The Kids Can’t Read, But They Can Read You

When I was seven years old, a frio-frio man used to park his cart in front of our elementary school in the spring and sell his Italian ices for 50¢ for 2 scoops. Whenever my mom had enough change, she’d give me two quarters and I’d treat myself to the street delicacy. At the time, a counselor from our now-defunct after-school program picked me and my friends up from school. Even though I was from the hood, my mother rarely let me delve too deeply in the ways and means of the hood for fear that I’d get involved in hood life the way my cousins did. I was the smart one in the family, and those same cousins forced me out of the shady spots to keep my nose in the books.

One eventful day, the frio-frio man fielded 15 kids at once, all clamoring for their icey before the kids from the school across the street swooped in. In a hurry, I stretched my hand out with two quarters. The man took it and never gave me my order. I went directly to my counselor and told him what happened. He then proceeded to yell a few Spanish words for stealing my money and demand that I get my helado. I smiled for a few minutes, but before I could take my first taste, the counselor turned around to me and said, “How can you be so dumb and give him your money before getting your icey? Pay some damn attention and make sure you get yours!”

Lesson learned. Reading doesn’t just matter in the school, but outside as well. continue reading

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