Bad Boy, Bullied Boy

I am a child of the eighties, born and bred in Denver, Colorado, a place affectionately referred to as the Mile High City by its residents — Denver is situated 5280 feet above sea level. I lived on the east side of Denver during the first few years of life, in a non-descript two-bedroom apartment that was situated on High Street, a breeding ground for scurrilous individuals. My parents were still recent immigrants in the early eighties, forced to work long hours at menial job assignments in order support our family while paying for schooling at the university.

I was too young to be left at home alone during the idle summer. So mom and dad arranged for me to be cared for by adults at the local daycare/school in the area, a place situated a few blocks away from our apartment, a red brick building perched on the edge of a grassy hill.

The inside of the center was a constricted space, composed of one office, two class rooms, and a sleeping area. Nap time — every day at 2:00 pm — was an unpleasant section of each day. Cots and plastic beds were set up in the sleeping area, with most kids clamoring for the cots, the more comfortable of the choices for sleep. Adults made sure that kids were given equal access to cots and plastic beds. But it didn’t matter which surface that I was assigned, because I could never fall sleep in a bed that was not my own.