Category: East Los Angeles

Dog (Part 1)

“Necesito brincar mas alto” I whined to my mother in the Spring of 1991.

Earlier that year my arch nemesis on the basketball court had boasted his plan towards a pair of expensive shoes designed to make one jump higher. His success meant a possible starting spot in the Beverly Junior High School’s starting line. The stakes were high and at over a hundred or so dollars, “The Pump” was the most coveted possession I had ever campaigned for. My mother though was stone faced as usual.

For three weeks I rallied and showcased my best behaviour and at every opportunity I brought up the logical arguments for the shoes.

When I was born, I was diagnosed with “flat feet” and a condition that if not corrected could force my ankle bone out of its proper place (or so I was told). For years, I walked with specially designed kicks that forced the bones to curve and push things back to where they were supposed to belong. The metal balls within the boots would rub at the sock and the skin though and this caused painful blisters that made me wonder at times if a life without feet could really be that terrible! Nonetheless, by the time I began my life at BJHS and discovered basketball, my feet had “normalized.”

Still though, it made scientific sense that the early disability could have robbed me of crucial “air time” and without the corrective technology of the pump within the shoes I may be robbed of a promising basketball career. When the commercials aired on the TV I always ran and dragged her to see. I tried to tell her about Dominique Wilkins and how he had won the NBA’s Slam Dunk contest the previous year and had done so with the aid of high performing shoes. I attempted to explain Junior High School politics and their relation to a high profile spot in the basketball squad.

I pleaded to her sense of economy. More expensive shoes obviously would be more resistant to wear and tear. I made promises that I did not think I could keep. Like how I would wash the family’s van every weekend or that I would help my younger sister’s with math homework that was well beyond my understanding.

In my haste I even attempted an ill advised coup where I tried to play my father against her. Sadly, they saw through my machination and I ended up going to bed without supper for at least two nights.

After all the time, I was no closer to the shoes and at school two other boys had shown up with The Pump and they were noticeably outperforming the rest of us normal boys. Even my arch nemesis seemed troubled.

—

Every Sunday after mass my family made a pilgrimage to the Montebello Town Center. My parents usually would bore us kids at JCPenney for a half hour while they looked at bed sheets they never bought and then we’d wonder into the rest of the mall and window shop to our hearts content.

I typically begged for a few quarters to spend at Tilt (the arcade) and my father would usually grant them when my mother wasn’t looking. Choices were hard  within as I could play four games for a few minutes or all my quarters on something big like After Burner. I typically chose the tamer fare and on the rarest occasion go big and take to the digital skies.

On that day, after listening my father rant about the smut they sold at Hot Topic we walked past Foot Locker and I longingly looked at The Pump that sat on a revolving “crystal” pedestal. Campaigning seemed futile by that point and I figured saving my energy for trying to squeeze a few more quarters from my dad on our second loop around the mall.

Then the unexpected happen. My mother paused, her gaze locked on the shoes and with no hesitation made her way into the store.

Shivers ran down my back like a bolt of electricity and I stood stunned as she motioned to the store clerk to let her see the shoe that sat teasingly on the clear plastic mantle.

She beckoned me into the store and just before she asked the grown 19 year old to bring a pair of shoes my size she lectured me about the importance of taking care of precious things. I nodded, I paid attention, had I had a note pad I would have taken notes. I had an out of body experience and I saw myself walking into the gym the next day and proudly showing off my kangaroo shoes.

Hugo……was about to arrive!

—

I’ve tasted the fruits of celebritydom a few times in life. Like the time I was interviewed on TV after the Prop. 187 walk outs, or when I walked on stage at an International Conference. But for five week days in 1991 I reveled in the awe and admiration of my jealous peers. I wore The Pump proudly around campus and I told a few dozen times the story of my courageous campaigning and how smart and calculated argumentation had won over my uncompromising parent. I gave advice, I explained the technology within the shoe, I even let the pretty girl in home room try on my new pair and pump her way to satisfaction. I was a man on the make.

Basketball practice was a breeze. I had gained a noticeable spring in my step and on a few occasions I had touched the basketball rim with my index finger and figured that with the right Pump adjustments and my steady growth I’d be dunking by the fall. And of course, when my arch nemesis saw my new shoes I listened to his sour grapes argument that Air Jordans VI were the “newest things” and would certainly help the Bulls beat the “Fakers” in the championship. Ha…”what a looser” I thought.

—

Every Sunday after mass my family made a pilgrimage to the Montebello Town Center. We always dressed proper for church and I was not allowed to wear my new shoes for the day. My heart sank to think that I would be walking around the mall with my black Payless dress shoes and not The Pump but it didn’t seem right to push my luck and argue with my parents.

It was a fun day at the mall. My father had given me three dollars to spend at the arcade and I only spent two. I figured having an extra dollar during the week might help buy something nice off the soda machine.

On the way home we stopped at the little carniceria off Gage Avenue and picked up some carnitas, nopales and salsa for afternoon lunch. The day was slightly overcast but still warm.

That day was a good day.

—

The van door opened and in a flash my sisters and I rushed out. The car ride had been long and everyone was in hurry to use the bathroom.

I open the black front metal screen door, then undid the lock for the wooden door behind that. As I stepped into the living room space I noticed a small plastic tube on the ground. It looked like an oversize straw not longer than an inch. The ends were frayed and slick wet.

