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I looked at the little white and green paper and saw that all my classes were remedial math, English, and history--classes that I already took my 8th grade year. I was confused because I remembered passing all my classes with a C or better. 

I spent the whole day walking around my hood and thinking about school, a place that seemed so abstract to me at times. I walked to the liquor store on my corner and bought the usual meal -- Hot Cheetos and a Dr. Pepper. The hot sun baked the black concrete where children played underneath a hose, where young black and brown youth gambled while listening to the latest reggaeton and hip-hop beats, and comadres hung their laundry and talked in between fences about the latest chisme. I sat in the middle of this world and thought.... 

School? I do care about my education. I always try to do my work...but I don't know nuthin' bout college. My parents never went to college.... aint it for white people? For rich people? No one in my family has ever been to college. Damn, is it that hard to get in?.... Oh, maybe I should talk to the counseling office. Is that what they call it? I've never been inside those offices. I've only been called into the Dean's office where they lecture you about your behavior, for wearing the wrong colors, for getting into fights or 

for being too loud in class cuz we feel that no one cares 'bout us. 


So I decided to visit my new school that was already ejecting me out of my education. Sucking the spicy red powder from my fingertips and refreshing my mouth with a corporate drink that devalues lives around the globe, I waited at the Metro bus 

stop. Freeway traffic, helicopters, and el paletero muted the gunshots heard across my hood. Minutes later, the sirens of la chota awakes, but the bumping music coming out of 

lowriders and the roars of mufflers coming from cars racing up and down the veins of


"Were you born here?” 


The silenced popped my eardrum and my mind flashed back to my mother telling me to never say where I was born and to hide my roots under my shoes. I took a deep breath.... 



“....oh, well I can't help you..." 


I couldn't believe what she said. I was muted and my validity as a human died. She then handed me a yellow piece of paper with a name on it.


“Go see that counselor. She deals with your type of people..."


I left her office wounded and angry. 


Whats wrong with me? 

Danae's Original

School To Jail Track Comic

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