A fifth-grade bully, a blossoming romance, a late-night crash
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Michael Torres spent his adolescence as a graffiti artist in Pomona, California. He teaches creative writing at Minnesota State University, Mankato, and with the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop.
I leave with my sunglasses on, waving my hand. Sometimes you call my name, your voice a taut string, and I think Michael might snap in half. But it’s strong — a tether.
If I need to ask my father a question, I ask my mother. I’ve always done this, to get around the fact that he and I hardly speak. It’s not that we have nothing to say. We just don’t know how to say it. He doesn’t speak English very well, and I don’t speak Spanish very well, so neither of us is even going to try.