Category: East Los Angeles

The Don Quixote Episode

Just recently I entered into an on line conversation about a contemporary issue with a complete stranger. I did this on my own volition. 
I championed ethics, precedent, and a need for civility in how we dialog as a society. The stranger I willingly approached proceeded to visit my profile make inference about my person from some quickly gathered facts. He was even charitable enough to give me a “pass” because of the neighborhood I grew up in and where I attended High School. Education is drastically lacking in East Los Angeles in his estimate. I found all this mildly ironic and decided to exercise my Troll-Policy and cease to engage the person. 
What dawned on me is the lack of discipline to argue arguments on their merit. It also emboldened me with quixotic sense of purpose to not devolve to personal attacks when I engage others. It is a personal policy…feel free to disagree.

Dad Aid

So there I was this morning trying hard to ignore the unusual cacophony coming from other rooms in my house and trying to stay on schedule. Just as I was drafting one of a series of important emails to a client and was thinking of the words I’d say to the next one I heard the cautious footsteps of my youngest approaching my desk. 
She then preceded to tell me that her brother had cut himself in the leg. I braced for what was next. Sure enough when I found him in a ballerina pose there we blood at midway up his tibia in two distinct places and I winced. 
My job as a dad though is to clean, treat, scold and hug. I did all those and as I placed the last Band Aid on the kid and asked them to be more careful I had a flashback of me as a boy with a gash on my leg after some street-football on Eastman Ave in East LA.

Cholo

Most each and every morning and even sometimes at midday my mama would perform an audit. Her threshold was clear…thou shall not wear clothing or style one’s hair in such a manner as to connote a resemblance to a “Cholo” for me or a “Chola” for my sisters. This meant that pants were to actually fit at the waist and underwears were meant to be kept under and never seem. Hair was to be cut by her and it mirrored my papa’s distinguished (old fashioned) look. No wild designs on clothes, no flashy brands. 
It is a testament then that in spite of all this I still had an unauthorized girlfriend in High School though mama Torres sure had plenty to say about that!

Mario Carp

If I close my eyes, listen and recall I’d be transported to my parents house on Eastman Ave. 
From the front room the sounds of Mario climbing down a Green pipe to Watery depths would be annoying my dad and in second he’d be carping at me to turn it down. 
Now I open my peepers and have to walk over to my boy who is challenging himself on the Nintendo and has the volume up a bit too high.

Oil Change

Every six to 8 months (give or take three) my dad would beckon me to the drive way.
It was time to change the oil on the old Ford Econoline Van. He was proud to have me on the ground worming my way into position and using man tools to coax bolts aside while grease caked my hands. His happiness was my dread in that I loathed having to grab an old piece of cardboard, placing it on the ground where the dust and dirt would eventually invade my nostrils.
Then there was the contortions my hands had to make in order to find the position which would finally yield torque on the bolts. The heat in East LA was ever present and I could feel how it made me sweat about my eyes. Sometimes, a mixture of Aqua Net & sweat would enter my eye sockets and then they would sting.
Finally there were his barks and orders… always complaining about my overall bad attitude. Then finally I’d release the bolt and black fluid would pour out for a few minutes onto a tray. While that happened I could just lie in my place and close my eyes thinking of the other places I’d rather be. Soon thereafter the job was done and I had to tend to other chores.

Thank goodness I wouldn’t be back under that car for 6 to 8 months (give or take three).

Give me a Break

My dad and I got on the 60 Freeway going east at about 5:00 pm one day. I was 16 and it was a driving lesson. Back then our family had an old Ford Econoline van and I was in charge of it’s 5,000 pounds. Traffic was light as I got on the road and I was having fun feeling the van taking speed as I pressed on the accelerator. I kept on looking down at the Speedometer, proudly conscious the effect of my pressing foot and how it then moved the needle. I was so mesmerized that I didn’t really see the red lights in front of me and the traffic that had begun to stall. Right under the 710 freeway my father yelled at me to stop and by luck I found the Brake. The van’s wheels screeched and I felt my dad’s hands at my chest. When we were stopped he looked at me for a while and then we had to move on. I didn’t drive again for a while and I can’t say I blame him.

True Hugo

At Belvedere Junior High circa 1991 a bunch of boys and I would have clandestine meetings on the south eastern part of campus. There at about lunch time we’d partake in some shady business with a woman who came up Michigan Ave every school day to meet us. There, while the look outs kept watch you could buy a fully loaded Torta for a couple of bucks (50

The Frill of Air Conditioning

My mother believed that cool air in the car is a luxury to be used sparingly even on hot East LA summer days. So wind swept hair that my kids consider a novelty is for me a reminder of sweaty backs, fried nerves and too little back seat space during scalding afternoon drives in our brown Izusu I-Mark.

Dirty Dancing

By 11:30 am that morning my mother and I were arguing. The wedding of her daughter’s friend was later that Saturday afternoon and as of yet I had not given her a definite answer on whether I would be attending with the family or not.

