The homeboys and I stood around in a circle. It was a cold, winter day, the kind that slapped you in the face once you stepped out the door. It was lunch and we couldn’t wait to get back into our warm classrooms, you would swear there were fireplaces in them. Patti walked up to the group and forced herself into the middle of the circle. “Smart girl,” I thought, my shaved bald head and hands in dire need of a beanie cap and gloves.

“Hey, guys,” she said while making a full 360 turn to shake our hands.
“What’s up, Patti?” I asked.
“Nada. Just coming by to say hi and -” her eyes widened as I scratched my nose real quick. “Three dots?” she yelled the question.
“Don’t worry about it, Patti.”
“Is that a tattoo?”

She had seen the three dots I had tattooed on my index finger. They were in the shape of a triangle; it symbolized “mi vida loca” – “my crazy life”. It was a cholo thing, a Mexican gangster tattoo that told the world you were in the “life”. Patti proceeded to poke at my chest with every question…