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Living Up The Street: Narrative Recollections - Part 4 (pp. 93-137)

Author: Gary Soto

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Bloodworth

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As early as kindergarten I had to bob and weave through fights—some I won and some I had to escape holding my nose like a doorknob. My first loss was in first grade over a red crayon. I was busy coloring flames on a neat four-sided house with a crooked chimney when a boy tried to pull the crayon away from me. I shoved him away, called him menso and proceeded to slash red flames at the house. But he came back with a girlish over-the-head punch that thudded on my back and, for a moment, stunned me by knocking the breath out of me. But I recovered quickly, turned around, and stabbed his forehead with the crayon, which left a small, red nick and made him run to the teacher, Miss Sue, a Chinese woman who consistently referred to me as “You, you.”

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konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

Oct 26
coporal Gabriel Villanueva

konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

(Oct 26 2015 12:49PM) : Gary fought a lot in his life because he was always picked on. [Edited] more

Gary fought a lot in his life because he was always picked on, and when he does fight back the principal punishes him.Its not fair that he’s punished for fighting back.

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Oct 26
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 26 2015 12:59PM) : Gary had his first fight in first grade. [Edited] more

It all started when Gary was coloring flames on his four sided house. A kid tried to take his crayon away from Gary. Gary shoved the kid away. He called him menso and he proceeded to color the house. The kid punched Gary on the back and it knocked out Gary’s breath. Gary recovered quickly and he stabbed his forehead with a crayon leaving a red mark on his head and Gary was sent to the principles office.

If that was me I would have told the teacher that the kid stole the crayon from me and I would go on with my day.

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Oct 29
Zakelle Brown (Oct 29 2015 12:43PM) : he had to get away from lots of fights. more

i believe he is trying to get away from fights because he is not a fighter.

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Oct 30
Deanna Alvarado (Oct 30 2015 10:34AM) : Gary fought over a crayon more

Gary is always fighting with people and he’s first fight was over a crayon and it was stupid to fight over a crayon like Gary could of get another crayon and keep drawing but also there was no need for the boy to touch Gary first if the boy wanted the crayon he could of ask instead of putting his hands of someone over a crayon.

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Nov 2
Reggie Checo (Nov 02 2015 9:45AM) : gary is constently fighting. [Edited] more

Gary is constently fighting and is always making making trouble with other children.

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Oct 27
Anthony Ruiz (Oct 27 2015 2:53PM) : In this sentence Gary talks about what is going on at the moment. more

Gary says that he had to pass through some fights and he had to hold his nose from getting hit by them.

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Oct 28
Damian Espinosa (Oct 28 2015 12:50PM) : Gary Would Fight Alot more

Gary was a little savage because since kindergarten he was he was fighting

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Oct 30
Raleek Wynn (Oct 30 2015 10:24AM) : in kinegarden i had to bob and weave fights. more

this kid had to bob and weave so he dont get hit or hurt. he also probably had to bob in weave because people was probably throwing stuff at him,they hated him

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Nov 4
Reggie Checo (Nov 04 2015 1:00PM) : i agree more

I agree

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Oct 29
Zakelle Brown (Oct 29 2015 12:45PM) : i never knew that he is that petty to fight over a crayon. more

this is intersting because inthrought the book it never showed him being petty like this.

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Oct 30
Raleek Wynn (Oct 30 2015 10:28AM) : he lost his first figh. more

he lost some he won son he fought over a crayon.they probably was fighting over crayons because they wanted the same color and it was only that one color so they had to fight who ever gets the color.

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Oct 26
Ezekiel Harrison (Oct 26 2015 12:54PM) : His mother wanted to see Gary wrestle Bloodworth more

According To the text Bloodworth is his name for wrestling because he had a boy pinned to the mat looking at the light when he first started to wrestle

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Oct 29
Zakelle Brown (Oct 29 2015 12:48PM) : the other boy started the fight between them two. more

i believe that they should not be fighting because they are way too young to be fighting.

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Nov 4
Yasin Winston (Nov 04 2015 12:45PM) : GARY WAS A HARD HEAD more

Gary was in a lot of fights during kindergarten in the text it states “i had bob and weave through fights some i won and some i had to escape holding my nose like a doorknob”

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Irate, because I had been a nuisance all week, Miss Sue shook me like a wet umbrella and pulled me toward the front of the classroom where she ordered the class, busy coloring, to return to their desks. Pushing her hair from her eyes, she asked, “How many of you want Gary to go to the principal’s office?” I had been tugging to get free, but stopped when I saw all the hands leap up like flames into the air, even my girlfriend Rhonda’s and my best friend Daryle’s. I was shocked, then mad. My girlfriend! My best friend! So off I went screaming “No one likes me!” and, in the principal’s office, could only think how I was going to beat up the whole class.

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Oct 27
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 27 2015 12:22PM) : The class has no respect for Gary more

Gary’s teacher Miss Sue told the whole class if she should send Gary to the principal office. Miss Sue said “How many of you want Gary to go to the principal office?” The whole class raised there hands and his friends,girlfriend and his best friend. Gary ran to the principals office and he said "No one likes me!

I feel bad for Gary because the kids in his class don’t like him. If that was me I would have told the teacher that it wasn’t my fault.

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Oct 26
Ezekiel Harrison (Oct 26 2015 10:02AM) : Gary had to go to the principals office more

i think that when the principal wanted Gary to come to the office that was about when was he gonna wrestle

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Oct 28
Yasin Winston (Oct 28 2015 9:55AM) : Gary feels hated more

it is so messed up how every body turned against his girlfriend and his best friend and everyone in the class raised their hands agreeing for him to go to the principals office for example in the text it states ’how many of you want Gary to go to the principals office i had been tugging to get free but stopped when i saw all hands leap up like flames into the air

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Nov 5
Reggie Checo (Nov 05 2015 6:28AM) : i agree more

I agree because real friends would not want you to get in trouble.

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Oct 29
Damian Espinosa (Oct 29 2015 10:02AM) : Gary Gets No Respect more

Everyone must think Gary dumb because when Gary ran for the principal office ever denied his entry even his own girlfriend so he now he thinks no one like him so Gary is plotting on his classmates

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Nov 4
Raleek Wynn (Nov 04 2015 8:57AM) : how hes plotting on his classmates laughing emoji

And I did, sooner or later, between second and third bases, in the bathroom while they stood at the urinals with their flies open like sails, and after school when I chased them home with rocks and bad words. So it went year after year, and perhaps my peak as a fighter came one week in spring the year I was a fifth grader when I was reportedly the gang leader of Mexicans who had beat up the Surfers. The Surfers, who were as poor as us and who probably had never seen the ocean in person, were sixth graders—and one of them was my brother Rick. I didn’t find it strange because we often fought at home over the smallest thing, like a glass of Kool-Aid or a misplaced pencil, so whe we met on the lawn one afternoon during lunch period, I had no bad feelings about trying to hit my brother in the nose. He made the decision to stand with the Surfers, and I made the decision to stand with the Mexicans. (I think it’s something like becoming a Democrat or Republican—there are really no hard feelings if a relative belongs to a party different from your own.)

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Oct 28
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 28 2015 9:52AM) : Gary is in a gang [Edited] more

Gary was a gang leader in the fifth grade. Gary and his gang who had beat up the Surfers. The Surfers were a gang that Rick was in. Rick was Gary’s brother and Rick was with the Surfers. Gary didn’t find it strange because his and Rick always had a fight. They would fight for Kool-Aid and a pencil.

