Bacon Tastes Good

Vincent: Want some bacon?
Jules: No man, I don’t eat pork.
Vincent: Are you Jewish?
Jules: Nah, I ain’t Jewish, I just don’t dig on swine, that’s all.
Vincent: Why not?
Jules: Pigs are filthy animals. I don’t eat filthy animals.
Vincent: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood.
Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I’d never know ’cause I wouldn’t eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That’s a filthy animal. I ain’t eat nothin’ that ain’t got sense enough to disregard its own feces.
Vincent: How about a dog? Dogs eats its own feces.
Jules: I don’t eat dog either.
Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal?
Jules: I wouldn’t go so far as to call a dog filthy but they’re definitely dirty. But, a dog’s got personality. Personality goes a long way.
Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, he would cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true?
Jules: Well we’d have to be talkin’ about one charming motherfuckin’ pig. I mean he’d have to be ten times more charmin’ than that Arnold on Green Acres, you know what I’m sayin’?

Hallelujah

I lost faith at an early age.

It could have been at the church on Fresno Street during one of the endless Padre Martin sermons.

Or the sense of helplessness and loneliness when I was robbed on my street.

Perhaps it was the feeling of intolerance towards people like me in the summer of 1994 when the Californians sought to Save Our State.

Maybe it was the overdosed man who the paramedics carried out dead from the laundromat bathroom off Brooklyn Avenue while my mother and I looked on. It was during the rinsing cycle I think.

It would make sense that it was the sum of all things that added to my questioning and ultimate loss.

In any event, I lost faith at an early age.

Sandy Hook

I am turning the television and the internet off for a while. 
Not because I want to put my head in the sand or ignore the debate to come. I want to have some hours to reflect, mourn for young people who are gone to soon, and cherish the angels who are fast asleep just a few feet away. 
Good night to you and your families. My condolences to all those who are in agony this evening.

Eye Contact

It had been a tiring two months and at times it seemed as if every third day or so we’d made the drive to the hospital on unassuming Beverly Boulevard in Montebello and rush up to the floor where my father laid in bed after his very last episode at home.

Every time the phone rang during those weeks a rush of sensations would shoot like a bolt of lighting down my back. Why my mother’s number appeared on the tiny grayish screen of my phone I always wondered for half a second if it had finally happened. After the first four or five calls and hurried trips the calls started to become a nuisance and took a back seat to a few other pressing matters before me.

The holidays were now soon just before us. My wife and I were expecting our first child. The economy was quickly beginning to show the signs of a radical change. Things were moving in all sorts of different directions and now my father’s possible demise was becoming just “another issue to deal with”.

Our near identical temperament had kept us away for many years. Soon after my 15th birthday my father and I had quietly come to the understanding that we were not mean to be friends. At least, not for a long while. He had many demons. The alcohol, the rabid temper, his need for women other than my mother. I felt short of his ideal for a son. I was too sensitive, meek to the world and shied away from verbal or physical confrontations.

Things did not get better as I aged. My college years expanded my range of questions and I felt his frustration when he had to admit a lack of answers. He was an intelligent man who had not been well educated. He was proud of his son’s achievements but was troubled to see him pulling away. Fights and threats were frequent. I think I felt his fists on my chin, shoulders and ribs more during those times.

Then I met someone special. Someone different than the usual young ladies they had learned about throughout my first eight quarters of college. The woman I met was spirited, rational, traveled and no-nonsense. She sparked the idea of a life outside of our university and the real life tools we’d need to begin it. My time with her was magical but as we became closer life at home deteriorated at a quicker pace.

By the time the decision was made to move in together, my father and I hardly spoke. On the day I left for home and just before he closed the door behind me I heard his sendoff. “Good look to you and your whore. You are never welcomed here again.”

I made a life with Nicole. We continued to date, we struggled together, we built careers, we almost broke apart, we figured it out, we bought our first home, we planned our wedding and eventually announced that we had created a new life. The process took years of course and in that time, while my life progressed in leaps and bounds, the relationship with my father only moved in the smallest of positive increments.

It was with this history that my father and I met on that cloudy December day. The night before, I was informed by the nursing staff, he had lost the ability to speak and his weakness prevented movement. The man was trapped within his own body. My sisters and mother waited in the hall. They were exhausted, eyes red, shoulders slumped, clothes rumpled. They were also at odds with one another. Two thought he should continue fighting while one ambivalently argued that he needed to go and end the suffering.

I was briefed with options as his next of kin and the only person legally capable of deciding.

