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Fordham University Press - David Borkowski

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224 pages

English

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The botched robbery didn't do it. Neither did the three gunshots. It wasn't until he was administered last rites that David Borkowski realized he was about to die, at age fifteen. A Shot Story: From Juvie to Ph.D. is a riveting account of how being shot saved his life and helped a juvenile delinquent become an esteemed English professor.Growing up in a working-class section of Staten Island, David and his friends thought they had all the answers: They knew where to hang out without being hassled, where to get high, and what to do if the cops showed up. But when David and his friend called in a pizza order so they could rob the delivery man, things didn't turn out as they'd planned. Staring down the barrel of a gun, David and his friend panicked and took off as the cop fired. Convinced the cop was shooting harmless "salt" bullets, David darted through lawns as the cop gave chase. Much later, when David was bleeding to death, did the cops realize they had hit one of their own-the son of a fellow cop.Borderline illiterate at the time of the shooting, David took his future into his own hands and found salvation in books. But his attempts to improve his life were stymied by lack of familial support. Bound on all sides by adults who had no faith in his ability to learn or to succeed, David persevered and earned his Ph.D..Funny and poignant, but always honest and reflective, A Shot Story tracks David Borkowski's life before and after the "accident" and tells how his having been a rather unremarkable student may have been a blessing in disguise. A wonderful addition to the working-class narrative genre, A Shot Story presents a gripping account of the silences of working-class culture as well as the male subculture of Staten Island. Through his heartfelt memoir, Borkowski explores the universal lesson of turning a wrong into a rite of passage.

Sujets

Sociologie, société et politique

Social class

Education

Informations

Publié par	Fordham University Press
Date de parution	27 août 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9780823266012
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,1050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A SHOT STORY

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A SHOT STORY FROM JUVIE TO Ph.D.

DAVID BORKOWSKI

Empire State Editions An împrînt o Fordham Unîversîty Press NewYork 2015

A rîghts reserved. No part o thîs pubîcatîon may be reproduced, stored în a retrîeva system, or transmîtted în any orm or by any means—eectronîc, mechanîca, photocopy, recordîng, or any other—except or brîe quotatîons în prînted revîews, wîthout the prîor permîssîon o the pubîsher.

Fordham Unîversîty Press has no responsîbîîty or the persîstence or accu-racy o URs or externa or thîrd-party ïnternet websîtes reerred to în thîs pubîcatîon and does not guarantee that any content on such websîtes îs, or wî remaîn, accurate or approprîate.

Fordham Unîversîty Press aso pubîshes îts books în a varîety o eectronîc ormats. Some content that appears în prînt may not be avaîabe în eec-tronîc books.

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îbrary o Congress Cataogîng-în-Pubîcatîon Data

Borkowskî, Davîd. A shot story : rom juvîe to Ph.D. / Davîd Borkowskî. — Fîrst edîtîon. pages cm Summary: “Davîd Borkowskî was neary shot to death durîng a botched robbery when he was 15. Soon beore turnîng 40, he obtaîned a Ph.D. în îterature and Rhetorîc rom the CUNY Graduate Schoo. He îs now a Proessor o Engîsh. A Shot Story descrîbes that journey” — Provîded by pubîsher. ïncudes bîbîographîca reerences. ïSBN 978-0-8232-6599-2 (hardback) 1. Borkowskî, Davîd. 2. Juvenîe deînquents—Rehabîîtatîon—Unîted States. 3. îe change events—Unîted States. 4. Educatîon—Socîa aspects—Unîted States. 5. Coege teachers—Unîted States—Bîography. ï. Tîte. CT275.B58456A3 2015 378.1'2092—dc23 [B] 2015002949

