In the summer of 1959, I turned eight. It was the end of a decade. “Venus” by Frankie Avalon was being played on the radio. It resonated in the minds and on the lips of every kid in America. I loved to sing along when no one was listening.

Fidel Castro took over Cuba that same year. Alaska and Hawaii became states, and the deaths of rock-and-roll musicians Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper in a plane crash near Clear Lake, Iowa, shocked fans all over America. It had been five years since the Supreme Court brought down the ruling that segregation was unconstitutional. There were 4 million babies born every year in the 1950s, and we contributed to that total.

But what was happening in the country and the world didn’t really affect us. We were too far removed from national events, much less world ones. We lived our lives in the streets, playing outside in our own little world called Mexican Town. We were happy kids with very few things to worry about. Even though our parents were still struggling and fighting, we kept to ourselves, did our chores, and pretended that everything was good.

By the time I got to third grade, which totally surprised the heck out of me, I was ready to get serious about school. The fact that I had somehow been promoted to third grade was a total miracle. Either that or I finally got through to Jesus Christ with my praying and everything.

School was getting harder, but I had time to enjoy it. I had acquired enough English to follow along with most of what the teacher was teaching us. Outside the classroom, we all still spoke Spanish, so practicing our English seemed almost impossible. We spoke Spanish at home, on the playground, in the halls, in the restroom, and just about anywhere we found ourselves. Even while standing in line and going to or coming from the restroom, music, library, cafeteria, or recess, we spoke Spanish. That didn’t last long though. Our third-grade teacher would demand we not speak Spanish.

“You need to speak in English,” she said. For the first time, I was constantly reminded of this. “You are in America, and we speak English. Do you understand?”

If we were caught using our native language near her or she heard us, we were in trouble. I made a commitment that year that I wouldn’t do anything that would result in a spanking. It was 1959, and I was expected to be smarter, wiser, and in control. I tried really hard. Or at least I thought I did.

Third grade was tough. Demanding expectations were the norm. Mrs. Green, our teacher, was a drill sergeant. She was white, and she didn’t know Spanish like Mrs. Falcon did.

Mrs. Green, who was often intimidating to me, was a big woman. She wore this strange dress, which was her favorite, that would make me dizzy. When she walked around the room, I had to be careful not to stare at her for too long. The lines on her dress were like pinwheels going squiggly up, down, and around. It played tricks on the eyes. When she walked by, my blinkers were drawn to her dress. In seconds, I felt hypnotized. In those instances, I wouldn’t dare stand up for fear I’d stumble and fall.

Aside from her wonky dress, she did have kind eyes. But those eyes could switch in seconds if you talked, moved, or even took a breath without her permission. She was a strict teacher. She didn’t budge from the established rules of conduct. I learned big time with her.

By then, I’d finally mastered “Can I go to the bathroom” in English. I knew enough English to read some basic low-level stuff. I was still struggling with my pronunciation of words with more than one syllable, but I was getting the hang of it. Because I was so proud of myself, my confidence grew. I got the courage to attempt words whose meaning I didn’t understand. Strange words appeared on the page without warning. I’d sound them out, doing my best to pronounce them correctly. But reading was not my forte. I was still embarrassed by my lack of reading skills. Third-grade reading books had fewer pictures. Therefore, it became difficult to decipher what was being said. Pictures gave me clues, making it easier to answer the teacher’s questions.

“Okay, Robert,” Mrs. Green said one day, standing close. “Now, in your own words, what is the author trying to say?”

“The hell if I know!” would have been my reply, but that terminology was unacceptable in this school. It got you sent to the principal’s office. Instead, I said, “I think he is saying …” Then I stopped, wondering what I had just read. “I think he is trying to say…”

“Read it again. This time, think about what the author is trying to say to you. Now, class, follow along with Robert.”

Dang. I hated when she asked the kids to follow along. They were so much better.

“The baalue waaatters from the o …” I’d say. “Okay. I got this. Osee … a … o …”

“Ocean!” the kids blurted out.

Embarrassing.

Mrs. Green demanded that we learn a new list of spelling words each week. Every Monday, she gave us a list of ten words, and by Friday, we had to know how to say them and spell them. Each Friday, we had to turn in a paper with the words spelled ten times. Then we had to get in front of the class, say the words, and spell them with no mistakes before we could sit back down. If we didn’t have our spelling words, couldn’t pronounce them, or lacked the courage to spell them in front of the class by Friday, we were to bend over in front of the entire class, place our hands on the teacher’s desk, and get ready for a spanking. She would come around and give us three swats with a pretty good-sized paddle she kept hanging behind her desk.

I won the paddle contest, which really wasn’t a contest at all until Troy bet me and three other fools he could take the most swats in one month. The bet included no crying. I was competitive. Troy was the shortest kid in class, and he stuttered. His stuttering would get worse when he got anxious or excited. It took a lot of patience to stand there and let Troy say what he wanted to say. Sometimes we made fun of him and stuttered ourselves just to piss him off. This was not called bullying. It was called making fun of others. His friends would make guesses as to why he stuttered.

“He stutters because he was dropped on the head when he was a baby,” one said.

“No, no. His head was crushed when he was born,” another replied, laughing.

“His tongue is too small,” another added.

“His brain is faster than his mouth!”

Eventually, someone came up with the notion that Troy stuttered for no reason other than he was slow in the head. At some point, we stopped making fun of him. Troy was a fast runner. And although he was short, he could outrun most of the boys in class. If we made fun of his stuttering, he would chase us, trip us, and kick us two or three times in quick succession before we could get up. The idea was to make fun of Troy, then run. All we had to do was outrun Jaime. Jaime was the fat one. We all thought that if Jaime stopped eating, his legs would grow faster than his stomach. Maybe then he could run faster.

One day, Troy convinced us that if we didn’t partake in his scheme, we were mariposas (“butterflies”), which meant “gay.” It was his way of calling us sissies. On the third week of not turning in my spelling words, I just got up to the front of the class and simply bent over the desk, awaiting the swats. This time, Mrs. Green reared back and placed three good ones on my skinny ass, and I started crying. I didn’t jump, scream, and hold my butt like Troy did.