Mexican WhiteBoy

But whenever Danny comes down here, to National City—where his dad grew up, where all his aunts and uncles and cousins still live—he feels pale. A full shade lighter. Albino almost. Less than.

Behind his back he grips his left wrist, digs his fingernails into the skin until a sharp pain floods his mind, makes him feel real.

Not only is Uno the only Black kid in the neighborhood—or negrito, as the old Mexicans call him (even though his moms is Mexican, too)—he’s also stronger, quicker, taller, a better fighter. It’s his time.

Back in Leucadia, he made a pact with himself. No more words. Or as few as he could possibly get away with. When his dad spoke at all, he mostly spoke Spanish, but Danny never learned. All he had was his mom’s English. And he didn’t want that anymore.

Secretly, though, it still makes him feel alive to crush something with a bat. Almost as much as striking somebody out.

But what I wanted to tell you, Dad, is how much I’ve changed since that day. How much better I am. How much stronger and darker and more Mexican I am. Matter of fact, just today I knocked some kid out.

Watching Randy run a hand through his short sandy-blond hair, Danny shook his head. The way his dad might. Of course, he thought, a white guy.

Danny stares at his uncle. The bulging veins in his forehead are the same veins he used to see in his dad’s forehead. The same crazed eyes.

He rubs his eyes and looks up into the tree but the hawks are gone. The whole family. He stands up and looks for them harder […]. …But it’s no use. They’re gone. And he feels so sad […].

Back in Little League he’d amaze all his teammates with his pitching, the parents in the stands, the coaches. His dad. But then his family split at the seams. And he, Julia, and his mom moved a bunch of times. Now when he toed a rubber in front of the team, he had no idea where his next pitch would end up.

His skin is dark like his grandma’s sweet coffee, but his insides are as pale as the cream she mixes in. Danny holds the pencil above the paper, thinking: I’m a white boy among Mexicans, and a Mexican among white boys.

It’s like this story my teacher was telling us. About the guy who spends all day rolling a boulder up a hill and then, when he gets to the top, he just lets it roll back down. That myth or whatever. I mean, what kind of shit is that? What’s the point?

Like I told you, dawg, the old man was on mad substances back then. He all changed now. A cool guy. But sometimes when I walk out on this field, man, I remember that shit. The look on his face and how scared I was.

When he sees a hawk soaring around in the sky, he pretends it’s been sent all the way from Mexico by his dad. To look after him. And then it goes back to Mexico to report what it sees. He knows it’s just kid stuff, but he does it anyways.

What up, girl? Your boy can’t get no invite? This movie’s only for full-on Mexicans? They can’t let nobody in if he got a drop of brother?

But Danny only wanted to watch what his dad wanted to watch. So when he picked up the remote and started flipping, he concentrated on his dad’s face.

He and Ray both got in a lot of trouble when we were kids. Some pretty violent stuff. Fights and assaults. Definitely wasn’t the first time.

Man, I ain’t never gonna make it to Oxnard. Shit ain’t meant to be.

My pops is into God, man. Jesus up in heaven and all that. And maybe he’s right. But sometimes I think maybe God’s down here. In regular everyday stuff. Like the power of a train.

I could meet Prince Charming and it wouldn’t be any different. ‘All better’ isn’t something you can find in a man.

This is just a game. Two guys with smiles trying to get the better of each other. This is simple. This makes sense. This is what he loves.