To slice the wrists of Prejudice is a large book

with sharp pages. You have cut yourself sometime

with a piece of paper, right? There we go.

You give a ton of books to an ignorant…wait..

first he has to be able to read…well, you teach him.

Then make him read to you and then ask him

what he thinks about it…and if he doesn’t give tou

a coherent answer, make him think hard. Hard.

And if he still would not give you a good answer, then throw

the books at him and let him go.

That’s what my teacher did to me. I could never give her

a full satisfactory answer. She just left me at my own

perilous ignorant condition. And since that day, I haven’t

been able to recuperate. And live day after day carrying

a thousand and one plus prejudices. Having an opinion

about everything and everyone in two legs. Oh, yes.

Every hour of the day. I am so full of it, vastly. Imagine an

ocean. That is right. I am so full of opinions…at the end of

my day I drowned them in red wine in order to get me some sleep.

But then, in the middle of the night I wake up being

my self of four hours ago, and I have to force myself to a fresh

I.V. of more red vital fluids.

How I miss my teacher. She tried, she tried to teach me.

She was patient and sweet to me. Maybe I never learned

because I paid more attention to her cologne and long hair

that smelled as sweet as roses…or her long hands…that when

accidentally touched mine, gave an electrifying shock to

my spine…maybe was her voice…which I hear no more.

I guess am the only one responsible of myself.

Some learn. I never did. Am not proud. That is just

what it is.

Ernesto Onofre