If I was in Gary’s gang I would have told Gary to get along with the Surfers.

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Oct 29
Reggie Checo (Oct 29 2015 6:39AM) : gary is a very disrespectful kid. [Edited] more

Gary is very misunderstood and routhless against his brothers gang and other kids.

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Oct 30
Damian Espinosa (Oct 30 2015 7:30AM) : Gary's Plot Has Began more

Gary really chased the kids from his class with rock and cursing at them just because they didn’t pick him to be the for the principal office election.

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Oct 27
Ezekiel Harrison (Oct 27 2015 12:27PM) : Gary was suppose ably the gang leader of the Mexicans in school that beat up the surfers for no a parent reason and Gary wasn't the way that he is saying in the paragraph and Gary wasn't that type of person and he was a good kid. more

Gary isnt ready to be in a gang nobody is actually so the people in the school are lying about Gary being into aa gang

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konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

Oct 29
coporal Gabriel Villanueva

konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

(Oct 29 2015 6:30AM) : Gary was part of a gang called "The Mexicans" more

“the Surfers” probably beat up the “Mexicans” leader because they were rival gangs.

I would never join any gang.

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Nov 4
Yasin Winston (Nov 04 2015 10:03AM) : Gary was involved more

Gary was involved in a lot of things for example "i was reportedly the gang leader of Mexicans who had beat up the surfers

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We met on the lawn and taunted them. “Hey, how’s the surf. Your little deuce coupe, ese.” They came back, “Eat your tacos and throw up,” At that we lunged at them and sadly, since we were only fifth graders, we went down one after another from their sixth grader punches, holding our jaws and wiping our hurt noses. Lucky for us, I suppose, a teacher was walking toward the knot of onlookers; and the Surfers scattered while we ran to the jungle gym where we bared our teeth at one another to see if they were all right.

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Oct 29
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 29 2015 1:01AM) : Gary has a mean way of doing things with the Surfers. [Edited] more

Gary did mean things to the Surfers. Gary taunted them. Gary told the Surfers to “Eat your tacos and throw up.” He went down on one another and Gary was in fifth grade throwing sixth grade punches at the Surfers. He punched the Surfers with is gang and won. The Surfers ran away while Gary’s gang went to the jungle gym.

If I was a student and Gary and his gang did this to me it would be kind of scared. I would be scared because he and his gang made the Surfers run away with the fight they had.

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Nov 5
Reggie Checo (Nov 05 2015 1:58AM) : gary is always starting fights. more

Gary is always starting fights with the surfers

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Oct 30
Damian Espinosa (Oct 30 2015 10:37PM) : When Gary First Began being a Bully more

Gary really beat up the fifth grader that was calmly eating tacos and didn’t mean no harm.But still beat them just because he didn’t get want he wanted.

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After lunch, while Mrs. Sloan read us Pinocchio and the class grew dreamy as we listened with heads pillowed in folded arms, I was called by the loud speaker on the wall next to the flag. The speaker crackled, buzzed, breathed hard, crackled some more, and finally spoke: “Please send Gary Soto to the principal’s office immediately.” I raised my head from my arms, looked around as everyone looked at me, and left the room wondering what I had done wrong. At the office a mother was there with one of the Surfers whose eyes were red from crying, and as I stepped into the principal’s office, scared at the possibility of a paddling, the Surfer cried out, “That’s him. He’s the leader.” Mr. Buckalew, usually so kind, frowned at me as the Surfer went loose-lipped; the mother wrung her hands and told Mr. Buckalew that her son had a heart condition, that any day he could die. I listened without saying anything but thought we were going to have to whip this “fink.” After the mother and son had gone breathless from complaining, the principal turned and asked me if any of it was true.

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Oct 29
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 29 2015 9:41PM) : Gary got in trouble and sent to the principals office. [Edited] more

Gary was sent to the principals office when Mrs.Sloan was reading the book Pinocchio to the whole class. The speaker crackled,buzzed,breathed hard and it said “Please sent Gary Soto to the principals office immediately.” He raised his head and look around as everyone looked back at Gary. He left the room and Gary said “What did I do wrong.” He went to the office and the Surfers mom was there . The Surfer cried out and said “That is him. He’s the leader.” The mother of the surfer said “My son has a heart condition and he can die any moment.” Mr. Buckalew said “Is any of it true.” Gary lied with an eye of innocence.

If I was Gary I would have told the truth to Mr. Buckalew and I would have felt bad for the Surfer who had transferred.

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Oct 31
Damian Espinosa (Oct 31 2015 3:09AM) : When Gary Hear His Name On The Loud Speakers more

When was scared for his life wondering what he did wrong.

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“They’re lying,” I lied, with a generous wide-eyed innocence. “Really, Mr. Buckalew.”

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Oct 31
Raleek Wynn (Oct 31 2015 3:16AM) : they are lying i lied with a generous wide eyed more

he was lying but he made sure he was telling the truth by his generous wide eye so they thought he was telling the truth

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 12:03AM) : They're lying, I lied, with a generous wide-eye innocence more

Gary had 2 play it off so people could believe him.He did something wrong but he got away with it cause people believed him.

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But in the end I leaned against his desk for a paddling, and the Surfer transferred to another school district when we chased him home for being a fink.

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Hard times. All through elementary and junior high school, it was bob and weave, jab and stick. Only in high school did I get a chance to rest between rounds. I was amazed at the calm, almost pastoral, atmosphere of Roosevelt High and, for a while, was pleased to hover over tuna sandwiches during lunchtime without the worry of being jumped from behind. During the three years there I would only get into eight fights—the strangest one was with a 1963 Ford Falcon that tried to run me over as I crossed the street on my way to school. I kicked the car door, then the driver when he got out of his car, before I ran away to look for help.

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Oct 29
Zakelle Brown (Oct 29 2015 9:53AM) : sometimes he got to watch fights. more

this is intersting because he said at first that he never got to watch fights.

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Oct 30
Damian Espinosa (Oct 30 2015 12:21PM) : He always got into fights more

Gary was into a fight every time there was not 1 time that Gary was watching a fight.

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Longing for the “good times,” I joined the wrestling team to exercise my combative genes. Wrestling is a difficult sport that demands top notch conditioning, followed by speed, desire, and tooth-grinding meanness. During the first week of training we ran miles, did push-ups and sit-ups until we hurt, and practiced takedowns and half nelsons. We worked out in the “oven,” a fifteen by thirty foot padded room, in which an overhead heater was turned on so we could sweat to lose weight. By the end of a two-hour workout, the room was puddled with sweat and so fogged that it was impossible to see across the room. We practiced with the intention of hurting each other, and Coach DeCarlo made no bones about it.

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Oct 30
Matthew Hernandez (Oct 30 2015 7:37AM) : Gary joins a wrestling team [Edited] more

Gary joined the wrestling team to test out his combative genes. Gary was in and ran miles,did push-ups and sit-ups until he was hurting. There was an overhead heater was turned on so Gary and the students would sweat and lose weight. By the end of the work out the room was puddled with sweat and it was impossible to see across the room.

My thoughts on this paragraph is that Gary is getting stronger every time in the chapter.

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Nov 5
Damian Espinosa (Nov 05 2015 8:07AM) : Gary joined the wrestling team more

Gary is a competitive person so he joined so he could see if he really have those competitive genes

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“When you get in there, don’t be a damned fish. You’re men, now. When you get him down, throw your chin into his back. Hurt him—or don’t come back.”

