Special words from my 12-year-old son, Luis

As a school assignment, my 12-year-old son Luis Jacinto wrote what I thought was an amazing statement. Here it is--he's not only a great writer, but an inspired artist (he loves cartooning). This is posted with my son's permission.

Childhood has a notable similarity to a rainy day. As you dwell in the rain, these liquid missiles--which resemble the troubles that you may go through--will not miss you, and only if you find some form of shelter from them will you find safety. As simple as that may seem, the amount of open areas with which rain will seize the chance to attack by far exceeds the amount of “shade” areas you may find. Then there are the peaceful moments when you are indoors--similar to any place where you may not feel judged or unappreciated--and you will either cherish the moment or simply take it for granted to let it pass by.

As the pounding raindrops crashed on to the bus window, making it impossible to see through, it reminded me of every car crash that has ever taken place. I watched as the raindrops flew to their death and, soon after, vanished to be forgotten. It seems this is true for most victims of a car accident. With the exception of their families, they are not remembered by most of the witnesses who watch the victim's wrecked vehicle as they pass by on route to their destinations.

As I sit alone on this bus, in this seat, trapped in my thoughts--parallel to every other day--I mature. I answer questions for myself without the disruption or argument of somebody else. I wonder what is truly right in this world full of disagreement, where I think that someone has the wrong idea about something but then I see how they would think that! With this how could either of us be correct. We both have our ideas of our morals, yet morals are supposed to be obvious in a way, are they not? Adding to this, I clearly see many of the problems that exist in myself as well. Therefore, the question of what is correct or not, right or wrong, becomes even more complicated.

Whenever I find any problems, of the many that I might find about school, I feel like I'm just another complaining child speaking of the absurdity of the note on his report card stating “talks too much” or “can't pay attention.” However, I feel that the problems I spot are different. I see the very same kids who complain about their report card, calling other kids names like “retard” or other vulgar names that they might have learned. Why? Are they a "retard," or just an innocent person who made a MISTAKE. I, personally, can see the giant gap between a retarded person and a person who just did something incorrectly.

I notice a conversation and eavesdrop, receiving: “Hey, dude! Did you see, today at school, when Isaac said something about Billy's mom, so Billy just went and kicked his...”

Of course, I knew what he was talking about. I had seen that many times before--the “victim” pushing the “offender” towards the wall, asking him why he said what he said and telling him to take it back, but the “offender” is too scared to take back anything. At this point, the “offender” and the “victim” have switched places and have become the victim and the offender without quotation marks.

This is not a tale, but it is the truth and whole truth that I know--of how the world is and how school should not be... but is anyway. And as the bus screams to a halt, and I look out the window and see that this is my stop, I get out and start to walk home, looking up at the sky, where the sun is shining down on me, as I notice that the sky above is empty of a single cloud.


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