Target Practice in Little Mexico
Miguel, Age 12, USA

One early springtime afternoon at lunchtime in my neighborhood streets, I noticed small children playing soccer on the black tar. A black ram truck, with thirty-one-inch rims, kept cruising back and forth on my street, blasting “Corridos” music by Gerardo Ortiz. The perfume of my mom’s delicious Mexican tacos also filled the neighborhood air. It was a great time to be in my neighborhood.

There was a man named Jose who looked about twenty years old. He spoke Spanish with a heavy Mexican accent. He was as skinny as a dead dog, and wore his black hair in a Mohawk. He usually wore blue jeans and a white tank top. On this day his eyes seemed to be saying, “I am going to shoot my gun here.” As he was marching towards my dad and me, he asked us if it was ok to shoot his gun.

“I want to shoot those birds that are sitting up on that nut tree over there so I can do some target practice for when I go hunting with his friends.”

My dad quickly said no.

As Jose walked towards his car, my dad sprinted back to our house as quickly as a cheetah to call 911. I followed my dad inside the house and ran towards the living room window to peek outside.

In less than two minutes, I heard several sirens go “pio, pio, pio.” When Jose heard the sirens, he hid behind a pine tree near an alley.

Suddenly, Jose pulled out his gun and began to shoot at the police officers with a small black gun. He eventually ran away down an alley. The police immediately blocked our street and alley, and started to hunt Jose. Finally, a police officer shot him in the right leg. As Jose lay on the ground, he raised his left hand in the air to surrender. The danger was finally over.

From that my neighborhood learned to not shoot on a Mexican street.

Later that day there was another man who looked about forty years old; he had white hair, and he was a gringo. His eyes were as green as ungrown water. He was as ugly as a new born monkey. He wore black jeans. His eyes seemed to be saying “I am looking for an apartment that I can afford to rent.”

I saw him walking all around my neighborhood streets. I could hear the loud music played by El Komander, who is a Mexican. It was a cold day. I felt that there was going to be a new neighbor on the Mexican street. Suddenly I saw him walking towards me.

After all, this day went well except for what Jose did.

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