Prînted în the Unîted States o Amerîca 17 16 15 5 4 3 2 1 Fîrst edîtîon

Contents

1 A Grave Sîtuatîon 2 Tracks o My Fears 3 “So what’s your name?” Chîd’s Pay 4 5 “We made the headînes, brother!” 6 earnîng Curve ït’s a Mad, Mad, Sad Word 7 “ït’s not too ate to take the Sanîtatîon test” 8 9 Wîtness 10 Re-Gîted 11ïs ït Thîs Notes

1 7 29 33 72 88 117 128 159 162 208 211

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1 A Grave Situation

T he human body contaîns about seven îters o bood. By the tîme the ambuance arrîved, ï had ost more than sîx and a ha. When ît happened, though, ï dîdn’t thînk they were rea buets. ït was a ortunate aacy, reay. ï’m convînced my îgnorance kept me aîve ong enough to reach the hospîta to receîve ast rîtes beore the a-nîght surgery that saved me. What you don’t know can’t kî you, but ît’s reay no way to îve. ïn my mînd, ï Igured he was Irîng rubber buets. Or, more îkey, he was shootîng at me wîth a sat gun, the kînd o weapon my rîends and ï beîeved the nîghttîme rent-a-cops carrîed whîe patroîng Moravîan Cemetery, where we sometîmes got hîgh. ït was ocated at the întersectîon o New Dorp and Oakwood Heîghts on Staten ïsand. Corneîus Van-derbît’s coossa tomb, erected on a Iney groomed hîtop, was sîtuated a quarter o a mîe behînd the rest o the cemetery. The argest prîvate tomb în the Unîted States, ît was Ive tîmes the sîze o the homes that most o us îved în. andscapîng egend Frederîck aw Omsted desîgned îts grounds. The rest o the cemetery covered more than one hundred prîstîne acres. ï we dîdn’t ee îke wakîng up to Vanderbît’s at nîght, we woud hang out în the cemetery, eanîng agaînst the headstones or paradîng through the înInîte rows o graves. Everythîng was metîcuousy managed; barey a sînge weed grew besîde any burîa sîte. Ancîent ems and oaks îned wîndîng roads that went to other, ess împressîve mausoe-ums. A decent-sîzed human-made ake anchored the entîre pace. ït was truy a magnîIcent pace to be dead. ots o kîds went there to Ish, pay exhaustîng games o hîde-and-seek,

2 A Grave Situation

and get stoned, on weed, acîd, cheap beer, sîcky sweet wîne, or a o the above. Some shot heroîn, athough ï dîdn’t reaîze that at the tîme. A ew kîds wandered around so stoned they resembed zombîes. ï suspect now that some o the îvîng dead were havîng sex în the bushes, athough ï dîdn’t reaîze that at the tîme eîther. Other kîds sîmpy went there because ît was somewhere to go, somethîng to do, a juvenîe deînquent Ied trîp o sorts. Thîs was especîay true when one took the ong uphî hîke through wooded terraîn that went dîrecty to Vanderbît’s tomb. Takîng the path avoîded passage through the maîn cemetery grounds, where the chances o gettîng caught durîng the day were îkey. Durîng dayîght hours hardy a sou hung out there. “The Tomb,” as everyone caed ît, was the daytîme destînatîon. ït seemed kîds rom a over the area knew where, on a dead-end street, to Ind the hoe în the ence that protected the cemetery rom trespassers. Past ît, a rather steep path that wended îts way through the woods ed to a second ence that surrounded the tomb. That one had to be scaed. Once you were însîde, ît was pretty easy, as ong as you dîdn’t sufer rom vertîgo, or anyone to cîmb onto the tomb’s roo rom the back by sowy wakîng on a ours îke an ape aong the santed surace toward the ront.You coud then sît saey and comortaby at îts peak by straddîng îts extravagant cornîce. From there you coud see the Atantîc Ocean and much o Staten ïsand’s South Shore, as we as ook down on the countess dead burîed în the vaey beow and those payîng theîr respects to them. Everyone knew not to be araîd o the cops, who came out ony at nîght. They were ake cops carryîng ake weapons oaded wîth ake am-munîtîon. Reputedy, the unctîon o theîr sat guns went somethîng îke thîs: When Ired at theîr target, they sowy îmmobîîzed the person. At Irst they created a sow-mo efect on the vîctîm î he were runnîng, causîng încreasîng paraysîs, untî he Inay coapsed onto the ground, rendered competey încapacîtated by the sat’s efect on the boodstream. However, the cops rarey, î ever, bothered comîng up to the tomb, many o them Indîng ît too creepy în the Irst pace. Second, ît was vîrtuay împossîbe or the cops to do anythîng more than make us take Lîght înto the surroundîng brush when they showed up (we coud see the oncomîng headîghts ong beore they arrîved), ony or us to resurace and recaîm the terrîtory once they’d et. Sometîmes we dîdn’t need to hîde because they requenty dîdn’t unock the ence to get a better ook at who was around. As ong as they coud report that they’d gone up to the tomb, ï guess they coud say they had done theîr nîght’s work. What they dîd

