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322 pages

English

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Black.x.ican!
The life and trials of a biracial kid coming up.
This is an epic journey into life experiences of a bratty kid of two different ethnicities, who befriends another child from the poverty-stricken north side of town. That friend runs into an altercation on the last day of class that could possibly have a lethal ending, while I have some very interesting social encounters along the way. The peaks and valleys of being a kid in
a big bad world. The plots and circumstances are all based on true events that have occurred throughout my life.

Sujets

Biography

Autobiography

Informations

Publié par	Xlibris US
Date de parution	13 décembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781669835882
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Blackxican!

Buster Brown

Copyright © 2022 by Buster Brown.

Library of Congress Control Number:2022912143
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-3590-5

Softcover
978-1-6698-3589-9

eBook
978-1-6698-3588-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/13/2022

Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
840916
CONTENTS
(1) May 30, 1990, 7:30
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
(7)
(8)
(9)
(10)
(11)
(12)
(13)
(14)
(15)
(16)
(17)
(18)
(19) 6:30 A.M
(20)
(21)
(22)
(23)
(24)
(25)
(26)
(27)
(28)
(29)
(30)
(31)
(32)
(33)
(34)
(35)
(36)
(37)
(38)
(39)
(40)
(41)
(42)
(43)
(44)
(45)
(46)
(47)
(48)
(49)
(50)
(51)
(52)
(53)
(54)
(55)
(56)
(57)
(58)
(59)
(60) 4:45 a.m.
(61)
(62)
(63)
(64)
(65)
(56)
(67)
(68)
(69)
(70)
(71)
(72) 4:00 p.m.
(73) 5:50 p.m.
(74)
(75)
(76)
(77)
(78)
(79)
(80)
(81)
(82)
(83)
(84)
(85)
(86)
(87)
(88)
(89) One week after the party
(90)
(91)
(92)
(93)
(94)
(95)
(96)
(97)
(98)
(99)
(100)
(101)
(102)
(103)
(104)
(105)
(106)
(107)
(108)
(109)
(110)
(111)
(112)
(113)
(114) Three days later
(115) One-month past Q’s arrest.
(116)
(117)
(118)
(119) Six months later
(120)
Acknowledgements

