Marvin V. Acuna

Ladies and gentlemen. Meet Jimmy.

Jimmy was a freshman from North Providence. He was 100% Italian and if you were to look up the definition of Guido in the dictionary — you’d see a picture of Jimmy.

Jimmy was a lanky guy, with dark hair that was always slicked back with some hair product. Traditionally in black and absolutely always wearing what is now known as the bling, bling. He was less Danny Zuko and more Andrew “Squiggy” Squiggmann.

I first spotted Jimmy thru the glass pane window of the classroom door while I sat quietly at my desk in homeroom. Normally I would have not given Jimmy a second thought — it wasn’t uncommon for students to be lost or taking a quick look inside. But, he was standing behind the glass, unbeknownst to the teacher or the rest of class, giving me the “bird”.

Yep, Squiggy was flipping me the “bird”. At least it seemed like it was for me, because no one else seemed to notice. Our eyes locked, he smiled, and scurried from the door before anyone else noticed.

Jimmy did this every morning and eventually would pop up at some of my different classes. But, he never stayed and oddly I never spotted him in the hallways during the class transitions.

Then one morning he stayed till class ended. I exited class, shot straight for him, and he simply uttered “Hi, I’m Jimmy.”

Jimmy had decided that we needed to be friends and friends we became. Best friends.

Jimmy was always full of crazy ideas and fun things to do. But, his craziest idea came to life when I accidently stumbled upon the master geometry exam book which included all the geometry exams for the year with all the correct answers.

All I can say is Geometry was a breeze.

But, the proverbial lesson that there “ain’t no free lunch” would soon follow.

Entering high school was exciting, but terrifying. I’d spent the last six years with kids who eventually embraced the idea that I was not much different from them.

But, now no one from elementary would attend Classical High School. I would know no one, again. And again, I would be in the minority.

But, something odd happened. I immediately became popular. I was the everyman. I navigated all the social circles. Not really sure how it happened, but I have a feeling it had a lot to do with the first Melissa in my life.

Melissa was beautiful and from the “so called” right side of the tracks. She was very popular. She had caught the eye of the upper classmen.  But, apparently I had caught her eye.

I’m not sure this qualified as a “relationship”, but it did set the tone in high school for me. Girls, Girls, Girls!

It was as if they had somehow appeared out of nowhere and decided that I was cool, not different.

And I guess when the ladies like ya, the men sign on too. Everyone was a friend. Admittedly, it was fun. Very distracting, but it was fun. Life was good.

On many levels this would set the stage for what would eventually be a defining moment in my life. But, before I arrive to that moment I must first introduce Jimmy.

I did inhale.

My foolish friends and I were already in deep water with our eighth grade teacher. She was very religious. In fact, she’d been arrested at an abortion clinic protest. She tolerated rock music even less. I had become a rocker. Ozzy Osbourne, KISS, and my all time favorite Motley Crew. My pals and I spent all recess playing air guitar with music blaring from our boom box. We were the Motley Crew of St. Pat’s. Needless to say, she wasn’t happy.

I guess this was my rebellious age. It may have simply been the fact that I transitioned from the kid no one knew to the kid everyone knew. I was cool. And at that time so wasn’t rock.

But, when KISS released the song “Heaven’s on Fire” it set our teacher on fire. Devil worshippers in her catholic school, not on her watch! She claimed that the song was all about hell. And too prove that KISS were devil worshipping mongers she invited a high priest to speak to the class about rock music and its negative meaning and influences. They even played a record backwards. It sounded like a record being played backwards. I didn’t hear any secret message or devil sound coming from the player, but they tried.

She often made examples of me and my friends. Admittedly, it was a tough sell considering we were doing well in class. I was in advanced classes and heading to a private college prep school upon graduation. So the whole devil title didn’t fit.

She kept a close eye on us relying on her absolute feeling that we were lost kids and that she would prove it. At the slightest misstep we were sent to the principal’s office.

As luck would have it, Mr. Raymond was now the principal. No more valentines’ day cards, but he had a lot of faith in me. He believed I was talented with great potential. He had befriended my parents and cared deeply about all of us. Personally, he didn’t see the harm in our choice of music. He preferred we appreciate other music, but as far as he was concerned we weren’t devil worshippers. He recalled his own youth. We’d spend a few minutes catching up, advise us to try darn hard to stay out of the eighth grade teacher’s hair and then he’d send us back to class.

But, I guess the devil inside me wanted out because somehow, someway, a funny looking cigarette made its way into my life.

Personally, I think the rush in my body and mind had more to do with smoke entering my lungs for the first time and less to do with the contents of the cigarette.

You’d think she’d smoked funny cigarette’s all her life because the minute we crossed her path she knew something was different. Maybe it was just that obvious.

