Born With a Rusty Spoon: Episode 21
...The next day, when my brothers and Uncle Murrel were attacked by the gang, they fought back, hitting one member with a tin can and causing his head to bleed. That evening a tall man in a rumpled suit and low-cut shoes appeared on our doorstep...
Bertie Stroup Marah continues her account of growing up in rough, tough times in the Southwestern States of the USA.
To buy a copy of Bertie's wonderful book please visit
http://www.amazon.com/Born-Rusty-Spoon-Artists-Memoir/dp/1935514660/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1282226141&sr=1-1-fkmr0
To see some of her pictures click on
http://www.google.co.uk/images?hl=en&q=bertie+stroup+marah+pictures&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=5vpkTNykBtKR4gbsgJmWCg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CBUQsAQwAA
I never liked living in towns, particularly Albuquerque. I dreaded going to school because if the boys didn't walk me home, little groups of Mexicans would throw rocks at me and called me gringo. No matter how fast I ran, a few rocks hit their mark, leaving me stinging and bruised. Negotiating was never a consideration; it seemed to be the Mexicans' mission in life to terrorize me. In addition to this losing battle, I hated the school. Our poverty was emphasized by a school program in which the poor kids were sometimes segregated at recess and given a piece of fruit or box of raisins. I had too much pride and was repulsed by their charity. I still dislike raisins.
My brothers and Uncle Murrel didn't get along with the Mexicans either, but because there were three of them, they were not as afraid as I was.
"Those Mexicans keep throwing rocks at us," Murrel complained one day.
"Well, if you don't take up for yourselves, they ain't gonna stop," Grandpa allowed. "Mexicans don't respect nothin' but force. They'll run you into the ground if they think you're scared of 'em." That was all the incentive the boys needed.
The next day, when my brothers and Uncle Murrel were attacked by the gang, they fought back, hitting one member with a tin can and causing his head to bleed. That evening a tall man in a rumpled suit and low-cut shoes appeared on our doorstep.
"I'm Mr. McNutts, the principal from the school and I'm here to talk to you about your boys," the man said, stretching his neck to see the accused peering at him from the safety of the kitchen. "I want you to turn them over to me so I can properly punish them."
The unfairness of the whole situation and the intrusion of an outsider rankled P.G. He glared at Mr. McNutts and cleared his throat. "If you don't get your ass back in that school yard, and do it in a hurry," he yelled, "you are going to wind up bein' just plain "Mr. Me."
