Cresencio

—

“Hey!”

I had never heard his dad speak English before that very moment, but I guess seeing me, mouth wide open, just inches away from piercing the flesh of his son, was enough for him to remember at least one word.

And just like that, the fight came to a halt. It was nothing serious. How serious could a fight between two nine-year-old boys be? Although, I was out for blood. The biting idea was not original. Cresencio and I had fought before, that’s when he bit me. I remembered it this time and was about to pay him back when his father hollered at us, at me.

Startled, I looked at Cresencio’s dad, then at Cresencio and then went home in a rage. I was pissed! I let Cresencio have the upper hand last time, but I was not going to let that happen this time. I was pumped and was ready to do anything to come out the victor in this altercation. My blood was boiling, and when I got home it must have been evident on my face because the first thing Mom said was, “Que pasó?” (What happened?)

I broke down, crying, “I got into a fight with Cresencio!”

She consoled me, perfectly. She took me into her big grandma arms, held me tight, and said, “I know, mijo, I know,” rubbing my back as I sobbed uncontrollably.

Did she know? How could she understand what I was going through? I mean, in my opinion, to console someone effectively you have to be able to empathize with them. Did she understand why I was so upset? I feel as if she did, I just can’t comprehend how. Maybe she was smarter than I give her credit for.

Why was I crying? I was just in a fight, a fight that I was winning. In fact, you could even say I won that fight. Punk ass Cresencio had to have his dad stop it. Why was I the one weeping while his grandmother held him? Well, this is one of those normal childhood things I say I missed out on. Living in South Central while going to school in Gardena, and not being able to go out and play in the neighborhood limited my friends to the kids, if any, that lived on either side of our house. There were no kids living in the crack house to our right, so that left the Mexican family to the left. Although they had several kids, only one was my age, Cresencio. This physical altercation, our second, meant that I had just lost my only friend and this broke my heart.

—

Previously published on Medium.

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