This trip to the principal’s office would be my last. My friends and I had been accused of smoking marijuana. Of course, we denied it. You would have done the same. Yes, yes you would have.

August Rush movie full

My folks were blown away. They couldn’t believe it. All the sacrifices they had made to be here America and their son was being accused of smoking Marijuana. The disappointment and astonishment was devastating to me. They were angry. And I think they didn’t know what to believe or who to believe. In the end, they chose to believe me.

They spoke to Mr. Raymond and expressed their deepest concerns. This teacher had been out to get us and this was simply a new tactic. My sense is that they were probably scared to even address this or stand up for me. They had a lot to lose we were still illegal’s and not one person knew. But, one thing they did know was that they had not traveled thousands of miles so that some teacher could hurt their son in anyway.

It got heated and pretty serious. As it became more serious I became more concerned. I had made a mistake and then it followed with another mistake…I lied to my parents.

The teacher was nuts, no way would I do something like that. She was an angry old lady trying to prove a point about rock music. She had a thing for my friends and me. We were devil worshipers, remember?

Things were getting out of control. My family was furious and they wanted some action taken towards the teacher. It got pretty bad.

I have never spent time in a physical prison, but I imagine that it feels very much like the emotional prison you build for yourself when you lie.  It was horrible. I felt terrible. I was so disappointed and disgusted with myself. I had let my parents down. In many ways I let myself down.

My parents had made the choice to engage an attorney. They would risk it all to protect me from this teacher’s vicious lie. That night, I broke down. In many ways it was huge relief. I cried. I apologized.

Finally, no more emotional prison I was free! In the end it all worked out. The dust settled. We graduated and our teacher retired.

I learned so much from this experience. One big lesson that especially stands out is the following, if you’re going to get busted for smoking marijuana, make sure it’s marijuana, not oregano. My buddy’s older brother thought it would be a hoot to give us oregano.

It was hilarious, not!

Flea markets, promotional celluloid buttons, and Michael Jackson give birth to a seventh grade salesman.

The entrepreneurial spirit is embedded in my DNA. My father was an orphan who lived on the street and fended for himself from a very early age.

My mother is a 4^th grade drop out. Her father, my grandfather, was a raging alcoholic whose custom to spend all his pay at the local bar would leave the family of five with little. She dropped out to help bring money into the household for the essentials, food.

The tall stories of walking 500 miles in bare feet to fetch a pale of water were not folklore, but a true lifestyle.

My dad never knew his mother. His father was killed on the streets of Guatemala City. He did have an older brother, but he was no brother’s keeper.

My father skills were sharpened on the streets of Guatemala. From the knowledge I can recall about my father he was the Latino McGyver. I really feel he is an example of someone who did more with less. By age nineteen he already owned his first home and had a successful business as the local dry clean courier.

My mother spent many long evening’s assembling small gift packages that she and my grandfather would then sell to mom and pop vendors. As she became older and more confident as a communicator she encouraged my grandfather to branch out on his own. She had discovered where the employer was purchasing all the components at wholesale and she argued that they could literally triple the return of their sweat equity investment by simply purchasing the components themselves, building the packages, and then selling them to the vendors directly. She cut out the middle man.

The two greatest people I have ever met were the first ones.

Michael Jackson mania was in full swing when I was in the seventh grade. I even wore the infamous “Beat it” jacket. I was a huge fan and did not have any shame in my expression of that fact.

During one of the family visits to the flea market I stumbled upon a promotional button shop. Now it may have been there for years as the flea market was a family tradition. But, on this particular day the buttons on sale seemed invisible and the machine making them seemed to illuminate in the background. It was as if it called my name.

I couldn’t believe my eyes nor the truth I would learn. The promotional button shop could take any image and convert it into a button.

I returned with one of my favorite images of Michael Jackson and made a button. The Cheshire cat had nothing on me. I paraded around the flea market floor space with pride. It was a cool pin.

On Monday I dressed for school. Morning rituals and then as I walked out the door I placed the final touches on the school attire. My button!

It seemed to happen overnight, but doesn’t all success. As I navigated the corridors of the school and the playground of the small campus many students commented on the unique button.

Then it happened. I was offered money for the button. More money than I had paid for it. Can you say profit? Not sure I could, but I knew how to count. I was already taking algebra. Math was my subject. The numbers made sense to me and a business opportunity was born and a natural salesman emerged.

I’d now spend free time cutting images from any periodical I could get my little hands on and make new Michael Jackson buttons. The routine of the flea market was no longer simply a family trip, but a business trip to my wholesaler.

I entered St Patrick’s catholic school as a fugitive and emerged as the King of the schoolyard.