Youth: The Boy
The boy, a fireplug of a young man. He’s short for his age and has obviously struggled with weight. A Mexican boy in a small town in the South, it was a daily struggle. Every face around him at school was black or white; having no one that looks like you can be scary, but he took it in stride. He barely spoke English when he first started school here, and the English that he did know he had learned from TV. A few years on, he spoke perfect English, but everyone was friends by then and it was too late to become one of them. The funny thing about a Mexican kid that speaks perfect English at a young age—they don’t speak Spanish that well. The English speakers don’t like you because you don’t look like them, and your own family won’t like you because you don’t speak Spanish like they do. The double-edged sword of being an outsider everywhere you go.
He walks slowly down the sidewalk, diligently attempting to step on each crack in the sidewalk. His mother had angered him again; he wanted to hedge his bets and make sure her back was good and broken before he got home. As a child, you never really know how cruel some of the things are that you believe, the sayings that are passed forward, the ways people speak to one another. It’s all truly vile. But it’s what developing minds do: they make up mean rules to live by, and a caste system begins with no knowledge of what is happening.
He walks ahead, and just thinking of his mother brings up a well of emotions. He pictures her yellow, parchment-like, saggy, veiny skin. Even at 12 and being short himself, he’s a bit taller than the junkie he calls Mom. She’s rail thin. Most of the boyfriends she brings into the house give her the money she needs to get drugs. And the others, they just straight up give her drugs to get the night with her. He’d never met his father; for all he knew, it was probably one of guys that spent the night from time to time.
Sure, many things are learned at home: hate, racism, and a healthy fear of your parents’ hands. But, quite naturally, kids come up with ideas of hierarchy amongst one another.
Interestingly, it’s based on looks, size, and dress. And our boy has no looks, he’s oversized, and most of his clothes are from the local Goodwill. But it is what it is.
The boy kicks small rocks from the sidewalk into the roadway. He doesn’t seem to care if he hits a person or a car. He is angry again; Mom treats him poorly. She hits him on every occasion that she sees fit. Most days, he really doesn’t care anymore—sure, it hurts, but only for a while. They can only physically hurt you so much.
Hurt. Yeah, slaps and punches, they hurt. But the real hurt though, that’s the words. The mean words, they hurt the boy more than anything else. He knows he’s fat, he knows he’s ugly, he knows he’s stupid… He knows all of it! She reminds him daily and he’s tired. He’s 12 and he hates living. He hates school, and nobody likes him there. He’s near tears as he realizes that he hates himself. Some people would find it strange for a child to hate themselves. It’s difficult to explain self-hate to those that can look in the mirror and be happy, those that can look to their friends for support, to be built up. For those with a home like the boy, one filled with non-stop ridicule, anger, and pain—yeah, self-hate is easy. Even now, adults wonder, what do kids know about hate? Kids’ lives are all cartoons, snacks, and homework.
The boy’s tears burn his cheeks. He knows hate. He wipes the tears; he hates crying. All the men that spend the night, they call him a pussy when they hear him crying in his room. Some of those men had given him very bad reasons to cry, once they got bored with Mom. He grows angrier and sadder with each step. He thinks, Fuck those people that don’t know or understand what kids can feel or not feel! And fuck those men that like kids. He begins to cry even harder.
He wonders if there is a God. If there is, why does he hate me? Why did I get the mother I got? And the big question, the one that he falls asleep to and wakes up to: If I just “accidentally” stepped into the road in front of a car…would He know?
It’s not killing yourself if you step in front of a car by accident. Even if you cause the accident, right? For all he knew, and it wasn’t much, just a couple shows talking about suicide— that was the word, suicide? Anyway, accidents happen. And you don’t go to hell for an accident, right? Then, in a fresh wave of anger, the boy thinks, What does it even matter? He is already in hell.