The Words (Dear Mrs. Senderoff)
I grew up as one child of seven in the Bronx (that’s me pretending to be superman). My mom is from Mexico. Dad was from Puerto Rico. Neither of them ever set foot in a school. My brothers and I grew up in the time when crack was really beginning to take off, ravaging families and communities block by block. Through it all, my mother plowed on, belt in hand, making sure that each and every one of us got our chance at school.
My mom looks back at these times and feels bad, often wondering what she could have provided us that would have been better than what we had. I always look at her in disbelief. Access to a ...
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