A Grave Situation 3

do mosty was drîve aîmessy around the cemetery grounds beow, per-haps even gettîng hîgh îke the rest o us, a prospect that was quîte scary. Stoned-out maes perormîng thankess, borîng jobs can be a voatîe ot, îtchîng to pop of theîr pîeces, even î they are ony “ake” guns. Mînd you, none o us ever saw any o these guns, et aone one dîs-charged usîng Morton Sat buets. But neîther dîd anyone want to put the rumor to a test and get shot at. That’s why whenever we were în the cemetery înstead o at the tomb we scattered îke rats through the rows o gravestones î we saw an approachîng vehîce. ï you see these ha-assed Barney Fîes, we’d te each other, duck behînd a tombstone. And don’t move.You know they’re too terrîIed and too azy to get out o the car and gîve chase, so they’ probaby pretend that they never saw you. Whatever you do, don’t run. Then ît’s îke sport to these asshoes, îke they’re hot-shot saarî hunters who shoot “Wîma beasts” or whatever the uck ît îs saarî hunters shoot rom theîr jeeps.That’swhen they’ spray you wîth those sat guns. So be coo. And that’s the conversatîon that was însîde my head the nîght a rea cop wîth a rea gun wîth rea buets shot me. ï wasn’t în the cemetery, so ï guess ï shoud have Igured otherwîse. But ï was Iteen years od, so what dîd ï know? And unîke în the cemetery, there were no tombstones to hîde behînd, so when he yeed, “Freeze, you asshoes,” ï dîd at Irst. ï dîdn’t want to be a sacrîIcîa Wîma beast or hîs amusement. Dougîe and ï had been hîdîng behînd a bouder în an empty, unkept ot across the street rom the house where the drîver was makîng hîs deîvery. We had caed earîer to order a pîzza to be sent to that address, just as we had done twîce beore at that same address (reay dumb), and just as we had done the Irst tîme at another address. As soon as he stepped out o the car, we’d rob hîm—me hodîng a water pîsto spray-paînted back and Dougîe cutchîng a knîe he’d grabbed rom hîs mother’s kîtchen drawer. But when we charged out o the ot toward hîm, ît was evîdent he wasn’t some pîmpy-aced coege kîd as had been the case the other tîmes. ïnstead, a man was hodîng the whîte cardboard box, and when he saw us rushîng orward he dropped ît. A gun that ooked as bîg as a howîtzer was aîmed rîght at me. ït had magîcay appeared în the very same hands that had prevîousy been carryîng the pîzza box, and he was cuppîng ît wîth both hands, just as the proessîona cops on TV and în the movîes dîd. Stî, ît dîdn’t make any sense that he’d be a rea cop hîmse. Beîng aster than Dougîe, and the one takîng the înîtîatîve, ï had run out Irst, so ï was standîng în ront o Dougîe when the cop ordered us to stop în our tracks, whîch ï dîd. When ï turned around, though, Dougîe was racîng