Mothers, You Can't Hustle a Hustla

My mom was the person who raised my brother and I. My dad left us when we were little and it was mi madre who raised us. A couple years after the exodus of my dad, I was around 13 and I was a total shit head. This was when I started running with the cholos and getting heavy into that lifestyle.

The book they wrote about my younger years.

Around this time my mom was reaching her breaking point. I don't blame her as I was being a hell raiser. Mom had enough and decided it was time to do something. After deciding what to do, she felt that military school was the answer. She started to do research into finding the right military school that used the most corporal punishment. This was before the Internet, so she had to actually write letters to places and use this strange device called the 'telephone.'

Now if I were actually sent to military school, these writings would not be here as I would have most likely have become a successful and contributing member to society. Alas, because my Mexican buddies taught me to be a good criminal, I never went.

"Sorry mom, I got crimes to commit/"

 One day, I came home from school and the house was quiet. I strained my ears and heard a voice coming from Mom's room. I tip toed to her door and could hear her gently sobbing. She was talking to someone about how she could not handle raising me and if she could get some literature on the disembodied voice's military school. My heart sank. How could I be a hustla if I went to military school? This threw a definite wrench in my plan.

The following day at school, I was trying to figure out how to avert my impending fate when I asked myself what would a real gangster do? After pondering this deep philosophical question, it hit me. I was usually the first to get home from the day's activities. Mom worked at a hotel and always came home about a half an hour after I did. Time for 'Operation Cholo Obstruction' would commence.

Averting punishment is always a good idea.

Once home, I grabbed the mail key and would run to the mailbox to see what arrived. After a week of this action, I finally hit pay dirt. The military school promotions started pouring in. The ads showed well dressed and proper children learning in their environment with slogans promising that my mind would be molded into something of worth. Yeah, my homies and I laughed at them too, so into the trash they went. Crisis averted.

Years later at a family dinner, Mom reminisced about the time she wanted to send me to military school. She always wondered what happened to the hundreds of leaflets she ordered. I smiled, took a drink from my soda, and told her my ingenious plan. Mom's eyes went wide and she hit me on the shoulder. She was shocked by my actions. We laughed about it and continued on with the dinner.

Any kids reading this; crime does pay.

I'm serious, it pays really well. Plus, guns!