His hospital room was surprisingly well lit. He was laying on the bed nearly flat, a white thin blanket shrouded his body and his legs were apart some. It was in this moment that I came to understand how much his body had wasted away. The hulk of a man I had known as a child had imploded to skin and bones. The heavy hands with thick sausage-like fingers that had struck or held me as a baby were thin, veiny and lacked human warmth.

Then I came upon his face. His hearty cheeks were gone. Lips dry, cracked and had lost the full redness I remember my mother boasting about when I was younger. Interestingly, his hair was full and thick. It had grown fast since I had seen him last and it’s waviness caught me by surprise. I had an urge to touch it and I did. Stroking his mane back and remembering when he’d come home late and run his warm fingers through my hair as he muttered “buenas noches Hugo.”

It was in mid-stroke that his eyes opened and we made eye contact. It took half-a-second for him to focus and recognize me. I believe he did because I felt his gaze “leap” when I think he finally saw me. It seemed a long time passed before I spoke to him. It wasn’t a poignant speech and I don’t care to remember what was actually said. I do remember telling him that I wish I had made him proud. That the grandchild to come would be a boy. That I had made a decision and that I wished him the best. After that, he blinked twice and I saw his chest take in as much air as he could muster and then deflate quickly.

I stepped out of the room, signed awaiting paperwork and took a short walk.

When I returned, his body was cold. My father was gone.

Donner Lake

In early September 2001 we went camping in Northern California.

We were carefree and the world we lived in was a relatively simple place.

For a week or so we camped, hiked, took photos enjoyed the water and each other.

Then we packed our truck and came home.

On the day of our return….the world changed. For us, for everyone!

Pictures taken from 9/07 to 9/10/2001

The Littlest Details

I think one of the greatest gifts we have ever given you children is your imperfections.

Without them you’d be unable to know and understand what struggle is and that you’ll need to overcome challenges to succeed despite them.

Had it been up to me you’d be perfect. But that’s an impossibility I need to understand.

So now I must triumph over how I can turn these little details into lessons that’ll make you stronger.

Good Books

7:38 am – Corner of N Beverly Dr and Elevado Ave, Beverly Hills, Ca

I stepped on the carefully manicured lush green grass and made my way quietly to the front door of the home with the pleasant white door. In surprise, I jumped back one step as a the wooden frame slowly swung open and a pretty blonde girl wearing Bart Simpson jammies appeared and confidently greeted me.

Before I reached the steps to her porch she jumped down and met me at the brick steps. She said….”gracias” and “tenga un buen dia tu” as she grasped the good book and rushed up the stairs to the house and shut the lock..

As I started to make my way away from the scene I caught a glimpse of her in the window upstairs in what I  assumed to be her bedroom before she disappeared from my history. Then as I snapped my way back onto the street, I caught the face of the leathery man taking stock of my process. He wasn’t happy…and I knew then that this was going to be a long day.

May 23, 1992 – 5:ish pm

The leathery man picked up 3500 or so copies of the good book from a contact he made. The weight of it lowers the back half of his beat-up and heavily taxed 1990ish white Ford Econoline back suspension. He takes stock and after a few minutes he deciphers that the risk is worth taking. In a few, he’s off and as he drives past the bright lights of the city of downtown Los Angeles on his way home he ponders the day immediately ahead.

May 24, 1992 – 5:45 am

My father rustled me from a troubled sleep in an uncommonly early hour. I was used to 7 am waking hours and 5ish on a Sunday was just uncalled for. Nonetheless, I felt his sense of urgency and I knew from past experience that it was not idea to cross him. In minutes I was dressed in my simple pair of blue denim jeans and faded white t-shirt. On my feet I snapped my Payless Shoe Source “Nikes” and as I made my way outside of my house on Eastman Avenue I had the audacity to ask “donde vamos.” Needless to say my question was greeted with quiet indignation and soon into the drive I found myself asleep.

California nearing summer wakes up in a splendor. It’s the upside of living on the west coast where surf and sand groggily wake up each day to the warming light of the sun. It was in this early splendor that I found myself awaking and then found that my father had let the cool breeze waft onto the back of the van and eventually into my nostrils. The ocean air near the Pacific eventually dissipates into another awkward form as it settles into the Los Angeles valley but at the coast it is pure and inspiring. It’s a smell more intoxicating than coffee.

“Hugo, Hugo…hey…apurate” my father shouted at me and soon the olfactory Nirvana ended and I came back to the world of our beaten up van with the old leak.

He explained….(in Espanol  which I shall translate and paraphrase)

Okay, today we got to deliver these phone books to all the houses in this neighborhood son. Every single one of these books has to get to each house. So today I’ll grab a few and you grab a few and we’ll walk up and down each side of the street to deliver them. I hope to be done by 4 but we’ll see. The faster we go the faster we go ok? Ok….let’s go.