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 12:10AM) : "When you get there,don't be a damned fish" more

Which means once you get there you better man up cause if show fear its over

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We all came back, either as victors or losers, and, if the latter, practiced even more fiercely to prove ourselves the next time. We wanted to hear the coach call us “animals,” and smile with pride.

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I wrestled for three years at the one-hundred-three weight class and my record was not particularly sparkling: Twenty-four wins, eleven losses. Just an average wrestler. I earned three letters but no ribbons or pins to dangle from a letterman’s jacket. Still, I was loyal. I worked hard. I ran the miles, did the push-ups and sit-ups until I hurt, and by the end of the three years of wrestling I was in the best condition I would ever enjoy. If I lifted my shirt at my brothers, I could blink a row of taut muscles—blink, “Don’t mess with me,” or “Stay back, Jack.”

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Nov 18
Matthew Hernandez (Nov 18 2015 4:27AM) : Gary is a man now more

Gary’s coach said a motivational speech and it was “We all come back as losers or victors.” Gary wrestled for three years and his record was twenty-four wins, eleven losses. He earned three letters but no ribbons or pins to dangle from a jacket Gary worked hard. Gary ran miles, did push-ups and sit-ups until he was hurting.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 12:56AM) : he was a wristler. more

this is intersting because i never knew that gary is the type to wristle.

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 12:12AM) : Gary is a Wrestler* more

Gary was competitive so he joined wrestling

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One night, in my third year, my mother decided to watch me wrestle. My family had taken little interest in my athletics and, in fact, had discouraged me from going out for the team because it meant expense: Insurance (five dollars), a check-up (seven dollars), and one knee pad (two dollars and fifty cents). Then there was the doctor bill of ten dollars for the blood poisoning I got from a scratch while wrestling. With the last, my mother kept saying, “No, it’s nothing,” even when I showed her a tangle of red veins that ran from my hand to my chest. I went to bed thinking about Jesus, but when I woke the next morning I was thinking of Dr. Welby, Dr. Kildare—anyone! I showed my veins to Mom again, and she said, “Well, OK, if we have to.” She put down her coffee cup, dabbed lipstick on her cheeks and lips the color of my veins, and drove me to the doctor’s. When I took off my shirt, his brow went dark with lines as he said, “This one’s a dilly.” He probed my armpit until it hurt and then set a row of injections on a stainless steel tray.

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Nov 19
Matthew Hernandez (Nov 19 2015 1:58AM) : Gary's mom didn't want him to go wrestling [Edited] more

Gary’s mom was trying to discourage Gary from wrestling because it meant expense. For instance insurance costs five dollars, a check up seven dollars and a knee pad cost two dollars and fifty cents. And from not going to the doctors Gary got blood poisoning from a scratch in wrestling. If that was me I would have told my mom to take me to the doctors asap.

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 12:16AM) : Gary is Wrestler more

Gary’s family finally took some interest in Gary’s competitive interest

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The night my mom decided to watch me wrestle, our match was with the perennial powerhouse, Madera High—and that night I was to face Bloodworth. His name was appropriate, since he was a city champion prone to head slapping and smearing his opponent’s face into the mat before he turned him over to show him the “lights”—the overhead lights we’d look up at as the referee counted.

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Oct 26
Faith Castaneda (Oct 26 2015 9:29AM) : His mother decided to watch Gary wrestle Bloodworth. more

what type of kid that named bloodworth if was Gary I would not fight him if a kid that,that i will run like a dog chasing a cat.

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Nov 5
Damian Espinosa (Nov 05 2015 8:18AM) : Gary's mom watched Gary wrestling match more

Who names their child Bloodworth like really what were you thinking when you named this child

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There were a few spectators in the gymnasium that night. At Roosevelt High few sat together, even if they came together as boyfriend and girlfriend, brothers, close friends, or relatives. Wrestling at Roosevelt was a sport you watched by yourself with a ten-cent bag of Corn Nuts you munched quicker and harder when a wrestler was on the edge of being pinned.

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Nov 5
Damian Espinosa (Nov 05 2015 8:24AM) : Alot of people showed up to watch the wrestling match more

Gary didn’t really think alot of people was going to show up

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My mother arrived just a few minutes before the varsity team was called out. I spied her from behind the door where the team had lined up by weight. She stepped carefully into the bleachers, looked around, and then sat quietly in about the fourth row, smoothing her dress as if she were at a restaurant.

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Nov 5
Faith Castaneda (Nov 05 2015 6:18AM) : Gary mother arrived just a few minutes before his team called out. [Edited] more

what is a varsity team?.Also why did his mother came in a few minutes later.If I was him I would come in when the team is going on because if I was a mother i would walk my son or daughter to her or his team and stay there to watch him or her play.

If i had a kid or two or three i would go to the there games when it is starting or when i the game is a bought to being so i can wish them a good game and or they can win the game

Also if i was the couch i would let them practice all day so they can win the game.

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Nov 5
Damian Espinosa (Nov 05 2015 8:27AM) : Gary's mother came more

She really showed up after the varsity was called out

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Called out by our coach, we ran gingerly and in step to circle the mat shouting: R-O-O-S-E-V-E-L-T. After that we clapped, dropped to the mat for neck bridges and leg stretches, and stood up again to practice takedowns. We huddled together again, shouted “Let’s do it!” and broke away clapping as we turned to the folding chairs that faced the mat.

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Oct 26
Faith Castaneda (Oct 26 2015 9:33AM) : when Gary coach called the kid over mat was shouting ROOSEVELT. [Edited] more

I think that the reason why the kid shouting Roosevelt is because that is the name of his school .Also mat is like me i am loud when I go to gym .Also i think mat character traits is loud like me.

Also Roosevelt remind me of a movie or a plant yea a rose .Also why is the school name Roosevelt .

I think that the school is name that for a reason .

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 7:22AM) : They were called out by coaches more

They was shouting the names of the schools

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Madera was then called out and they followed with a similar routine.

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I was nervous. I kept bouncing lightly on my toes and jingling my arms at my sides, all along knowing that I would be pinned. I knew Bloodworth was going to win, but I had to stay off my back and not see “the lights.” I bounced around and jingled my arms. I adjusted my headgear and repositioned my one knee pad, on which I had notched my wins and losses with a Bic pen. The coach came up to me, clipboard in hand, and asked me how I felt. OK, I told him, although my mouth was dry and my stomach had that feeling—a sense of nausea that issued from fear. Without looking at him, I knew he was searching my face and wondering, “Can he do it?”

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Nov 18
Deanna Alvarado (Nov 18 2015 5:53AM) : Gary couldn't stop moving. more

Gary was so nervous that he couldn’t stop bouncing lightly and jingling he’s arms around.

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Nov 6
Damian Espinosa (Nov 06 2015 11:34PM) : I was nervous more

Before Gary joined the wrestling team the coach said that you cant be scared or nervous that you have to Man Up

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Oct 29
Anthony Ruiz (Oct 29 2015 12:55AM) : In this sentence Gary says that '' i adjusted my headgear''. more

I think back then in Gary’s time headgear was like what we have now just different name.

