go and rescue the car. He asked to borrow my sister’s car. I was certain he was going to dismember me as soon as we got into the car. He did not. We got into the car and started driving. He did not say a word. I led the way telling him where to turn. At one point during the ride he joked about a funny-dressed city girl we passed along the way. I just kept on waiting for the punches to start. Nothing.

When we arrived at the spot where I had left his sporty car it was already evening. There were all sorts of neighborhood noises, sires, traffic and even pot smell in the air. There were a lot of Jamaican men outside of their buildings just listening to music and smoking. My brother looked around, looked at me and smiled. Not a word. He popped open the hood and after a small wiggle of a cable the car started right up. “There’s a lose wire to the starter motor. Gotta get that fixed” he said. That was it. He got back into my sister’s borrowed car and told me to follow him home in his sporty car.

He never said a word about that incident. That sole episode sticks to me as the best lesson anyone has ever given me. Of course I’ve gone out and done worse things after that, but his response to the whole situation, as if telling me “I get it, I’ve done stupid things over girls, too”, made a huge impression on me. I think if he would have beat the crap out of me I would remember it, but not much more than any other beating I’ve received before.

This is what I do with students who misbehave when in my classroom. I let them know I care, and that in some way or another I’ve been there, in their shoes. I listen. I try to find out why they are doing what they are doing. I give them a second chance. I don’t send them to the principal’s office unless they have really gone out of their way to get me aggravated  Usually I speak with them. I always tell them we all make mistakes, and that we can all learn from them. But I never attack them for acting like and being kids. God knows I was one, and one of the worst.

Whenever kids act up, cream, speak too loudly, run around like crazy, think about what it was like being a kid for you. They are still learning limits, their own capacity, and discovering a whole gamut of new emotions and feelings. No wonder they do so many things without first thinking about the effects on other people. Our jobs as adults is to pull them aside, and in private have a conversation with them about what is right and appropriate in the setting they are in.

Speak to kids.