More than a shirt

Blood shot from my nose like water from a hose. My eyes watered, blurring my vision, but I still saw the boot coming back for a second kiss. I moved left, and Juan’s foot slid by my head.  I felt his coarse laces slap my swollen cheek.

There I was, half naked on my knees in a pool of my own blood. All around me feet and fists rained down. Just beyond the storm my friends and classmates watched like stone statues.


I thought I was going to die just like my dad. Unlike him I would be killed by foreigners in my own country, because I chose to wear the American flag. As the boys shouted, kill him, kill him, I heard the Principal’s voice again.
****

“It’s just a shirt, Bobby, don’t make this more than it is,” he pleaded.

“My dad died for this flag, for this country, for freedom. I don’t wear this shirt just to honor my country. I wear it to honor all the fathers who won’t return. I shouldn’t have to hide it because some illegal…”

“Bobby!” He raised his finger. “We don’t use that word here. We are a tolerant district that values diversity. Cinco de Mayo is their cultural…”

“Shouldn’t they be tolerant of my culture too?”

“I can’t protect you, if you won’t be flexible.”
****

But, I was flexible. I reached out and grabbed Juan’s passing leg, and sank my remaining teeth deep into his flesh.  His boys tried to pull me off the screaming gang leader. They did, but a chunk of meat went with me. It was costly.The last time I saw that shirt, was when the Latin Kings ripped it off. In the end my body was red, white and blue, but I lived.  Hoorah, Dad.