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The Proving Ground

 

Violence has a trickle-down effect, and not just the gangs lived by the warrior code in the South Bronx. We kids did too. Even if you tried to avoid it, it found you. The tough kids—the thugs in the neighborhood—always tested news kids on the block, and since we moved around so much, my brothers and I constantly had to prove our mettle. These were the walking time bombs, the lowlifes in the neighborhood who wanted to get their way all the time, so they beat up on the weaker kids. If you didn’t stand up to them, or take part in whatever they demanded, your lunch money would mysteriously disappear at school and you might not make it home without a black eye or broken fingers.

I stood up to them but tried to play it cool, not wanting to become a thug like them.

“Hey, John! Come ’ere,” a voice called one day as I walked home from school alone. It was Jose, the leader of a group of lowlifes that hung around the basketball court whistling and jeering at the girls who walked by and making life miserable for any guy who wasn’t a part of their group.

“I can’t, I got to get to work,” I lied, pretending that a job other than my usual water-hauling chores beckoned me.

“Now, you know we’re not gonna let you off that easy,” Jose said, sidling up to me with five of his cronies hanging back, ready for action judging by the look in their eyes.

I sized up the competition. Jose I could take, and maybe one or two more—but six against one were bad odds.

Jose felt my hesitation and smiled a slow, devious grin. “We’re gonna go down to the store and get a snack . . . thought you could pick up a few things for us. What d’ya say, boys? Is John good enough to be one of us?” His friends sniggered and watched for my reaction.

I knew Jose wanted me to steal some candy bars, potato chips, and maybe a few canned drinks for them. Either I did it or I would be labeled a sucker.

Jose took his pocketknife out of his jacket and pretended to clean his fingernails, making sure I saw the shiny silver of the blade. “I’m not hearing an answer. Yo, are you down with us or are you a punk?” He looked up at me, his eyes glazed with hatred now. “ ’Cause if you’re a punk we’re gonna beat your face in.” He flipped his knife in the air. “Maybe even cut you up a little.”

“I’m not scared, I just don’t wanna waste my time doing that,” I said, looking Jose straight in the eye. The truth is I didn’t want to get caught stealing and end up with a record like all these hoodlums did. I wanted to finish school, not go to jail with these lowlifes, but my thoughts were saying one thing and my mouth was saying another. “Sure, I can do that, man. I just don’t want to. Why you tryin’ to test me?”

Bartering for time never worked with guys like Jose. They kept after you till you did it. I never


got caught—I stole ice cream from the ice box, potato chips from the rack, sodas from the refrigerator. On other days pricier items made the hit list, and we’d all walk into a store and steal a jacket or two. I gained Jose’s respect but lost my own.



Shuffling home after a petty theft, I’d see my father’s cab parked at the curb in front of a bar and watch as he opened the passenger side door for a pretty woman—his latest mistress or good-time girl. Sometimes he caught me staring at him and made a funny face in return, as if to say, Hey, boys will be boys . . . don’t tell your mom!

Hatred churned in my gut, a hatred honed to a razor-edge by his years of neglect and abuse. If he were a protective father, a real dad, maybe I wouldn’t have to stoop to stealing candy bars just to keep the neighborhood thugs at bay. Maybe our home life would be normal . . . that crazy word that always eluded the Ramirez family.

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 808


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