"the buddy system?...but he has snot on his hands!"
when i was younger i was taught not to get into your uncle's car. i was even supposed to refuse when my neighbors van, T.A.'s civic, or karate instructor's bad ass ninja pulled up to inform me my mother could not pick me up and had sent them instead. it wasnt a question of why, it was an order of dont, a signed contract that bespoke of certain death if broken.
8 year old alejandro correa could not be left to his own devises. if you told me to stay out, id cup my ear to the door. ask me to close my eyes during a racy movie scene and i'd rewind to it when your werent home. my tact was developing but it lacked certain logic that continuously landed me in the umbra of my mothers glare or the other side of the principals desk. a slap on the hand may work for the saintly but the hand that slaps back does not concern itself with reprimand
there was a string of child abductions at the time my mother imposed a password on my life. she said it was a way to make sure i came home to my toys every night, i wondered if she included the child leash in that statement. this password was a key to an adventure. anyone not able to recite the password upon my inquiries should be avoided, all those able to crack the interface should then fear my incessant cries for after-school ice cream. my brother said he wasnt afraid to throw a punch and walked out of the discussion leaving me to shoulder the two-pronged worries of a professional mother. under the dry serious tone of the conversation i prepared myself to inherit his toys.
the time never came to try out the system outside of the 2-3 practice runs i had with my mom that week. shit, i figure the instillation of social doubt in your kids should come at a slow and strictly-necessary pace. in retrospect i wish i would have walked out with jorge, leaving behind the trepidation our family never faced in the editing room of my mothers mind.
8 year old alejandro correa could not be left to his own devises. if you told me to stay out, id cup my ear to the door. ask me to close my eyes during a racy movie scene and i'd rewind to it when your werent home. my tact was developing but it lacked certain logic that continuously landed me in the umbra of my mothers glare or the other side of the principals desk. a slap on the hand may work for the saintly but the hand that slaps back does not concern itself with reprimand
there was a string of child abductions at the time my mother imposed a password on my life. she said it was a way to make sure i came home to my toys every night, i wondered if she included the child leash in that statement. this password was a key to an adventure. anyone not able to recite the password upon my inquiries should be avoided, all those able to crack the interface should then fear my incessant cries for after-school ice cream. my brother said he wasnt afraid to throw a punch and walked out of the discussion leaving me to shoulder the two-pronged worries of a professional mother. under the dry serious tone of the conversation i prepared myself to inherit his toys.
the time never came to try out the system outside of the 2-3 practice runs i had with my mom that week. shit, i figure the instillation of social doubt in your kids should come at a slow and strictly-necessary pace. in retrospect i wish i would have walked out with jorge, leaving behind the trepidation our family never faced in the editing room of my mothers mind.