My father is tougher than I will ever be
Last night, as we had finished dinner, I sat and talked with my mother and father about my plans. I had told them that I was hoping to get a job in the city, maybe buy a place there that I could afford. Since both my brothers would be going to school in the city by then, we might live together, or at least I could give my brothers a place to crash in the city, instead of having them get the long Metro or train ride back home.
The conversation turned to the state of the real estate market, and affordable places to live. As I ticked off neighborhoods that might be affordable, I ended up having to explain just why some of them were so affordable--including crime.
My father sighed, and told me a story:
I'll never live in a neighborhood like that again. When I was a small boy, we would be awakened in the middle of the night-- all of us, me, your aunts, all of us who lived in the back rooms of my aunt's house--we'd cluster on the other side while the menfolk went to the back to see what the matter was. You could hear the gunshots---boom, and then a pause, and another boom. My uncle would be peering out the window trying to see what was going on. Then there would be the answer.
"Mr. Amador is going after someone," my uncle would say. Mr. Amador was a policeman--so he was chasing someone. But it was dark, and we didn't know where the shots were coming from.
On another occasion, my father told me about the time two men were knifed to death on the corner. Apparently, they had been extorting money from a young student who had been boarding at my great-aunt's house. One night, the quiet student had enough, went home, got a knife, went out to the dark corner, and knifed them both to death. He came back, covered in blood. My great-uncle took the knife, hid it, and told him to clean himself off; out on the corner, the bodies had been discovered, and the police had begun to arrive. They never found the student--I suppose nobody really cared enough to find the murderer of two street-corner extortionists. The student apparently lived a quiet life, graduated, and became a pharmacist back in his home province.
It's stories like that that make me feel pretty unworthy. My grandparents worked hard to get out of that neighborhood into a better place. My father worked hard all through school, getting scholarships, and getting through college--all so that I could live as well as I have done, and have the opportunities I've had.
The conversation turned to the state of the real estate market, and affordable places to live. As I ticked off neighborhoods that might be affordable, I ended up having to explain just why some of them were so affordable--including crime.
My father sighed, and told me a story:
I'll never live in a neighborhood like that again. When I was a small boy, we would be awakened in the middle of the night-- all of us, me, your aunts, all of us who lived in the back rooms of my aunt's house--we'd cluster on the other side while the menfolk went to the back to see what the matter was. You could hear the gunshots---boom, and then a pause, and another boom. My uncle would be peering out the window trying to see what was going on. Then there would be the answer.
"Mr. Amador is going after someone," my uncle would say. Mr. Amador was a policeman--so he was chasing someone. But it was dark, and we didn't know where the shots were coming from.
On another occasion, my father told me about the time two men were knifed to death on the corner. Apparently, they had been extorting money from a young student who had been boarding at my great-aunt's house. One night, the quiet student had enough, went home, got a knife, went out to the dark corner, and knifed them both to death. He came back, covered in blood. My great-uncle took the knife, hid it, and told him to clean himself off; out on the corner, the bodies had been discovered, and the police had begun to arrive. They never found the student--I suppose nobody really cared enough to find the murderer of two street-corner extortionists. The student apparently lived a quiet life, graduated, and became a pharmacist back in his home province.
It's stories like that that make me feel pretty unworthy. My grandparents worked hard to get out of that neighborhood into a better place. My father worked hard all through school, getting scholarships, and getting through college--all so that I could live as well as I have done, and have the opportunities I've had.