The news hit like a brick in the pit of my stomach. I glanced down the long street ahead and noticed that for the first time that I was in an alien world. A place where cars bore brands foreign from the Fords, Chevys and Toyotas I knew. The lawns where all green and none hosted cars boasting rust. Spinning sprinklers didn’t seem to exist but carefully timed and coordinated water shows akin to Disneyland.

May 24, 1992 – 2:38 pm

Late lunch had taken about 30 minutes and as we started to work on our last 60 books or so my temper was flaring. I cursed each and every embarrassing step up another driveway. I cursed my father for the stupid and pointless Odyssey. I hated people’s looks as I came up their way and dropped the book on their steps. I attempted to gauge whether they feared, pitied or found me amusing. More than anything, I disliked when some of the people didn’t even acknowledge me. As if I was a phantom entity or service. Like water that flows effortless from the tap or cool air that chills a desert home in the summer time.

It was in that internal rant that I stepped onto the grayish home on Doheny Road. As I approached the door an olive skinned older woman greeted me and said hello. Sheepishly I replied back and in 10 seconds time I found myself embroiled in a rudimentary conversation.

She asked me “how is your day going?” I said “Fine thank you mam”.

Her: “Oh no (giggling) don’t call me mam. That’s for old ladies. You don’t think I’m old right?”
Me: “No, no I’m sorry I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
Her: “It’s okay, seems like you’ve been working hard.”
Me: “Yes, thank you, but we’re almost done for the day.”
Her: “We? Oh how many of you are you?”
Me: “Just my dad and me….”

Then from afar my dad shouted at me and told me to get back to work….

Me: “Sorry but I have to go.”
Her: “Seems like it….well have a good night”.

With that she took her right pointing finger and stroked the side of my cheek and as I left I felt a familiar electric twinge hit my lower back.

An hour or so later we were done (with about a dozen books still in the back of my father’s truck). As we crossed the lights of downtown Los Angeles my father and I hardly spoke.

When we arrived home and after I tossed the last few phone books unto our trash bin my father quietly thanked me for my hard word. In a scuff I say “de nada” and retreated to my bedroom. We never delivered books again.

July 25, 1992

We were in our living room watching the opening ceremony of the Olympic games in Barcelona. My sisters and I gathered around the television set in excitement and that year was special for me as my hero Magic Johnson and the Dream Team would play for the gold.

Just before the ceremony started my father presented me with a brand new and gorgeous Starter Laker jacket. For me, it was literally “Christmas in July.”

As my parents excused themselves to the kitchen to fight, I wore my jacket proudly through the parade of nations. I had never been happier in life….

But from the a distance I heard my mother shouting about the $100+ jacket and how “we could possibly afford it.”

Then I heard my father approach her and as mutely as he could he said in Espanol….”don’t worry, he earned it even though he may never know how.”

Cough & Worry

I look north out my window and see the dark blue silhouette of the mountains in the near horizon. The first thin hint of daylight is coming to their slope and as it does it will begin to paint them in greens and scattered earthy browns. The ebb of flow of light coming and going has gone on for eons and it’s pace is slow. Too slow.

At 5:09 in the morning I find myself looking out the window and hoping the light would just come quicker. This night has been long.

I’ve been a parent for about 7 years now and I still haven’t grown accustomed to dealing with the worry of my children’s illnesses. Every struggling breath or creeping notch higher on the thermometer is agonizing.

The second guessing comes at what I call the “judgement hour.” It’s that time of the night when it has deeply overtaken the day and its heavy black cloak has thoroughly unfurled. At this hour the majority of human activity has slowed to a crawl and a family finds itself on its own and with very little options.

I try not to wake them as I check their struggling bodies. Under the light of my cell phone I look at the quickness of their heaving chest, gauge the color of their lips, listen for his struggled-wheezing breadths or touch their forehead/arms while I crudely measure temperature.

I pace some more. I second guess and worry further.

“Should we go to Urgent Care now?” “NO, You’re overreacting.” “Why didn’t we go when he started to cough?” “You can’t go for every small cough” “Is his breathing normal?” “Did we breastfeed long enough?” “Shit, I shouldn’t have told him to play outside so long.” “How long until day light?

Then I check on them again and the pattern repeats.

It’s 5:31 now. I don’t see green on the mountains but the night is now loosing it’s control to the daylight and the drape of darkness is being removed.

It’s an hour and a half until the local medical facility opens and I can take my child for attention. That’s a long time from now.

I should probably go check in on him….