I sat there unable to concentrate on what he was reading. All I could hear was the solid base sound of my heartbeat and the rapid breathing of my sister. I looked around the auditorium at the one thousand men and woman silently inhaling every word he said.
It was then I realized I was not alone.
No matter how much I imagine myself as the person most influenced by this man and his work, that night proved I was wrong. Whatever their reasons were for being there, for listening patiently as he read from his books, for lining up with tattered old books lovingly snuggled into their arms, it was evident that he is loved by many.
I listened to him bring his words to life. I saw the feeling in his eyes as he read from Miguel Street, watching as he let little pieces of himself shine through his words. This was a writer unlike any other: one able to hide himself between the lines of his chapters, able to smile cynically at the world for their inability to reveal his secrets.
I would never forget the moment I watched his pen slide across the top of my Miguel Street, leaving dark Indian ink in the shape of his name. One moment in a lifetime that ensured one of my dreams came through.
“Prejudice, he said, is when we look at a subject and decide we know the subject before we meet the subject.”
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