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The buzzer sounded for the first match. Mike Brooks, our ninety-five-pounder who had a mean grip and was our best wrestler that year, approached the mat looking vacantly at the referee as he explained the rules we all knew. They shook hands, backed away, and when the buzzer sounded, Mike dangled his arms in front of his opponent as he waddled toward him. He grabbed his wrist, yanked, pushed, and yanked again and the opponent was on the mat, head arched back as he tried to get up. A two-point take-down was not enough for Mike, so he hammered his chin into his opponent’s back. The other wrestler grunted to his knees, but Mike slipped his leg under his opponent’s and shoved an elbow into his back with the intention of working him on a cradle. He pulled on an arm until it gave, and within seconds the opponent was on his back trying to bridge his way out of trouble, and within another few seconds he was looking up at “the lights,” as the referee slammed his hand on the mat. Mike leaped off him and looked at the clock: Thirty-four seconds were left in the round. They shook hands and I could make out Mike saying, “Good match.”

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Liar, I thought. The guy was terrible. That quick pin won’t help me out because Bloodworth will be upset at how quickly one of his teammates had gone down. I searched the bleachers and found Mom searching her purse for gum, a cigarette perhaps. The few spectators there were untwisting bags for Corn Nuts, readying for a good time.

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The buzzer sounded. I approached the mat as my teammates stood up from their chairs to clap and shower me with, “C’mon, Gary. Stick him.”

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I approached the mat, looked at the referee moving his mouth, and shook hands with Bloodworth. We backed away two steps, each of us looking intensely at the other, and waited for the “Readyyyyy, wrestle.” When it came I waddled toward Bloodworth with my arms dangling in front of me, in a parody of Mike’s style. We locked heads together, pushed and yanked, and separated. I was already breathing hard, just from a few friendly shoves, and my ear, despite the headgear, felt raw from banging our heads together. We searched each other’s faces and waddled toward one another, arms dangling. When he teased me with a leg, I decided,“Well, hell, why not,” and scooted on my knees to grab his foot in a half-hearted attempt at a take-down. He ripped his forearm across my face. It hurt as he twisted my head and, consequently, my neck. He took me down, but I got up to my knees almost immediately to search out the clock, then the faces in the bleachers —faces that were busy going to town on Corn Nuts. I rose to my knees, then fell, but rose again when the buzzer sounded the end of the round. I stood up breathing hard, hands on hips as I circled the mat to stall for time and a precious breath of air. The referee asked Bloodworth to choose between heads or tails as he tossed a coin in the air. Heads, he called, and heads it was. He chose top. I circled around the mat one more time and then threw myself on the mat, on all fours. He set his grip on my elbow and around my waist, and I could feel his trembling—certainly from the rush of adrenaline. When the whistle sounded I tried to snap up into a standing position but was thrown down. I crawled, snail-like, my face smearing the mat with a moist nose, and could feel him trying to push his hand over my neck and across the back of my head in a half nelson. He pushed at my head, sweated on my head, breathed foully on my head. Bent down, the referee shouted at me to quit stalling—an insult, because I was trying to get to my knees. Grunting, I rose up on my padded knee and, for a second, it looked like I might even make it to two knees when Bloodworth slammed me into the mat and I continued to snail, nose pressed moist into the mat.

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Oct 30
Raleek Wynn (Oct 30 2015 7:33AM) : gary had to fight a kid name blood worth. more

what kind of name is bloodworth i never fight a kid name that,they probaably call him bloodworth because when he fight he beats the kids up so bad they get bloody

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Nov 9
Damian Espinosa (Nov 09 2015 8:20AM) : Trying to get down to my knees more

Gary getting yelled at because hes procrastinating

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Just as I looked up to the clock, Bloodworth slipped his leg around mine and pulled at my arm in an attempt to roll me into the “cradle.” “Thank God it’s almost over,” I thought as I grunted and gritted my teeth. But the buzzer sounded and I was released. I got up slowly, threw off my headgear whose earmuffs had worked their way across my eyes, and walked around the mat with hands on hips and breathing hard. I searched the bleachers and the spectators were finishing up their first bags of Corn Nuts. My mom, with a clenched fist and a strained face, was yelling, “C’mon, m’ijo, kill him.” Some of my teammates clapped their hands softly and threw out words of encouragement while others bowed their heads and looked at their feet.

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Bloodworth was already on all fours and poised beautifully, eyes straight ahead like a horse’s, when I plopped down on my knees to set my grip around his elbow and stomach. When the whistle sounded I pulled to my left, then quickly pushed him to the mat where he “snailed” to rise to his feet as I hung on thinking that I might not be pinned, that maybe I might even win. No sooner did such ideas snap from one brain cell to the next than Bloodworth rose to one knee, then the other knee, before he shot straight up like King Kong with me hanging desperately to his waist, as if I were begging him to stay. He slapped my hands away, turned, and ripped a forearm across my face while he took me down where he proceeded to tuck my arm into a half chicken wing, then into a full chicken wing before he rolled me slowly over on my back, and I glimpsed the wincing glare of overhead lights, and the spectators with their Corn Nuts, and the coach banging his clipboard against his thigh, and my teammates ripping their fingernails with their teeth, and my Mom standing up and yelling, “Hurt him, m’ijo. Kill him. Right now!”

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I was pinned with forty-four seconds left of the third round. I got up breathing hard, head bowed, as I circled the mat. I shook hands with Bloodworth without looking up, returned to my folding chair and my teammates patting my shoulders, and sat down to towel off and watch Rhinehardt, our one-hundred-andtwelve, roll around the mat. While he was being turned over to see the lights, my mom called from the bleachers, “M’ijo. M’ijo, do you want some gum?” Turning around, I saw that she had torn a piece of Juicy Fruit into halves and was holding it up like a goldfish. “Here, son. Catch.” She threw it from the bleachers, and I opened my hands for its small sweetness.

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Nov 5
Faith Castaneda (Nov 05 2015 10:27PM) : Gary was forty-four left of the third round with blood worth more

if i was Gary i would hit or pound him so bad he will fall in asleep.Also If i was Bloodworth i would hit him so bad that he would wake up when he is 18 years old.

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Nov 10
Damian Espinosa (Nov 10 2015 12:32AM) : Gary was pinned with forty-Four seconds on the clock more

The match was over for Gary he was pinned with no escape

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One Last Time

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Yesterday I saw the movie Gandhi and recognized a few of the people—not in the theater but in the film. I saw my relatives, dusty and thin as sparrows, returning from the fields with hoes balanced on their shoulders. The workers were squinting, eyes small and veined, and were using their hands to say what there was to say to those in the audience with popcorn and Cokes. I didn’t have anything, though. I sat thinking of my family and their years in the fields, beginning with Grandmother who came to the United States after the Mexican revolution to settle in Fresno where she met her husband and bore children, many of them. She worked in the fields around Fresno, picking grapes, oranges, plums, peaches, and cotton, dragging a large white sack like a sled. She worked in the packing houses, Bonner and Sun-Maid Raisin, where she stood at a conveyor belt passing her hand over streams of raisins to pluck out leaves and pebbles. For over twenty years she worked at a machine that boxed raisins until she retired at sixty-five.

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konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

Jun 16
coporal Gabriel Villanueva

konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

(Jun 16 2016 12:23PM) : Gary was thinking about the movie "Gandhi". more

Gary was thinking about the movie “Gandhi” and the frail people who worked super hard in the sun which reminded him of his ancestors.

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Oct 26
Faith Castaneda (Oct 26 2015 9:38AM) : yesterday Gary watch the movie about Gandhi but there was few people not in the theater but in the film. [Edited] more

I think this movie about him was the famous film in the olden day.Also this movie came out before this book .Also why did Gary was watching a movie about him if i was Gary i will watch a movie with actor or set not a move about this dude.

