LITERATURE

         I wrote this based upon John, a child in my grade who was even poorer than I, and was laughed at because of the misfortune.

John lived in the other side of town. Every child seemed as if to ridicule John in some way or another: perhaps deriding the helmet he wore, made of styrofoam and string, perhaps of his orange bicycle with no brand whose squawking would be heard whenever John began to pedal, perhaps because they considered him not as intelligent as them, yet they could never laugh at his heart, for though it was wounded from the many vulgar words spoken of him, it was pure, something no amount of money could buy. Children even dared to throw the food John had been given by the school upon the ground asking him if he had paid for it. He would eat nothing that day.

I once saw John riding his bicycle about the street.  He came across a child walk­ing his dog. John stopped and stroked the dog, asking what kind he was. The child responded inquiring why he cared, for his father did not have the money to buy him one. John once again mounted his bicycle and left. Each word directed towards him would on almost all occasions be armed with a weapon to puncture his heart, and by the expression on John’s face it seemed as if it caused me more pain than he, for I had been in a similar situation and knew that if one did not leave it within their past it would suffocate them and leave them almost completely destroyed and powerless. John did not leave in time.

          One year John did not return to school in September. Some said...

Interviews with the author at the age of 12

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