My mother of course attributed my vacillation to the “new” girl I was dating.

“Que no la ves todos los dias en el collegio” her voice trailed off as I made my way out our home’s front door. Her pleads fell on near deaf ear as I headed to meet my date for a day’s outing.

I can’t tell you what we did. Perhaps we visited Griffith Park. Or maybe we trekked it out to the Will Rogers State beach as we usually did (site of our first date). Maybe we just drove around Los Angeles a while and wasted a careless Saturday as we often did back then. Those were the days of a gallon of gas at $1.40 and we had the week’s earnings and much more to spare.

In any event, we returned back to my parent’s home by about 3 pm and gladly found the home empty. A golden opportunity by all stretch of the imagination (to me anyway).

It wasn’t all tawdry (well I choose to believe it wasn’t and she’d certainly wouldn’t want me to go any further). I do recall though that after enjoying ourselves and more I turned on the television. Then I plopped down on my bed and snacked, told jokes and hoped that perfect days like these would continue on forever after. (Spoiler Alert: They have not)

As we rested and laughed the television set flickered the ominous “Breaking News” graphic and Channel 7 News anchor grimly reported on the terrible news of that August 31, 1997.

The news was sobering. A young, spirited and beloved young woman was dead and in an instant the spell of youth was broken and the realization that people (even the most revered) died unexpectedly hit us both like the heaviest of hammers. It made me think of she who I had just made love too. Lovely, flawless, soft, white and vulnerable (just like I was…except I am brown skinned).

It was difficult to laugh and smile as the news looped the only available video over and over. Uninformed of speculation began in an instant and so did the tributes of a figure head who I hardly knew of but who’s untimely death resonated somehow.

The day’s spell was broken!

I had hesitated introducing the young woman I was falling in love with (or was I?) to my family because I considered her too foreign for them to understand. They had chosen other women for me in their mind and I knew she did not fit her description. Nonetheless, the incoming news rallied my spirits and gave me the impetus to ask her for a date to a wedding as only East Los Angeles can coordinate. Today was the day for Nicole to meet my family and I would do it proudly on a public stage.

Convincing her though was not easy. Simply because I had mustered up courage to introduce her didn’t mean that she wanted to attend a celebration that she wasn’t suitably dressed for or that she wanted to meet a culture that I had not previously described kindly.

But my Nicole is tough and she had my assurances and in little time we made ourselves ready and headed to the back yard wedding reception in your typical East Los Angeles neighborhood (consult to Born in East L.A. for a visual. By the way…BIESLA is a classic film starring notable 70s icon Cheech Marin…my parents quoted it for years).

When Nicole and I arrived I felt the weight of several dozen eyes upon us. Her hard squeeze of my arm indicated to me that she felt the same weight in triplicate and I quickly recoiled and cursed my previous “carpe diem” attitude. Commitment and being committed though are strong forces so together we chose to make our way past chain-link fence and down the concrete driveway. A path that was chock full of brown faces. Wrinkly brown faces, judgy brown faces, scowling brown faces, indifferent brown faces, unknowing brown faces, caught-by-surprise brown faces, too-young-to-know brown faces, encouraging brown faces, drunk brown faces, leery brown faces, why-are-we-here-a-princess-just-died brown faces and then FINALLY my parent’s brown faces.

The introduction was awkward. The cacophony of my people’s wonderful syncopated yet loud music drowned out her attempts to say hello and all they sat shocked and glancing at me for direction or guidance.

I did not have any!

Music was bountiful though, I had a gorgeous young woman by my side and my basic instinct required us to dance. We chose then to get lost among the sea of couples occupying the dance drive-way and evade the awkwardness of an unwelcome and unpleasant meeting. A get-together that I had haphazardly conjured up and  seriously regretted.

Nicole and I entered a gauntlet. Within a few minutes of dance she found herself accosted by the occasional harsh bump at the hips (not by moi)  or the elbow to the mid-section by the ladies on the dance floor. Salsa is a finesse dance but she found herself to be in an uncomfortable mosh pit jockeying for a little room. In her face I saw dread and somehow she continued on. Her body language told me that she belonged there and that no one would force her off an uncomfortable dance floor. It was me who broke and not soon after entering the space we left and bid my family adieu.

The day taught us much. It taught me much! I loved this woman. For her strength of character, for her youth, for her fighting spirit.

It taught me that I wanted to protect her. That I should not put her in peril if I could help it.

Soon after I pronounced my love for Nicole. It wasn’t as romantic as I would have planned. I panicked and said it in the worst of states (we had our first fight over it) but I meant it. I had loved her months earlier, maybe even the first time I met her.

Nicole and I have danced many a times after that date. I hope to dance many dances more in the years come.

I am glad to report though that the English have not yet reported another watershed in our history and I sincerely hope the they never do.

Pip pip cheerio amigos!