I didn’t have an easy childhood (who ever does?). I grew up super-poor, welfare, section 8 and food stamps all the way, in a community where us boys worried all the time about getting jumped and where mad people got recruited by the military. My mother was raising five kids on an income that didn’t break ten grand a couple of years. She cleaned houses for people a lot better off than us and I still have this image of her on her hands and knees cleaning bathrooms. I’m as nerdy as they come, a deep lover of books, but those long hard years marked me as deeply as that river marked Conrad and maybe that’s what the writer means when they say that I’m “from the street.” If that’s what the writer’s getting at then I’ll take it, I’ve no interest in erasing my particular version of the “American Experience.” But if this is some hollow ghetto glorification… I didn’t think I was so cool when I only had three shirts in high school and had to repeat twice a week. I didn’t feel too “street” then. I felt like a goddamn loser.