Burro Genius: A Memoir by Victor Villasenor

By Victor Villasenor

Status on the podium, Victor Villase?or checked out the crowd of educators collected sooner than him, and his brain flooded with early life thoughts of humiliation and abuse by the hands of his academics. He grew to become enraged. With a pounding middle, he started to communicate of those incidents. while he used to be via, to his nice disbelief he got a status ovation. Many within the viewers couldn't include their very own tears. So starts off the passionate, touching memoir of Victor Villase?or. hugely proficient and ingenious as a baby, Villase?or coped with an untreated studying incapacity (he used to be eventually clinically determined, on the age of forty-four, with severe dyslexia) and the disappointment of transforming into up Latino in an English-only American university within the Nineteen Forties. regardless of lecturers who beat him simply because he couldn't communicate English, Villase?or clung to his dream of 1 day changing into a author. he's now one among the preferable writers of our time.

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I was excellent, in fact, here at my own safe spot, and I’d never be messed with again. Because, simply, from now on, if anyone pushed me or insulted me, I’d kill them . . just as I’d killed that deer. And why? Because, simply, a person’s name was sacred. Given to us by people who loved us. And my name E-d-m-u-n-d-o had been given to me by mi papa, who told me that he’d given me this name because one time when he’d been in prison—my dad had gone to prison three times—a big, huge cook, called Patas Chicas, meaning Little Feet, because his feet were so monstrous, had taken my dad, a Mexican-Indian like himself, under his wing and tried to teach my dad how to read, explaining to my father that reading and writing weren’t just White People’s tools, but also the future for nuestra gente.

Quietly, I picked up my books and notebook, but strangely enough, I could see that, well, I wasn’t really feeling as intimidated or scared as I normally would have been. George Hillam came over, but he didn’t help me pick up my things this time. “You fool,” he said under his breath to me. “You’ve really done it this time. Don’t you know, you can’t fight the establishment. You can have those thoughts. We all do. Even with our parents. ” I was all confused. Hillam was always so quick to understand everything, like so many other fat people that I knew, that he always confused me.

They mumbled, but not very clearly, and crumbled up my A paper and threw it on the ground. I almost started to cry, but didn’t, and when I bent down to pick up my books and my crumbled-up paper, I found two hands helping me. I looked up and saw that the two hands belonged to George Hillam. He was a day student like me, meaning that we got to go home every afternoon and sleep at our own homes. We didn’t live on the school grounds like the other students. “They got Bs,” said Hillam to me. “That’s why they’re pissed.

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