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Nov 9
Damian Espinosa (Nov 09 2015 9:12AM) : Yesterday Gary saw Gandhi and recongnized a few people more

Gary was watching a movie about a old spritual guy thats wise and gives the best advice

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 7:08AM) : Gary did not have any money so he did not have any snacks. more

i think that this is bad because he should at least have a dollar or two to buy a snack because everyone has their money to buy their own snacks.

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Grandfather worked in the fields, as did his children. Mother also found herself out there when she separated from Father for three weeks. I remember her coming home, dusty and so tired that she had to rest on the porch before she trudged inside to wash and start dinner. I didn’t understand the complaints about her ankles or the small of her back, even though I had been in the grape fields watching her work. With my brother and sister I ran in and out of the rows; we enjoyed ourselves and pretended not to hear Mother scolding us to sit down and behave ourselves. A few years later, however, I caught on when I went to pick grapes rather than play in the rows.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 7:13AM) : he picked grapes,so that he can have a snack to eat food. more

i find this interesting because he didnt have money so he had to pick grapes off the trees

Mother and I got up before dawn and ate quick bowls of cereal. She drove in silence while I rambled on how everything was now solved, how I was going to make enough money to end our misery and even buy her a beautiful copper tea pot, the one I had shown her in Long’s Drugs. When we arrived I was frisky and ready to go, self-consciously aware of my grape knife dangling at my wrist. I almost ran to the row the foreman had pointed out, but I returned to help Mother with the grape pans and jug of water. She told me to settle down and reminded me not to lose my knife. I walked at her side and listened to her explain how to cut grapes; bent down, hands on knees, I watched her demonstrate by cutting a few bunches into my pan. She stood over me as I tried it myself, tugging at a bunch of grapes that pulled loose like beads from a necklace. “Cut the stem all the way,” she told me as last advice before she walked away, her shoes sinking in the loose dirt, to begin work on her own row.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 10:14PM) : him and his mother ate them a bowl of ceral. more

i find this intersting because at the beggening he said that he really didnt like ceral that much.

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Oct 28
Anthony Ruiz (Oct 28 2015 3:20AM) : In the sentence Gary is chatting with his mother about somethings important. more

Hes telling his mother that he was going to end our misery and buy her a beautiful copper tea pot.

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I cut another bunch, then another, fighting the snap and whip of vines. After ten minutes of groping for grapes, my first pan brimmed with bunches. I poured them on the paper tray, which was bordered by a wooden frame that kept the grapes from rolling off, and they spilled like jewels from a pirate’s chest. The tray was only half filled, so I hurried to jump under the vines and begin groping, cutting, and tugging at the grapes again. I emptied the pan, raked the grapes with my hands to make them look like they filled the tray, and jumped back under the vine on my knees. I tried to cut faster because Mother, in the next row, was slowly moving ahead. I peeked into her row and saw five trays gleaming in the early morning. I cut, pulled hard, and stopped to gather the grapes that missed the pan; already bored, I spat on a few to wash them before tossing them like popcorn into my mouth.

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Oct 27
Reggie Checo (Oct 27 2015 12:17PM) : gary is working very hard. more

gary is working very and doing his very best to collect the grapes.

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Oct 27
Reggie Checo (Oct 27 2015 12:19PM) : gary is working very hard. more

gary is working very hard and trying his very best to collect grapes.gary collects the grapes so he can help his mom pay the bills.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 7:16AM) : he hAD LIKED THE GRAPES SO HE HAD WENT TO GO AND GET MORE. more

THIS IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE NOW THROUGHOUT THE BOOK IT WILL TALK ABOUT HIM PICKING GRAPES OFF THE TREES.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 7:19AM) : HE SAW 5 WHOLE TRAYS OF FOOD more

HE WAS HAPPY BECAUSE HE WANTED TO EAT IT AND HE WAS HUNGRY.

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So it went. Two pans equaled one tray—or six cents. By lunchtime I had a trail of thirty-seven trays behind me while Mother had sixty or more. We met about halfway from our last trays, and I sat down with a grunt, knees wet from kneeling on dropped grapes. I washed my hands with the water from the jug, drying them on the inside of my shirt sleeve before I opened the paper bag for the first sandwich, which I gave to Mother. I dipped my hand in again to unwrap a sandwich without looking at it. I took a first bite and chewed it slowly for the tang of mustard. Eating in silence I looked straight ahead at the vines, and only when we were finished with cookies did we talk.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 12:12PM) : gary is working very hard. more

gary is workin very hard and trying his very best to collect grapes.gary collects the grapes so he can help his mom pay all the bills.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

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“No, but I got a sliver from the frame,” I told her. I showed her the web of skin between my thumb and index finger. She wrinkled her forehead but said it was nothing.

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“How many trays did you do?”

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I looked straight ahead, not answering at first. I recounted in my mind the whole morning of bend, cut, pour again and again, before answering a feeble “thirty-seven.” No elaboration, no detail. Without looking at me she told me how she had done field work in Texas and Michigan as a child. But I had a difficult time listening to her stories. I played with my grape knife, stabbing it into the ground, but stopped when Mother reminded me that I had better not lose it. I left the knife sticking up like a small, leafless plant. She then talked about school, the junior high I would be going to that fall, and then about Rick and Debra, how sorry they would be that they hadn’t come out to pick grapes because they’d have no new clothes for the school year. She stopped talking when she peeked at her watch, a bandless one she kept in her pocket. She got up with an “Ay, Dios,” and told me that we’d work until three, leaving me cutting figures in the sand with my knife and dreading the return to work.

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Finally I rose and walked slowly back to where I had left off, again kneeling under the vine and fixing the pan under bunches of grapes. By that time, 11:30, the sun was over my shoulder and made me squint and think of the pool at the Y.M.C.A. where I was a summer member. I saw myself diving face first into the water and loving it. I saw myself gleaming like something new, at the edge of the pool. I had to daydream and keep my mind busy because boredom was a terror almost as awful as the work itself. My mind went dumb with stupid things, and I had to keep it moving with dreams of baseball and would-be girlfriends. I even sang, however softly, to keep my mind moving, my hands moving.

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Oct 26
Faith Castaneda (Oct 26 2015 9:41AM) : Gary saw himself diving face first in the YMCA pool and he loved it. more

That how i was when i go to the pool I will see myself diving in the pool and i would love it .

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I worked less hurriedly and with less vision. I no longer saw that copper pot sitting squat on our stove or Mother waiting for it to whistle. The wardrobe that I imagined, crisp and bright in the closet, numbered only one pair of jeans and two shirts because, in half a day, six cents times thirty-seven trays was two dollars and twenty-two cents. It became clear to me. If I worked eight hours, I might make four dollars. I’d take this, even gladly, and walk downtown to look into store windows on the mall and long for the bright madras shirts from Walter Smith or Coffee’s, but settling for two imitation ones from Penney’s.

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That first day I laid down seventy-three trays while Mother had a hundred and twenty behind her. On the back of an old envelope, she wrote out our numbers and hours. We washed at the pump behind the farm house and walked slowly to our car for the drive back to town in the afternoon heat. That evening after dinner I sat in a lawn chair listening to music from a transistor radio while Rick and David King played catch. I joined them in a game of pickle, but there was little joy in trying to avoid their tags because I couldn’t get the fields out of my mind: I saw myself dropping on my knees under a vine to tug at a branch that wouldn’t come off. In bed, when I closed my eyes, I saw the fields, yellow with kicked up dust, and a crooked trail of trays rotting behind me.

