Manhattan subway platform, 103rd and Broadway. Two-thirty on a Thursday afternoon. I see a Latino father and his boy, the kid couldn’t be more than eleven years old. “Manuel,” I hear the man say to his son –his English carries a heavy Puerto Rican accent- “take these, get us a paper.” And he hands the kid three quarters. The news-stand’s in the middle of the platform. Kid crosses over, looks down, sees the array of newspapers laid out at his feet. But he doesn’t want El Diario, he wants the paper that speaks English. My immediate thought, observing this, was: Dad wants his boy to assimilate, to speak the language of the new country. The kid is pondering it. He’s got seventy-five cents. That’ll buy The Post -and The News is a quarter cheaper. If he bought the News, he could bring one of those quarters back to his father. So which one? The Post has a headline about Mayor Bloomberg and a possible fare hike.  The news has some gossip about Lindsay Lohan and her DUI arrest. Both papers scream Tabloid, Wuxtry, getcher Schlock Tabloid right here, only fifty cents. Watching this kid’s indecision as he hesitates over the choice, I feel something move me. Here’s a young mind, a blank canvas ready to receive impressions. What he learns now, at eleven, will color his whole life. Impulsively, I reach in my pocket, drag out a couple of singles, hand the dealer two-fifty. I pick up the New York Times. “Manuel,” I say to him, commandingly. Kid looks at me, wide-eyed, wary: I thrust the paper at him: “This is The Times, Manuel,” I tell him, “it’s the best paper in the country, maybe in the world. I’m giving it to you. But I won’t be here tomorrow, so it’s up to you to stick with this, all right? Every day. You won’t go wrong. Make it a habit, Okay?” The kid, astonished, takes the paper and runs back to his father. And the train comes and I get on a different car so they won’t see me crying.