The earliest that I can remember trying to be a writer was when I was in 2nd grade. I remember making a book of ninja turtles on surfboards singing songs. I stapled it at school and then later that night I put it in the magazine rack with the other books to be sold at the deli mart. My mom wanted to move to a warmer climate and so that summer she got a brochure for an apartment complex where we would move that fall. The brochure showed the layout of a two bedroom apartment with a sliding glass door and gated patio. On paper as well as to you reading this, it sounds like a nice place to live: A gated community with 2 pools, a tennis court, a pond and a covered bridge. Not long after we had been there, one day after school, one of the kids punched me square in the face without provocation. I walked from the bus stop at the front of the complex, over the covered bridge at the pond, to the back of the complex with blood and tears pouring down my face. My mom was rightly horrified when I got home. She took pictures and the apartment complex told her there was nothing they could do about it. Some time went by and when I went to walk from the bus stop at the front of the complex to home at the back of the complex, I noticed one of these kids following me, because he would stop every so often, then I’d look back and he’d appear again. He was trying to follow me home and see where I lived. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was because I was the only white kid in the complex. Then, a fortunate accident happened one night. My mom was chopping onions and she had her record player on while she prepared dinner. While she was chopping, she heard a knock at the door and went straight from the kitchen to see who it was. When she opened the door, the upstairs neighbor who came to ask her to turn down her music was taken aback when he saw my mom with the knife in her hand. My mom had explained his mistaken interpretation to the apartment complex, but they told her they would not be renewing our lease. Thankfully, it was on to a new city and a new apartment complex that would have a dual impact on me: It was the place I met the person who years later would tell me a story about Nicole from No No Nicole (more on that later) and it was the place I would meet the person who taught me song structure. HEAR MY SONGS (https://open.spotify.com/track/7BWy5VAHjDPoNcmogWFZyu)

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