Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain’t got no monkey but I know what I like
I like the way you love me strong and slow
I’m taking you with me honey baby
When I go.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

For Bob Dylan

Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick, nervous giggling habit of craning her neck to glance into mirrors or checking other people’s faces to make sure her own was all right.

The birthday boy didn’t cry, but he didn’t have anything to say about anything either. He wouldn’t answer when his friend asked him what it felt like to be hit by a car.

Amy sat on her bed thinking. Gary napped soundly in his crib, which was placed right next to her bed. The sucking sound he made as he chewed on his thumb interrupted her thoughts from time to time. Amy glanced at Gary and smiled. He was her constant companion now; he shared her bedroom and was with her during those frightening moments when, late into the night and early morning, she wondered if she could face another day just like the one she had safely survived.

(Skip straight to the NY Times article)

Last fall, a student at Tucson High School reached out to me about visiting her school. Her name is Ana Verdugo. She said she’d read all of my books, and she thought it would be powerful if I could come speak to her and her classmates. I was flattered, but I didn’t know how seriously to take her . . . then she started talking about spearheading the fundraising process.

I visit schools all over the country these days — junior highs, high schools and colleges. But I’d never had a student take such ownership of a invitation. She got her librarian involved, Amy Rusk, and we worked out the details. I put a star next to this date on the calendar. I couldn’t wait to meet the girl who liked my books enough to go through all this trouble.

Then something happened.

Mexican American Studies (a wildly popular and successful program in Tucson high schools) was ruled illegal in Arizona, and Mexican WhiteBoy was banned from the curriculum for being “anti-white.” Which is pretty f-ing insane if you’re familiar with the book. I was pissed. I consciously write stories about kids who I feel are underrepresented in literature. Kids like me and my cousins and my teammates in college. And it’s a powerful thing to find yourself in a book. It’s validating in so many ways. And state officials in Arizona had taken that away from these kids. It didn’t take long for me to piece together where this was coming from. The folks in charge are scared to death of the growing Mexican population. And letting Mexican kids learn about themselves and their history threatens the security of these folks in charge.

I thought there was no way I’d still be allowed to make an appearance at the high school. But I made it in. And better yet, a veteran reporter from the NY Times came with me. Here’s the article. (The local news station was not allowed into the school however. They were stopped at the gates, their cameras only allowed footage of the outside of the school.)

This was the most powerful speaking event I’ve ever done in my life. The students were motivated and intelligent. The teachers were passionate. The librarians were supportive. I took my entire speaking fee and used it buy copies of the book for students. I now consider Ana a friend. Here’s the card she gave me after the event:

It’s truly despicable what they’re attempting to do in Arizona. But the plaintiffs are fighting to get the program back. And in the end, all state officials will have done is create a generation of activists. I met hundreds of these kids. They’re planning to change the world. And believe me, it’s only a matter of time before they do. And I got to hang with them back when!

So that over and above the public components-holidays, tourist attractions-there are private meanderings, linked to the climate as if this spell were a stretto passage in the year’s fugue: haphazard weather, aimless loves, unpredicted commitments: months one can easily spend in fugue, because oddly enough, later on, winds, rains, passions of February and March are never remembered in that city, it is as if they had never been.

“May I hug you ma’am? You’ve helped me so much today. You’ve given me strength to keep on looking.”
“No. Don’t ever go looking for love girl. Just wait. It’ll come. Like the rain fallin’ from heaven, it’ll come. Just don’t never give up on love.”
We hugged; then she walked her 84-year-old walk down the street. A black woman. Echoing gold. Carrying couplets from the sky to crease the ground.

When Harold was three or four, his father and mother took him to a swimming pool. This was strange, for his family rarely went places, except to the movie house two blocks from their house. Harold had no memory of ever seeing his parents in bathing suits again after this unhappy day. What he did remember was this:

I went to the grocery store to buy some soap. I stood for a long time before the soaps in their attractive boxes, RUB and FAB and TUB and suchlike, I couldn’t decide so I closed my eyes and reached out blindly and when I opened my eyes I found her hand in mine.