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The next day I woke tired and started picking tired. The grapes rained into the pan, slowly filling like a belly, until I had my first tray and started my second. So it went all day, and the next, and all through the following week, so that by the end of thirteen days the foreman counted out, in tens mostly, my pay of fifty-three dollars. Mother earned one hundred and forty-eight dollars. She wrote this on her envelope, with a message I didn’t bother to ask her about.

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The next day I walked with my friend Scott to the downtown mall where we drooled over the clothes behind fancy windows, bought popcorn, and sat at a tier of outdoor fountains to talk about girls. Finally we went into Penney’s for more popcorn, which we ate walking around, before we returned home without buying anything. It wasn’t until a few days before school that I let my fifty-three dollars slip quietly from my hands, buying a pair of pants, two shirts, and a maroon T-shirt, the kind that was in style. At home I tried them on while Rick looked on enviously; later, the day before school started, I tried them on again wondering not so much if they were worth it as who would see me first in those clothes.

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Along with my brother and sister I picked grapes until I was fifteen, before giving up and saying that I’d rather wear old clothes than stoop like a Mexican. Mother thought I was being stuck-up, even stupid, because there would be no clothes for me in the fall. I told her I didn’t care, but when Rick and Debra rose at five in the morning, I lay awake in bed feeling that perhaps I had made a mistake but unwilling to change my mind. That fall Mother bought me two pairs of socks, a packet of colored T-shirts, and underwear. The T-shirts would help, I thought, but who would see that I had new underwear and socks? I wore a new T-shirt on the first day of school, then an old shirt on Tuesday, than another T-shirt on Wednesday, and on Thursday an old Nehru shirt that was embarrassingly out of style. On Friday I changed into the corduroy pants my brother had handed down to me and slipped into my last new T-shirt. I worked like a magician, blinding my classmates, who were all clothes conscious and small-time social climbers, by arranging my wardrobe to make it seem larger than it really was. But by spring I had to do something—my blue jeans were almost silver and my shoes had lost their form, puddling like black ice around my feet. That spring of my sixteenth year, Rick and I decided to take a labor bus to chop cotton. In his old Volkswagen, which was more noise than power, we drove on a Saturday morning to West Fresno—or Chinatown as some call it—parked, walked slowly toward a bus, and stood gawking at the winos, toothy blacks, Okies, Tejanos with gold teeth, whores, Mexican families, and labor contractors shouting “Cotton” or “Beets,” the work of spring.

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Oct 27
Faith Castaneda (Oct 27 2015 12:46AM) : Gary mother will say that he is stupid or stuck up because there is going to be no clothes in the fall. [Edited] more

Why did his mother say that to him if I was Gary mother I will think about what I will say and then say it.Also If i was rich i would give Gary mother a lot of money so she can give him clothes for the fall and the winter .
Also I feel bad for Gary because he does not have clothes for the winter or the fall.Also like i said before if I was rich I will give Gary mom a good job and a good home in Mexico because my grandma is rich she has a lot of money .

That is why i feel bad and why i will give them money

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We boarded the “Cotton” bus without looking at the contractor who stood almost blocking the entrance because he didn’t want winos. We boarded scared and then were more scared because two blacks in the rear were drunk and arguing loudly about what was better, a two-barrel or four-barrel Ford carburetor. We sat far from them, looking straight ahead, and only glanced briefly at the others who boarded, almost all of them broken and poorly dressed in loudly mismatched clothes. Finally when the contractor banged his palm against the side of the bus, the young man at the wheel, smiling and talking in Spanish, started the engine, idled it for a moment while he adjusted the mirrors, and started off in slow chugs. Except for the windshield there was no glass in the windows, so as soon as we were on the rural roads outside Fresno, the dust and sand began to be sucked into the bus, whipping about like irate wasps as the gravel ticked about us. We closed our eyes, clotted up our mouths that wanted to open with embarrassed laughter because we couldn’t believe we were on that bus with those people and the dust attacking us for no reason.

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When we arrived at a field we followed the others to a pickup where we each took a hoe and marched to stand before a row. Rick and I, self-conscious and unsure, looked around at the others who leaned on their hoes or squatted in front of the rows, almost all talking in Spanish, joking, lighting cigarettes—all waiting for the foreman’s whistle to begin work. Mother had explained how to chop cotton by showing us with a broom in the backyard.

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“Like this,” she said, her broom swishing down weeds. “Leave one plant and cut four—and cut them! Don’t leave them standing or the foreman will get mad.”

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The foreman whistled and we started up the row stealing glances at other workers to see if we were doing it right. But after awhile we worked like we knew what we were doing, neither of us hurrying or falling behind. But slowly the clot of men, women, and kids began to spread and loosen. Even Rick pulled away. I didn’t hurry, though. I cut smoothly and cleanly as I walked at a slow pace, in a sort of funeral march. My eyes measured each space of cotton plants before I cut. If I missed the plants, I swished again. I worked intently, seldom looking up, so when I did I was amazed to see the sun, like a broken orange coin, in the east. It looked blurry, unbelievable, like something not of this world. I looked around in amazement, scanning the eastern horizon that was a taut line jutted with an occasional mountain. The horizon was beautiful, like a snapshot of the moon, in the early light of morning, in the quiet of no cars and few people.

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The foreman trudged in boots in my direction, stepping awkwardly over the plants, to inspect the work. No one around me looked up. We all worked steadily while we waited for him to leave. When he did leave, with a feeble complaint addressed to no one in particular, we looked up smiling under straw hats and bandanas.

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By 11:00, our lunch time, my ankles were hurting from walking on clods the size of hardballs. My arms ached and my face was dusted by a wind that was perpetual, always busy whipping about. But the work was not bad, I thought. It was better, so much better, than picking grapes, especially with the hourly wage of a dollar twenty-five instead of piece work. Rick and I walked sorely toward the bus where we washed and drank water. Instead of eating in the bus or in the shade of the bus, we kept to ourselves by walking down to the irrigation canal that ran the length of the field, to open our lunch of sandwiches and crackers. We laughed at the crackers, which seemed like a cruel joke from our mother, because we were working under the sun and the last thing we wanted was a salty dessert. We ate them anyway and drank more water before we returned to the field, both of us limping in exaggeration. Working side by side, we talked and laughed at our predicament because our Mother had warned us year after year that if we didn’t get on track in school we’d have to work in the fields and then we would see. We mimicked Mother’s whining voice and smirked at her smoky view of the future in which we’d be trapped by marriage and screaming kids. We’d eat beans and then we’d see.

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Oct 30
Faith Castaneda (Oct 30 2015 12:21PM) : by 11:00 it was lunch time and Gary ankles were hurting from walking on clods the size of hardball. [Edited] more

If i was him i would start crying in pain.Also i feel bad about that because if i was him then i would tell a teacher if i can call my mom to tell her if she can pick me up.Also i would crying so much i will loose five pound and b skinny even though i am already skinny.

If i was him i would take the pain and i would go home and tell my mom or dad that my ankles are hurting or maybe i can tell my mom that if i can stay home because my ankle are hurting

Those are the thing i will do if my ankle are hurting.

