 Hi, people. I first read The Outsiders when I was in sixth grade, and I was supposed to write a three-page book report about it, and I ended up writing a 15-page book report about it, and then started sleeping with it under my pillow. And there was no wrong side of the tracks in my city, because the whole city was a piece of shit, and filled with really tough boys who were very scary. So it was great to find this book that's written by a teenage girl, incidentally, that's this really great look at these tough guys that looked a lot like the guys in my neighborhood. These guys are very sensitive, and they even call each other baby and honey. It's kind of queen-y, if you read it in a certain light. But it's great. And I think that the reason I've been thinking a lot rereading it about why it's banned, and I think it's because there's none of the redemption that I think some people want to see. These kids are poor, and they're part of this poor culture where they're greasers, and they're always getting beaten up by the socials. That's the essence of the story. But they're punks, and they don't turn good in the end, they don't become socials. They kind of are proud of it. And so taught me how to be poor, I think. So I'm going to read a part right before the big rumble. So a lot happened at this point. One of the socials got killed, and one of the greasers is in the hospital. And this is all told from the point of view of like pony boy Curtis, who's a really sensitive greaser boy. You like fights, don't you, Soda? I asked suddenly, yeah, sure, he's shrugged. I like fights. How come? I don't know. He looked at me puzzled. It's action. It's a contest, like a drag race or a dance or something. Shoot said, Steve, I want to beat those socials heads in. When I get in a fight, I want to stomp the other guy good. I like it, too. How come you like fights, Derry? I asked, looking up at him as he stood behind me, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He gave me one of those looks that hide what he's thinking. But Soda piped up. He likes to show off his muscles. I'm going to show him off on you, little buddy, if you get any mouthier. See, it's like fag porn. I digested what Soda had said. It was the truth. Derry liked anything that took strength, like weight lifting or playing football or roofing houses, even if he was proud of being smart, too. Derry never said anything about it, but I knew he liked fights. I felt out of things. I'll fight anyone any time, but I don't like to. See, pony boy. With a happy whoop, I did a no hands cartwheel off the porch step, hit the ground, and rolled to my feet. Two bit followed me in a similar manner. They've all got all these really great names. I am a greaser as Soda Pop chanted. I am a JD in a hood. I black in the name of our fair city. I beat up people. I rob gas stations. I am a menace to society. Man, do I have fun. Greaser, greaser, greaser, Steve sing-songed. Oh, victim of environment. Underprivileged, rotten, no-count hood. Juvenile delinquent, you're no good, Derry shouted. Get the hence-white trash, two-bit said, in a snobbish voice. I am a soche. I am the privileged and the well-dressed. I throw beer blasts, dry fancy cars, break windows at fancy parties. And what do you do for fun, I inquired in a serious, odd voice. I jumped greasers, two-bit screamed, and did a cartwheel. We settled down as we walked to the lot. Two-bit was the only one wearing a jacket. He had a couple of cans of beer stuffed in it. He always gets high before a rumble. Hey, two-bit, I said, deciding to complete my survey. How come you like to fight? He looked at me as if I was off my nut. Shoot, everybody fights. If everybody jumped in the Arkansas River, old two-bit would be right on their heels. I had it then. So to fought for fun, Steve for hatred, Derry for pride, and two-bit for conformity. Why do I fight, I thought, and couldn't think of any real good reason? There isn't any real good reason for fighting except self-defense. And I want to read this little part from the end, which is so great. And it's all about the power of writing, especially if you're kind of writing for a marginalized position and using that. So this is when he just found out his best friend died and it was all very unjust and horrible and his best friend Johnny left for the nurses in the hospital, a copy of Gone with the Wind, which is very meaningful between them. And so just read the note that fell out of it. Pony boy, I asked the nurse to give you this book so you could finish it. It was Johnny's handwriting. I went on reading, almost hearing Johnny's quiet voice. The doctor came in a while ago, but I knew anyway. I keep getting tireder and tireder. Listen, I don't mind dying now. It's worth it. It's worth saving those kids. You like jumped in a burning building and saved kids, proving that greasers are heroes. Their lives are worth more than mine. They have more to live for. He was abused by his parents or he was more of a self-loathing greaser. The other ones are pretty proud. Some of their parents came by to thank me and I know it was worth it. Tell Dali it's worth it. Dali was like the hard, hard one. I'm just going to miss you guys. I've been thinking about it in that poem, that guy that wrote it. He meant your gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're a kid, everything's new, dawn. It's just like when you get used to everything that it's day. Like the way you dig sunsets, Pony, that's gold, keep it that way. It's a good way to be. I want you to tell Dali to look at one. He'll probably think you're crazy but ask for me. I don't think he's ever really seen a sunset and don't be so bugged over being a greaser. You still have a lot of time to make yourself be what you want. There's still lots of good in the world. Tell Dali, I don't think he knows. Your buddy Johnny, tell Dali. It was too late to tell Dali. Dali just got shot and killed by the cops. Would he have listened? I doubt it. Suddenly it wasn't only a personal thing to me. I could picture hundreds and hundreds of boys living on the wrong sides of cities. Boys with black eyes who jumped at their own shadows. Hundreds of boys who maybe watched sunsets and looked at stars and ached for something better. I could see boys going down under street lights because they were mean and tough and hated the world. And it was too late to tell them that there was still good in it and they wouldn't believe you if you did. It was too vast a problem to be just a personal thing. There should be some help. Someone should tell them before it was too late. Someone should tell their side of the story and then maybe people would understand it wouldn't be so quick to judge a boy by the amount of hair oil he wore. It was important to me. I picked up the phone book and called my English teacher. Mr. Sim, this is Pony Boy. That theme, how long can it be? Why, not less than five pages. He sounded a little surprised. I'd forgotten it was late at night. Can it be longer? Certainly Pony Boy, as long as you want it. Thanks I said and hung up. I sat down and picked up my pen and thought for a minute, remembering. Remembering a handsome dark boy with a reckless grin and a hot temper. A tough, toe-headed boy with a cigarette in his mouth and a bitter grin on his hard face. Remembering, and this time it didn't hurt, a quiet, defeated-looking 16-year-old whose hair needed cutting badly and who had black eyes with a frightened expression on them. One week had taken all three of them and I decided I could tell people, beginning with my English teacher. I wondered for a long time how to start that theme, how to start writing about something that was important to me. And I finally began like this. When I stepped out of the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind, Paul Newman and a ride home. Thanks.