دانلود کتاب can’t hurt me

In 1981, we discovered a version of hell in an otherwise picturesque neighborhood. Williamsville, a part of Buffalo, New York, boasted some of the most desirable real estate at the time. With its tree-lined, welcoming streets, it was a place where charming homes were inhabited by model citizens. These included doctors, attorneys, steel plant executives, dentists, and professional football players, living alongside their doting spouses and an average of 2.2 children. The cars were new, the roads immaculate, and the opportunities seemed limitless—a true embodiment of the American Dream. Yet, our personal hell was on a corner lot on Paradise Road.
Each weekday morning at 7 a.m., we were a familiar sight in the driveway. My dad, Trunnis Goggins, wasn’t very tall but had the charm and physique of a boxer. His tailored suits complemented his warm, open smile, perfectly embodying the image of a successful businessman on his way to work. My mom, Jackie, seventeen years his junior, was slender and beautiful. My brother and I mirrored the neighborhood kids with our clean-cut look, wearing jeans and pastel Izod shirts, backpacks slung over our shoulders. In our slice of affluent America, driveways served as launch pads for friendly nods and waves as parents and children headed off to their daily routines. The neighbors saw what they wanted to see, never delving too deeply. And that was for the best.
night in the neighborhood. If Paradise Road was like Hell, then living with my father was like living with the Devil himself. The moment our neighbors were out of sight or earshot, his cheerful demeanor turned into a frown. He would start giving orders before heading inside to sleep it off, leaving my brother, Trunnis Jr., and me with tasks unfinished. Our weary mother had to ensure we reached our destination, despite her lack of rest. In 1981, I was in first grade, and I was truly in a fog at school—not because the subjects were difficult yet, but because staying awake was a challenge.
The teacher’s melodic voice was my lullaby, with my arms crossed on the desk serving as a makeshift pillow. Her sharp words—when she caught me daydreaming—were like an unwelcome alarm clock, incessantly ringing. Young children are like endless sponges, absorbing language and ideas swiftly to establish a foundation for lifelong skills such as reading, spelling, and basic math. However, since I worked nights, my mornings were consumed by the struggle to stay awake, making concentration nearly impossible.
1980s, much of East Buffalo, including Masten, was a largely Black working-class neighborhood within the inner city, characterized by its gritty environment. However, it hadn’t fully descended into more severe urban decline at that time. The Bethlehem Steel plant was still operational, making Buffalo one of America’s last significant steel towns. Most men in the city, regardless of race, held stable union jobs with fair wages, which contributed to a thriving business environment in Masten.
it had always been that way. By the age of twenty, he owned a Coca-Cola distribution concession and managed four delivery routes in the Buffalo area. That was impressive earnings for someone so young, but his ambitions went beyond that, with thoughts set firmly on the future. His vision involved four wheels and a pulsating disco funk soundtrack. When a nearby bakery closed its doors, he seized the opportunity, leased the building, and established one of Buffalo’s inaugural roller skating rinks.