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Oct 30
Faith Castaneda (Oct 30 2015 12:25PM) : Gary better picking grapes especially with the hourly wage of a 25 instead of piece work. more

If i was hi i would

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Rick pulled slowly away to the rhythm of his hoe falling faster and smoother. It was better that way, to work alone. I could hum made-up songs or songs from the radio and think to myself about school and friends. At the time I was doing badly in my classes, mainly because of a difficult stepfather, but also because I didn’t care anymore. All through junior high and into my first year of high school there were those who said I would never do anything, be anyone. They said I’d work like a donkey and marry the first Mexican girl that came along. I was reminded so often, verbally and in the way I was treated at home, that I began to believe that chopping cotton might be a lifetime job for me. If not chopping cotton, then I might get lucky and find myself in a car wash or restaurant or junkyard. But it was clear; I’d work, and work hard.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 12:08PM) : he likes his food a certain way. more

i find this intersting because thats the way he like it.

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I cleared my mind by humming and looking about. The sun was directly above with a few soft blades of clouds against a sky that seemed bluer and more beautiful than our sky in the city. Occasionally the breeze flurried and picked up dust so that I had to cover my eyes and screw up my face. The workers were hunched, brown as the clods under our feet, and spread across the field that ran without end—fields that were owned by corporations, not families.

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I hoed trying to keep my mind busy with scenes from school and pretend girlfriends until finally my brain turned off and my thinking went fuzzy with boredom. I looked about, no longer mesmerized by the beauty of the landscape, no longer wondering if the winos in the fields could hold out for eight hours, no longer dreaming of the clothes I’d buy with my pay. My eyes followed my chopping as the plants, thin as their shadows, fell with each strike. I worked slowly with ankles and arms hurting, neck stiff, and eyes stinging from the dust and the sun that glanced off the field like a mirror.

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By quitting time, 3:00, there was such an excruciating pain in my ankles that I walked as if I were wearing snowshoes. Rick laughed at me and I laughed too, embarrassed that most of the men were walking normally and I was among the first timers who had to get used to this work. “And what about you, wino,” I came back at Rick. His eyes were meshed red and his long hippie hair was flecked with dust and gnats and bits of leaves. We placed our hoes in the back of a pickup and stood in line for our pay, which was twelve fifty. I was amazed at the pay, which was the most I had ever earned in one day, and thought that I’d come back the next day, Sunday. This was too good.

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Instead of joining the others in the labor bus, we jumped in the back of a pickup when the driver said we’d get to town sooner and were welcome to join him. We scrambled into the truck bed to be joined by a heavy-set and laughing Tejano whose head was shaped like an egg, particularly so because the bandana he wore ended in a point on the top of his head. He laughed almost demonically as the pickup roared up the dirt path, a gray cape of dust rising behind us. On the highway, with the wind in our faces, we squinted at the fields as if we were looking for someone. The Tejanohad quit laughing but was smiling broadly, occasionally chortling tunes he never finished. I was scared of him, though Rick, two years older and five inches taller, wasn’t. If the Tejano looked at him, Rick stared back for a second or two before he looked away to the fields.

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I felt like a soldier coming home from war when we rattled into Chinatown. People leaning against car hoods stared, their necks following us, owl-like; prostitutes chewed gum more ferociously and showed us their teeth; Chinese grocers stopped brooming their storefronts to raise their cadaverous faces at us. We stopped in front of the Chi Chi Club where Mexican music blared from the juke box and cue balls cracked like dull ice. The Tejano, who was dirty as we were, stepped awkwardly over the side rail, dusted himself off with his bandana, and sauntered into the club.

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Rick and I jumped from the back, thanked the driver who said de nada and popped his clutch, so that the pickup jerked and coughed blue smoke. We returned smiling to our car, happy with the money we had made and pleased that we had, in a small way, proved ourselves to be tough; that we worked as well as other men and earned the same pay.

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Oct 28
Anthony Ruiz (Oct 28 2015 12:46PM) : In this class picture taken in 1964. [Edited] more

I can almost make out Gary In the middle of the his class picture.

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We returned the next day and the next week until the season was over and there was nothing to do. I told myself that I wouldn’t pick grapes that summer, saying all through June and July that it was for Mexicans, not me. When August came around and I still had not found a summer job, I ate my words, sharpened my knife, and joined Mother, Rick, and Debra for one last time.

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Black Hair

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There are two kinds of work: One uses the mind and the other uses muscle. As a kid I found out about the latter. I’m thinking of the summer of 1969 when I was a seventeen-year-old runaway who ended up in Glendale, California, to work for Valley Tire Factory. To answer an ad in the newspaper I walked miles in the afternoon sun, my stomach slowly knotting on a doughnut that was breakfast, my teeth like bright candles gone yellow. I walked in the door sweating and feeling ugly because my hair was still stiff from a swim at the Santa Monica beach the day before. Jules, the accountant and part owner, looked droopily through his bifocals at my application and then at me. He tipped his cigar in the ashtray, asked my age as if he didn’t believe I was seventeen, but finally after a moment of silence, said, “Come back tomorrow. Eight-thirty.”

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Oct 28
Ezekiel Harrison (Oct 28 2015 10:02AM) : Gary was 17 the year of 1969 and he ran away and he was in Glendale, California to work for (VTF) Valley Tire Factory more

he was looking for a job and he found a job that he was looking for

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Nov 12
Raleek Wynn (Nov 12 2015 6:33AM) : thier are two kinds of kids one that uses muscle and one that uses mind. more

i think this mean that the two type of kids he talking about is that one that uses mucsle mean that he fight alot and the one that uses mind means he does work alot.,

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Nov 17
Anthony Ruiz (Nov 17 2015 7:39AM) : In this sentence Gary lets us know that hes 17 and is a summer of 1969 and he works at valley tire factory. [Edited] more

The reason Gary tells us this is to let us know what year it is,How old is he now and where his working at too.

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Oct 26
Faith Castaneda (Oct 26 2015 9:54AM) : When Gary came in the class he was sweating and he was feeling ugly because hid hair was still stiff from swim at the Santa Monica from the beach the day before. more

If my hair was like that in will wash It when I got home and if i was sweating i will go to the bathroom and try it off of maybe i will switched my shirt and call it a day.

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I thanked him, left the office, and went around to the chain link fence to watch the workers heave tires into a bin; others carted uneven stacks of tires on hand trucks. Their faces were black from tire dust and when they talked—or cussed—their mouths showed a bright pink.

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From there I walked up a commercial street, past a cleaners, a motorcycle shop, and a gas station where I washed my face and hands; before leaving I took a bottle that hung on the side of the Coke machine, filled it with water, and stopped it with a scrap of paper and a rubber band.

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Oct 29
Ezekiel Harrison (Oct 29 2015 1:02PM) : Gary walked up a commercial street and he walked pass a cleaners and he went pass the motorcycle shop and a gas station and he was lost and he washed his hands at the gas station.
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The next morning I arrived early at work. The assistant foreman, a potbellied Hungarian, showed me a timecard and how to punch in. He showed me the Coke machine, the locker room with its slimy shower, and also pointed out the places where I shouldn’t go: The ovens where the tires were recapped and the customer service area, which had a slashed couch, a coffee table with greasy magazines, and an ashtray. He introduced me to Tully, a fat man with one ear, who worked the buffers that resurfaced the white walls. I was handed an apron and a face mask and shown how to use the buffer: Lift the tire and center, inflate it with a footpedal, press the buffer against the white band until cleaned, and then deflate and blow off the tire with an air hose.