I WALKED THROUGH THE threshold and stepped out to the edge of the walkway! Then I threw my hands in the air and soaked up all the sights and sensations of suburban life. It didn’t take but a second for me to grab a whiff of carnal delight that could have been none other than Mr. Garcia, the tinkering little Mexican man who lived directly across from me. A competition player of bar-be-que cook-offs and a Dallas cowboy fanatic that displayed his enthusiasm by labeling every material possession he owned with the Dallas cowboy, you name it! Mr. G owned three different-sized cooking pits: one had a large cowboy sticker plastered over the front of the pit; the second one was painted gray, blue, and white—this one displayed a map of Texas; the third one was his prize possession—the pit he lugged to all the competitions. It was a sight to see—how it was forged into a mold of a Dallas cowboy Helmet with a star boldly projecting out in 3D. His home was painted pallid gray, and he parked a tall flagpole right next to the entranceway that towered over the house with a massive cowboy star. I had always wondered about Mr. G’s relationship with his wife because he was always in the garage. I assumed he was trying to avoid her. He probably despised her. Why else would a supposedly happily married man quarantine himself to the confines of a storage area and battle the South Texas elements? I mean—there were plenty of nights, I would be creeping in well after 2:00 a.m. and most certainly would catch Mr. Garcia diligently adjusting, preparing, and experimenting with some new seasoning for an upcoming competition. Today, he had the baby pit violently spewing smoke clouds of secretly seasoned roasted meats. Then I heard some movement on the left side of me. I quickly turned to catch Mr. Tezla lugging a hose and headed to water his flower garden.
“Yo, Mr. T, how are you doing?” was my greeting.
“I haven’t been back for four hours from a twenty-six-hour chain of flights. Now Simile has me watering her babies.”
Mr. Tesla was a geologist who worked for a world-renowned paleontologist that would travel for more than half of the school year on a scavenger hunt to remote locations of the planet in search of fossils. His career was most definitely unique. Albeit it went confluent with his distinctive character. He was of Scandinavian and Dominican Farrago ancestral that had some vikingish traits. Mr. T never brushed his teeth! The combination of tartar build-up that resembled Ms. Beards’ butter and halitosis made for some painfully interesting conversations. He was five-seven, one hundred forty-three pounds. A jaundice-colored skin tone, some deep cryptic donut rings circling the eyes and unrelentingly giving in to alopecia. One chilly winter morning, Mr. T packed his bags and heading off for a new adventure. He left for what felt like the entire school year. They popped up one day married to Simie. She was a sweet little lady from Bangkok, Thailand. A easily mistaken for a midget facsimile that chain smoked those skinny-styled European cigarettes she called fags. An obvious bit of Napoleon complex, and always demanding something or other from Mr. T, the kids in the neighborhood, and on occasions, the postman! which still seems somewhat strange to me to this day. It could have been outward signs of frustration due to loneliness that added to her persistent and disturbing preoccupation with flowers. Maybe that’s how she coped with her husband’s absence chasing remnants of the past in Timbuktu. Let me tell you, Simie was like clockwork: up every morning, no matter the weather. When the sun’s upper limb broke the plane of the horizon, she would be outside raking, planting, trimming, and nurturing the abundance of tiger lilies, passion flowers, and Dutchman’s breeches, to just name a few of her garden. Sometimes, I would lie in my bed, hearing some fragmented conversation between her and someone. Sending me peeping through the curtain and being nosey as I see her holding the flowers ever so gently and seriously pampering each stem like a small child, which I would say paid off tremendously by rewarding their home with a radiantly colorful sea of foliage. This got her noticeable attention from the homeowner’s digest while being selected as a front-page cover home last year. I mossy my way over to the mailbox, already feeling the devil’s advocate south, Texas dog days of summer beating down on my head. I checked the box—nada. Then I took a gander down the block and saw the Diego brothers in their front yard savagely attempting a pickup game of two-on-two tackle football. It was Mike, Pete, Mando, and an unfamiliar face for the fourth person, who more than likely was one of their enormous family members. I had to give them kudos. It was entirely too hot for anything like that. But those south of the border folks seem to have a built-up tolerance for vitamin D. Now it was time to see what was popping for the day. I pushed on down the block toward the end of the street. I looked around and never realized how much it had grown. We moved to this neighborhood over ten years ago from the outskirts of Coastal Shores. But it felt like yesterday. There were only three houses on the street, now it’s a thriving community. I must give my pop big respect for doing his thing and becoming such a breadwinner. It’s a remarkable story if I could say that myself. Wilbert Lee Gandley was the government identification appointed to him at birth. The oldest of six siblings: five brothers and one sister. A stout brother built with a tight chiseled frame like the Mandingos of Niger Valley in West Africa, who sported two distinguishable gold-covered teeth, which in the dentistry dentition diagram were known as incisors, smack dab in the middle of his grill. That would he was blessed with from chilling on the pavement next to the entrance doorway of the low incoming housing projects, where he lived when a homie was entering the crib pulling on the rickety door. As it came unglued at the fasteners and sent ole boy tumbling backward and falling on top of the Will sending him headfirst to the pavement. Then disengaged his two readable noticeable front teeth. This all came about when he was fourteen years old. A brother-built ford, tough with calves the size of grapefruits that ran like a black panther escaping conflict in the L.A. riots, who was thrust into manhood at an extremely early age when he was forced to call the laws on his alcoholic enraged father, who happened to be putting hands on his mother and Beginning a pattern of absence from a father figure, having to hustle after school, where he had to pick cotton in his home city of wool town, Texas, which was known as the mascot of the only high school: the Wool town Cotton Croppers. He juggled sports, work, and parental duties of his brothers and sister with his mother. The routine went on from ten years old till he turned fifteen. All the while becoming a highly recruited tailback his junior year, he ran into Carmilla Gutierrez at the local burger joint at lunchtime one day. A first-generation Mexican American whose family migrated from Saltillo Coahuila, Mexico. She was the fifth of six sisters, the closest one to the mother, and by the age of twelve, she was given the duty of chauffeur, having to drive the family to Mexico randomly throughout the year. She was a malnourished-looking tha