Partly cloudy skies. High 99F. Winds ESE at 5 to 10 mph..

Clear skies. Low around 75F. Winds ESE at 5 to 10 mph.

Don’t you find it precious that kids are returning to school again? They look so proud wearing new shoes, toting new backpacks, with that well-scrubbed look. Do you remember the days, not so long ago, when you were one of those kids?

For me, it was daunting! Even though I was the seventh child born to my parents, I was the first to attend high school. There was no one to guide or advise me. No one in my family or even the neighborhood had ever been.

Papa wanted me to drop out of school like my four brothers before me. They left at age 14 and went to work, helping support the family. Mama persuaded him to let me stay in school. He agreed but said he would not pay for anything, so I had to work and pay my own way.

To get there, I had to walk 3 miles each way. That was not so bad. What was really tough was that school was on another planet. I had to go across the tracks to where the “Anglos” lived.

People spoke English in that world. They ate white bread sandwiches instead of beans and tortillas. The boys were tall, and the girls were blonde. How could they see through blue eyes? None of them had rotten front teeth like I did. They knew I was dirt poor.

Did you feel out of place in school, too? Like you did not belong among those kids? Psychologists tell us it’s pretty normal. But I was determined. I wanted to be a writer.

All my life I have wanted to write stories, poems and essays that would get people to stop hurting each other. I saw some of that in my neighborhood. Wife beatings, drive-by shootings, knife fights, gang rapes. I wanted people to read my stories, then reach out to one another in love — and for the violence to stop.

Of course, I wrote poems for Mama, too, and gave them to her. It wasn’t until I had grown up and left home that I learned she could not read or write. Nonetheless, she encouraged me to keep writing. She always folded my notes and put them in her apron pocket.

That helped me stay in school when most of the Hispanic kids dropped out. And even though I was not in any clubs or teams and had only a handful of school friends, I managed to graduate: near the bottom of my class, but I made it.

And Mama made Papa go against his word and buy me a suit for graduation at the Goodwill.

But I don’t believe I was all that different. Even today, there are poor Hispanic kids, Black kids and white kids from the country among those returning to school. Some of those kids must overcome incredible odds just to sit in a classroom. Poverty is the simplest. There are kids with disabilities, behavior problems, identity problems or other things that make them feel different. And they struggle just as much as I did.

So maybe we could do something for those kids, yeah? You and me? Like smile at them, say a kind word, encourage them. Who knows? Maybe someday they will write for the Denton Record-Chronicle. Wouldn’t that be great!

RAMIRO VALDEZ has been a frequent guest columnist in the Denton Record-Chronicle and is a retired area counselor. He welcomes feedback and suggestions via letters to the editor or emailed to rambam.valdez@gmail.com.

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