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konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

Jun 17
coporal Gabriel Villanueva

konichiwa,hello my name is gabriel i’m a student in new direc… (more)

(Jun 17 2016 9:16PM) : Gary was learning the ropes of being a car mechanic. more

Gary was learning the ropes of being a car mechanic.He was also shown where he should and shouldn’t go.

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Oct 27
Faith Castaneda (Oct 27 2015 12:57AM) : the next day he woke up and then went to work. more

If i was him i would call off because who want to go to work in the morning or i will asked my boss if i can change my work like work in the afternoon.

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Oct 29
Faith Castaneda (Oct 29 2015 1:00AM) : One of his friend showed him the coke machine.Also he showed him the locker room with a slimy shower and he pointed out places where they should not go . more

Who is this he and that is not the point.Also why did his friend showed him the shower and there was slime in the shower .

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With a paint brush he stirred a can of industrial preserver. “Then slap this blue stuff on.” While he was talking a co-worker came up quietly from behind him and goosed him with the air hose. Tully jumped as if he had been struck by a bullet and then turned around cussing and cupping his genitals in his hands as the other worker walked away calling out foul names. When Tully turned to me smiling his gray teeth, I lifted my mouth into a smile because I wanted to get along. He has to be on my side, I thought. He’s the one who’ll tell the foreman how I’m doing.

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I worked carefully that day, setting the tires on the machine as if they were babies, since it was easy to catch a finger in the rim that expanded to inflate the tire. At the day’s end we swept up the tire dust and emptied the trash into bins.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 11:57AM) : one day he finally worked carefully and finshed his work. more

i think that this is a good thing that they are doing because he finally doing g what he is supposed to do.

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At five the workers scattered for their cars and motorcycles while I crossed the street to wash at a burger stand. My hair was stiff with dust and my mouth showed pink against the backdrop of my dirty face. I then ordered a hotdog and walked slowly in the direction of the abandoned house where I had stayed the night before. I lay under the trees and within minutes was asleep. When I woke my shoulders were sore and my eyes burned when I squeezed the lids together.

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From the backyard I walked dully through a residential street, and as evening came on, the TV glare in the living rooms and the headlights of passing cars showed against the blue drift of dusk. I saw two children coming up the street with snow cones, their tongues darting at the packed ice. I saw a boy with a peach and wanted to stop him, but felt embarrassed by my hunger. I walked for an hour only to return and discover the house lit brightly. Behind the fence I heard voices and saw a flashlight poking at the garage door. A man on the back steps mumbled something about the refrigerator to the one with the flashlight.

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I waited for them to leave, but had the feeling they wouldn’t because there was the commotion of furniture being moved. Tired, even more desperate, I started walking again with a great urge to kick things and tear the day from my life. I felt weak and my mind kept drifting because of hunger. I crossed the street to a gas station where I sipped at the water fountain and searched the Coke machine for change. I started walking again, first up a commercial street, then into a residential area where I lay down on someone’s lawn and replayed a scene at home—my mother crying at the kitchen table, my stepfather yelling with food in his mouth. They’re cruel, I thought, and warned myself that I should never forgive them. How could they do this to me.

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When I got up from the lawn it was late. I searched out a place to sleep and found an unlocked car that seemed safe. In the back seat, with my shoes off, I fell asleep but woke up startled about four in the morning when the owner, a nurse on her way to work, opened the door. She got in and was about to start the engine when I raised my head up from the backseat to explain my presence. She screamed so loudly when I said “I’m sorry” that I sprinted from the car with my shoes in hand. Her screams faded, then stopped altogether, as I ran down the block where I hid behind a trash bin and waited for a police siren to sound. Nothing. I crossed the street to a church where I slept stiffly on cardboard in the balcony.

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Oct 30
Zakelle Brown (Oct 30 2015 11:59AM) : he went to church. more

i think this is interesting because he is going to go to church and being a good person.

I woke up feeling tired and greasy. It was early and a few street lights were still lit, the east growing pink with dawn. I washed myself from a garden hose and returned to the church to break into what looked like a kitchen. Paper cups, plastic spoons, a coffee pot littered on a table. I found a box of Nabisco crackers which I ate until I was full.

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Oct 31
Zakelle Brown (Oct 31 2015 3:01AM) : he went home late and he started to go to church. more

in find this intersing because he is going home late and he is not supposed to.

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At work I spent the morning at the buffer, but was then told to help Iggy, an old Mexican, who was responsible for choosing tires that could be recapped without the risk of exploding at high speeds. Every morning a truck would deliver used tires, and after I unloaded them Iggy would step among the tires to inspect them for punctures and rips on the side walls.

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With a yellow chalk he marked circles and Xs to indicate damage and called out “junk.” For those tires that could be recapped, he said “goody” and I placed them on my hand truck. When I had a stack of eight I kicked the truck at an angle and balanced them to another work area where Iggy again inspected the tires, scratching Xs and calling out “junk.”

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Iggy worked only until three in the afternoon, at which time he went to the locker room to wash and shave and to dress in a two-piece suit. When he came out he glowed with a bracelet, watch, rings, and a shiny fountain pen in his breast pocket. His shoes sounded against the asphalt. He was the image of a banker stepping into sunlight with millions on his mind. He said a few low words to workers with whom he was friendly and none to people like me.

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I was seventeen, stupid because I couldn’t figure out the difference between an F 78 14 and 750 14 at sight. Iggy shook his head when I brought him the wrong tires, especially since I had expressed interest in being his understudy. “Mexican, how can you be so stupid?” he would yell at me, slapping a tire from my hands. But within weeks I learned a lot about tires, from sizes and makes to how they are molded in iron forms to how Valley stole from other companies. Now and then we received a truckload of tires, most of them new or nearly new, and they were taken to our warehouse in the back where the serial numbers were ground off with a sander. On those days the foreman handed out Cokes and joked with us as we worked to get the numbers off.

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Most of the workers were Mexican or black, though a few redneck whites worked there. The base pay was a dollar sixty-five, but the average was three dollars. Of the black workers, I knew Sugar Daddy the best. His body carried two hundred and fifty pounds, armfuls of scars, and a long knife that made me jump when he brought it out from his boot without warning. At one time he had been a singer, and had cut a record in 1967 called Love’s Chance, which broke into the R and B charts. But nothing came of it. No big contract, no club dates, no tours. He made very little from the sales, only enough for an operation to pull a steering wheel from his gut when, drunk and mad at a lady friend, he slammed his Mustang into a row of parked cars.

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“Touch it,” he smiled at me one afternoon as he raised his shirt, his black belly kinked with hair. Scared, I traced the scar that ran from his chest to the left of his belly button, and I was repelled but hid my disgust.

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Among the Mexicans I had few friends because I was different, a pocho who spoke bad Spanish. At lunch they sat in tires and laughed over burritos, looking up at me to laugh even harder. I also sat in tires while nursing a Coke and felt dirty and sticky because I was still living on the street and had not had a real bath in over a week. Nevertheless, when the border patrol came to round up the nationals, I ran with them as they scrambled for the fence or hid among the tires behind the warehouse. The foreman, who thought I was an undocumented worker, yelled at me to run, to get away. I did just that. At the time it seemed fun because there was no risk, only a goodhearted feeling of hide-and-seek, and besides it meant an hour away from work on company time. When the police left we came back and some of the nationals made up stories of how they were almost caught—how they out-raced the police. Some of the stories were so convoluted and unconvincing that everyone laughed mentiras, especially when one described how he overpowered a policeman, took his gun away, and sold the patrol car. We laughed and he laughed, happy to be there to make up a story.

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