The skies were cloudy when the last bell of the year rang at Malabar Elementary and we were released to our parents for the holiday break. I had lost my jacket a few weeks earlier and my thin gray sweater was too thin to keep the Southern California winter breeze from jarring me when I stepped out of the school’s main building.
The fourth grade was turning out to be challenging and confusing. I had started the school year knowing little-to-no English and I was just now slowly starting to find my way around the new language and the friends that it game me access to. I said my good-byes to a few key people and made my way to my mother who awaited with my two little sisters at the corner of Fresno Street.
Her year had been interesting too. She had moved our family from Mexico City to the U.S. to meet my father who had made his way here to make a new life for us. Seemingly timid and always proper, she struggled to acclimate to the new language, currency, my father’s work hours and a culture that she considered lost. Nonetheless, her family had to be whole and she left her homeland and made East Los Angeles her new residence.
My father worked security at the local hot spot and market. His job entailed catching thieves that picked the pockets of tourists, solving disputes between the vendors and breaking up fights between sweaty drunks who had enjoyed too much tequila at the upstairs bars. He worked around the clock enjoying the physical aspects of the job. Taking pride in the baton he wore, the badge at his chest, the occasional use of his fists and the women who frequented his office. Silvio was the head of security 12 to 16 hours a day and despite his efforts his pay was just enough to cover the basic needs at home.
That day at lunch, Santa Claus (the school’s vice-principal) had visited our class and dropped off presents. I was one of the lucky ones who picked a red remote control race car from his satchel. The boys in class sighed heavily when I tore the blue wrapping paper apart and drew from it the shinny box that held my prize. They flipped over the large rugged tires on the box’s picture and most congratulated my luck. Then, above my shoulder, a boy named Freddy said, “the good gifts always go to the poor wet-backs, he doesn’t even have a Christmas tree.” The room stood quiet for a moment and then the silence was broken by a tepid round of snickering once they realized our teacher hadn’t heard. I didn’t know what a wet-back was but I knew the word poor and I knew that it wasn’t good.
I ran to the corner of Fresno and Malabar and reached my mother holding my prize. I could hardly contain myself and she had to shush me a handful of times before I could begin to detail the day’s events. We walked the mile back home hurriedly and the cold breeze was sharp and hurtful at the ears. Then on Blanchard street I asked her if we were poor.
She stopped and reached for my shoulder so that we stood squarely to each other. She asked me why I asked and I told her what Freddy had said. She looked up and then seemed to search the streets for something. When she found it she stretched out her arm and asked me to retrieve it.
On the opposite side of the street, a small branch from a fir rested. Perhaps it could have fallen from someone transporting a tree home for the holidays. It was no more than a foot tall and some of the needles towards the wider end were starting to turn brown. I picked it from the ground, joined my family and finished our walk home.
After supper was over, my mother asked us to turn off the TV set at the kitchen table which rested against a wall. The house still had the scent of fried rice, re-fried beans and tortillas. The windows wore the steam from the boiling coffee pot and help turn the light in the room warm. From the bedroom, my mother produced about a half dozen of magazines. Inside them, she said in Spanish, are “pictures of snow globes, tree decorations and presents”. “Cut out as many as you can and make a pile.” My sisters and I worked for 30 to 40 minutes. We fought, laughed, took breaks and finally finished with a healthy mountain of cut outs. When we thought it was enough we called my mother into the room.
She came in with the branch and some clear tape. After a minute of scanning the room she asked me to unplug the television and remove it from the table. She had found the spot.
With great care she taped the branch on the wall and laid a white bed sheet on the table. She created peaks and valleys by putting two soup cans under the sheet. Then her hand took one of our cuttings and showed us carefully how to tape them to the wall and decorate our tree.
My sisters and I took the next few minutes feverishly attaching cut outs to the wall. We put up pictures of ornaments big and small. Pictures of Santa, Jesus, snow globes, shiny lights, tinsel and finally presents.
When we were done, she asked us to take a step back and brought us close together.
She then said.
“We are not poor. We have each other. This year we won’t have presents but I promise you that next year we will. Your dad and I will do what we can to make every picture of a present taped to the wall come true.”
A tear had rolled down her cheek by the time she finished her last sentence and I felt guilty for bringing up the word “poor” and winning the car. She hugged us and told us to get to bed.
Just before I did, I caught her cutting a picture of a star from a JC Penny catalog and taping it to wall a top our Christmas tree.
