I watch all the players taking the field. It is wonderful to see the overwhelming amount of players on one team from around the world: Japan, the Dominican Republic, the United States, Canada, and Venezuela. I cannot help but feel a bit of national pride at this realization. Seeing the international representation on the field reminds me of the ways that Americans, though from many different backgrounds and places, still come together under common ideals. For these reasons and for the whole experience in general,

I hear the crack of a bat, followed by an uproar from the crowd. Everyone is standing, clapping, and cheering. I missed a home run. I find my aisle and ask everyone to excuse me as I slip past them to my seat. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Thank you. Thank you. Sorry,” is all I can say as I inch past each fan. Halfway to my seat I can hear discarded peanut shells crunch beneath my feet, and each step is marked with a pronounced crunch.

Few tastes are as American as hot dogs and soda pop, and they cannot be missed at a ball game. The smell of hot dogs carries through the park, down every aisle, and inside every concourse. They are always as unhealthy as possible, dripping in grease, while the buns are soft and always too small for the dog. The best way to wash down the Ball Park Frank is with a large soda pop, so I order both. Doing my best to balance the cold pop in one hand and the wrapped-up dog in the other, I find the nearest condiments stand to load up my hot dog. A dollop of bright green relish and chopped onions, along with two squirts of the ketchup and mustard complete the dog. As I continue the balancing act between the loaded hot dog and pop back to my seat,

The occasional, “Programs, get your programs, here!” jumps out through the hum to get my attention. I navigate my way through the crowded walkways of the stadium, moving to the right of some people, to the left of others, and I eventually find the section number where my seat is located.

As the sun hits my face and I breathe in the fresh air, I temporarily forget that I am at a sporting event.

They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say. I throwmy weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I amlucky. I am trying to save our lives.

I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogantwonder. They are trying to save their lives

They wanted me to stayquiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We wereIndian children who were expected to be stupid

But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. Hegrows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it willsomehow dull the pain and make him sound more modest about his talents

Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman isbreaking down the door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Becausehe is breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am breaking down the door." Onceagain, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am breaking down the door" In thisway, I learned to read

I still remember the exact moment when I firstunderstood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have thevocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that heldwords. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They hadsome specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. Ibegan to think of everything in terms of paragraphs.

He bought his books bythe pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When hehad extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores andhospital gift shops.

My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose

I was 3 years old, a SpokaneIndian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in easternWashington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usuallymanaged to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class byreservation standards.

I learned to read with a Superman comic book