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Racetrack Higgins was 5 years old when he immigrated to America.
He remembers the day like it was yesterday. October 13th, 1888. The big, wooden boats, and people. So many people. He liked the noise, the ruckus, the movement. It was almost relaxing. His parents got them a 2nd class trip to America so abruptly, he didn't even have time to say goodbye to his friends. The hustling distracted his wandering thoughts.
"Antonio!" His mother hissed from across the immigration office. This was their third try at immigration, on other times something had always gotten in the way. Some sort of qualification their family didn't meet. He pitied his family at those times. The desperate looks on their faces, but he didn't understand the problem. He never did. This was the only day his family actually saw hope in getting inside the American border.
"Tony!" His mother called out again, but more softly than before. She grabbed her son's hand hastily, and dragged him across the room to another line. Antonio hated the lines. He didn't like to wait. He would stand there for what seemed like hours, but could've just been 30 minutes. Every time they finished standing in one line, they would stand in another. By the end of the day, Tony's legs would feel close enough to numb. He felt his knees wobble, and ankles go weak. He hated that feeling, it was all but pleasant.
The smaller boy whined, his curled locks draped in front of his eyes. His mother rolled her eyes. "Just a few more lines."
He knew she was bluffing.
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Racetrack Higgins was 7 years old when his mother died of polio.
He knew she was getting weaker and weaker as the days went on. She would hold him to her chest on her final days and whisper sweet-nothings into his ears. He didn't like to accept the fact his mother was dying right in front of him, and he couldn't do anything about it. His father would cry, and his stomach would ache. He had never seen his father cry before.
Antonio felt the worry bubble up in him day by day. His mother would get paler by the day, and soon came to the point where she wasn't able to sit up. He missed being asleep between his mother, and father. He missed when she kissed his cheek before he went outside to play tag with the neighbors. He missed being able to hug his mother without her whimpering in pain.
He remembers the day she died. He was about to make breakfast when he heard a gut wrenching scream come from the other room, followed by sobs. He didn't react. He analyzed the scream. Male. 39. Related to him. Hollow. Small. Weak. Tired. Relieved. Scared. Coming. Coming. Coming. Coming.
He had a skill for that. Analyzing things. Figuring out a person by their voice, or stance, or scream. The person he analyzed was his father. And he came back to the smaller boy quick. Before Antonio could even realize it.
The rest of the day he blocked from his memory.
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Racetrack Higgins was 8 when his father started abusing him.
It started off simple. Shoving, yelling, occasional slapping. The latter got used to this quickly. He knew his father like a book after just a week. The furrow in his eyebrows meant he was going to shove. Hide your arms now. The crinkle in his nose meant he was going to yell. Close your ears now. The dead look in his eyes meant he was going to occasional slap. Cover face now.
This became routine. Until it didn't.
Shoving became burning, and belting.
Yelling became screaming, and breaking.
Slapping became red marks, and punching, and bruises.
It came so fast, his father started to get creative on how to surprise his son. New routines. New commands. New scars. New bruises.
He would go outside everyday with a fresh bruise laying on his chin, or chest, or neck, or arm. Anywhere his father had time to reach before taking a swig of beer.
Antonio never admitted he was scared of his father, not even to himself, fearing that one day it might be true. When the neighbors would ask where the wounds came from, he wouldn't know how to answer. He barely knew English. He knew enough to immigrate, but not enough to live in America.
His neighbors got worried. But they didn't care. They didn't actually know this blonde haired-blue eyed kid. He just came outside and kicked the ball. They let him. They played with him. They didn't actually have the nerve, or the care, to talk to the smaller Italian boy.
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Racetrack Higgins was 10 when he ran away.
Antonio doesn't remember the last time he was alone. He felt empty. He felt numb. He felt lost. He felt confused. He didn't have a purpose. He started running.
The sheepshead was a little ways away. He knew that for a fact. He saw newsies starting their morning shifts, eyeing him, judging him. He felt worry. He knew what those newsies could do. He's seen their victims. He ran faster.
