Motivelessness :: Violence Personal Narrative Papers

Motivelessness The city of Tucson is quite literally surrounded on all sides by exquisitely rugged natural beauty. To the north lie the Santa Catalina mountains, home of Mt. Lemmon and the southernmost ski resort in the continental US. To the east are the Rincons, after which many local Tucson businesses are named. To the west are the Tucson mountains, from which one can on a clear day (clear days abound) see California. To the south are the Santa Ritas and eventually the mysterious Mexican Madres. Some people like the utter suburbanness of the place, or the weather; but, if you ask Tucsonians why they decided to relocate in Tucson of all places from New York or LA or Mexico City, they'll tell you that they love the Tucson sunsets. The quality of Tucson that the sunset epitomizes, attracts hippies and cowboys and big city folk alike to my home town. The sun rises over Salsa Verde to the Rincons and ever so slowly eases down like prickly pear jelly among the Tucson mountains in the late afternoon. I f you make the hike up to Gate's Pass, there's nothing but sunset and desert for a million miles to Hollywood. Either I was talking about the sunset, or it was sunset, because I definitely remember the sun, when I was walking and talking with my hippie friend Adam outside Agua Caliente park three years ago. I also remember that I was wearing baggy green corduroy pants and a black t-shirt with the picture of a South American tree frog perched on it (we were nature-lovers), and that Adam wore a sandlewood beaded necklace. The clothes we were wearing would later become critically important after the six teenagers who attacked us claimed to the police that the attack had been gang-related and retaliatory. I wasn't hurt at all. Frankly, my assault had more the character of a badly choreographed TV rumble than the military precision one finds in big city violent crime. Adam was slightly worse off than I was, probably because his attacker was the older and more emotionally unbalanced leader of the group, Raymond G. Harder, who was armed with what later turned out to be a metal pipe stuck in a wooden door handle. Ultimately, Ray was the only one of the group that Adam and I would send to juvie with the signing of a pen, thanks to the provisions of the Arizona Victims of Violent Crime Act.