I grew up in a suburb of Chicago in the 1970's to early 80's. Then the only Mexicans in town were about three families. In a town with 90% Italians. I heard to much puffing and bullshit pride. The godfather, the fonz any thing red with and green. In the early grades they would pick on me and I took it. I had no friends. So I took the hate and put it deep inside. My uncle told me not to fight but to use my mind. ... I did I excelled in classes and recievced better marks than they did. In about 6th grade I went in to a major growth spurt. The dagos stopped growing and I didn't. I also learned how to fight (thanks to the local tae kwon do class). I was done with them. Now it was on, I would often fight with them by the 2s and threes. Sure I came home a mess but so did all three of them. Eventually they left me alone. I would fight with my fist, my head and my hate. Hate is a battery that very few know how to use. It is a caustic battery that can eat you inside if you do not know how to channel it.
The reason I write this today is that I had a few customers today that were total dagos. Like the fucking world owed them a favor. I actually enjoyed mocking what they drove and who they were. I felt sad for them and their sterotypical life. The gold chains and overdone make up. Bad hair that was once popular in the 80's. "No one likes your car thats why the value is so low. Yes it is an import but it is not japanese it from korea. Not so good. " Fuckers. I was also disturbed on how much I wanted to hit this stranger in my space. I could feel the teeth clenching as I entered their information.
What scares my is loss of control. I took martial art classes not for fighting but to control what is inside me. I used to be a cutter. I was a danger to my self and I would have done something stupid if I had not learned how to cope with hate. Enough for now.
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