When he felt a hand grip his shoulder, he froze in place, wincing loudly. He heard a voice. He had no idea what the person was saying, but when he turned around, he saw a newsie. A big bad newsie. A terrifying, no good newsie.
His father always hated the newsies, but his mom never cared. She bought a newspaper from every newsie in sight. His dad would roll his heavy eyes, and she would tut-tut while walking away from the pleased boy.
"Hey, kid. Slow down." He understood that. He knew that. He learned that.
"I'm not English." He was. He understood that. The neighbors would yell that at him when he ran too fast to chase the raggy soccer ball. "I understand."
"Okay, kid. Come wit' me." The boy responded, making signals with his hands that he prayed the boy would understand.
The slightly taller older boy next to Antonio was named Jack. He understand introductions, thankfully. Jack didn't look much older than him. He didn't seem much more mature than him. He didn't seem like he could tell this random kid he found on the street to follow him.
"Why're ya runnin'?" He asked, praying the blonde boy would understand. He didn't. He shrugged in confusion. Jack nodded his head slowly.
Tony analyed Jack. He was stocky, with wide shoulders, and big palms. He was young, though. Probably 12. Maybe 11. Not much older than himself. He was about 5'5. Tall. His voice was mellow, but warm. Not rough. Not harsh. Comforting.
He was snapped back into reality when Jack tapped his shoulder. "We all has nicknames. Do you understand?" He asked. Antonio had no clue what a nickname was, but he shrugged and nodded his head. "I's gonna call you Racetrack. Racer. Race. You's fast." He said smirking. Racetrack understood.
"Ok." Race mumbled out. Jack smiled and slapped the younger boys shoulder.
"Hey when's the last time you's eaten? You's as skinny as a twig." Jack said, before cringing. "You probably didn't understand any of that. And if you did, it's was prolly offensive. My bad."
Race stared at him obliviously. He had no idea what the boy was saying, but he nodded his head slowly in agreement. He didn't even know what he was agreeing to.
"Look, we have a boy back at the house."
Jack started, slowly. "Where's you from?"
"Italy."
"Italy. Ok. We's got a boy, Jojo. He'll help you learn some more English. He's good at that." Jack said. Race understood enough.
"Jojo?" He asked in response.
"Yeah, his name is too long for any of our mouths to pronounce. We's call him Jojo. He's 11." Jack said.
"Puh-rah-nounce." Race said.
"Yeahs. Puh-rah-nounce." Jack said, sighing. "Hey tell me something in Italian."
Race inhaled sharply. Before sighing. "Voglio solo andare a casa, ma non lo faccio perché mio padre mi terrorizza."
"Ok cool, you ain't lyin'." Jack spat out. "Oks. We here."
-
Racetrack Higgins was 10 years old when he became a newsie.
The next morning, after he arrived, Jack sent him out. Jojo, the translator, explained everything to him. Jojo wasn't Italian, but had a Spanish descent, which was close enough, according to Jack. Race still flinched whenever someone touched his arms; but Jack still helped treat some of the wounds. "Ok Racer, now you's gonna become a newsie."
Race never forgot those words. Not when he stepped outside his first day, or saw his father walking down the street the 3rd week, and Race had to run back to the lodgings. Not when he was 12 and won his first game of poker. Not when he was 13 and went to the Sheepshead for the first time. Not when he was 14 and became fully fluent in English. Not when he was 15 and made his first trip to Brooklyn. Not when he was 16 and felt his shoulders tense whenever Spot Conlon would arrive, but they didn't tense with fear. Not when he was 17 and the strike occured.
Not when he was 18, and Jack left. And Crutchie was sad. And Race felt lost. Because Jack was his translator. Well, Jojo was his translator. But Jack was his rescue. Who came to help him. Who helped him to find a way.
Who truly helped him become a newsie. A real newsie.
Race doesn't remember the last time he didn't smell like rusty cigars, and freshly printed newspaper.