As I took another step, white pieces of a leather like material were strewn about the brownish vinyl flooring and at the far end of the room Cafeson (our dog) darted towards me.

He was thrilled to see us as always and as his paws made their way onto my chest I noticed a gorgeous half of a white shoelace resting on my parents sofa.

—

It hit hard.

It hit very hard.

Cafeson destroyed The Pump and left me with about a fourth of a pair of shoes.

—

There was no convincing my parents that another pair of tennis shoes like that made sense.

In the weeks to follow my mother bought me a pair from Payless that used lesser The Pump technology.

I never did get the opportunity to dunk the in NBA. To this day, I can still perform a fancy lay up but my dreams of air time are dashed.

—

Thank you Cafeson.

Kiss

About 20 years ago, the afternoons had also started growing longer as sunlight waited more and more before yielding itself to the evening. It was an exciting time at 312 Record Avenue in East Los Angeles as I and other Belvedere Junior High school boys started talking about new relationships with pretty girls.

Typically, this time of year was reserved for Laker championship basketball on T.V. Cheering on Magic Johnson, James Worthy and the rest of the “Showtime” crew in the afternoons and recreating the best moments of the game the next day in the school yard. But in the previous year the Bulls and Jordan beat us in 5 and soon after my hero left the game to “die” (as my parents described it). For me the ball club wasn’t poised to repeat the glories of year’s past.
Luckily in mid-March a cute girl with long eye lashes and green eyes started hanging around the gym at practices and slowly became part of the unofficial after-school basketball club at the school. It was unofficial since the school had no budget for a real program but the administration didn’t mind if Miss Gaughan kept the court open a few extra hours in the afternoon so that kids whose parents worked later hours had a place to play. 
It was in the first week of April that my best friend Sondra first hinted that “green eyes” might be interested in lanky young me. We were hanging out by the bleachers working on homework and dodging the occasional rogue basketball when she asked me with a light Spanish accent “what would you do if you know someone here liked you.”
“I, I don’t know” I said timidly but intrigued “why? do you know if someone does?” 
“I’ve talked to someone who sorta likes you but she’s not sure. She might just want to know what you’d do if you know someone did.”
“I can’t say,” I replied while trying to study Sondra’s gaze for clues “I guess it depends on who it is”.
“Forget it” she said gruffly and before I could say another word she was picking up her well-faded peach school folder, box of pencils and Hello-Kitty back pack. In a minute she was out the door and it would be a couple of days before we would breach the subject again.
Those two days were paranoic torture as I studied several of my casual friends for signs of interest. Becky Jimenez was a possibility. She was studious, like me, and always seemed to favor passing my the ball on a fast break so I could score the easy lay up. We had held hands week’s ago during a drill at practice and I thought that her index finger may brushed my hand a little longer than normal. In hindsight, this may have been a signal and I so stupidly missed it, I thought. But then one afternoon I heard her talking to Miguel, who had a nicer hair cut than I, in such a way that I knew she liked him and he’d be a fool not to like her.
Monica Sullivan intrigued me. She was one of just three African-American kids at our school who found herself at Belvedere when her father’s job forced them to move to a cute home off Gage Avenue and Floral Drive. Her family had cable television and her mother would let us watch as much MTV as we wanted with the exception of Janet Jackson videos. Monica’s mother simply didn’t care to see Michael’s little sister “gyrating” and “humping” men on TV. That challenge was that Monica and I’s relationship revolved around fighting. She thought I didn’t pass the ball to her enough and this angered me since I thought of myself as the “King of the Assist” like my hero Magic. A practice didn’t end without her yelling at me to pass the ball more and me telling her to relax and “get open”.
Then there was Sondra. She was opinionated, tom-boyish and the best free-thrower on our team. She was also very kind. Some afternoons at the local food stand everyone ordered their respective “hamburger special” and ate. I usually sat, watched and let the waft of oil, salt and fried potatoes fill my nostrils. I didn’t get a weekly allowance like some of the other kids, my parents couldn’t afford it, and often it took me weeks to save the $4.75 needed to buy the meal. It was during those weeks that she pretended to be full from a big lunch and asked me if I wanted her spare fries and half eaten burger. I never turned her down.
During those two days I tried to speak with her but she was always too busy. Instead, I found myself talking to “green-eyes”l more and working with her on passing drills. Whenever Sondra and I did talk, it was brief and cold. I had wanted to ask her if it was her who liked me but my mouth always went dry and grew frighteningly quiet. She grew frustrated with me and our conversations turned from sentences, to words, to simple grunts by the end of the 48 hours. 
On the Thursday when the silence broke, we stood outside the gym and stared at the pools of water left over by the late day’s rain. She was blunt and to the point. 
“Desiree likes you” she fired “and she thinks you guys should go out. Do whatever you like.”
With that, she disappeared back back to the doors that led to the gym and I stood there like a rock. In a few minutes, Desiree appeared in the black reflection pool and said hello. We talked, we flirted and by Friday we were “going out.”
—
It was late April now and my first first girlfriend and I had been getting to know each other for a few weeks. Classes couldn’t go by fast enough and my impatience had grown so that Miss Gaughan had pulled me to the side and given me the first warning I had ever received in Junior high. I looked forward to the late afternoons when Desiree and I would spend the hours holding hands, lazily working on basketball drills together and talking about missing each other that evening. 
We were also the talk of the unofficial club. It was my last year at Belvedere and Desiree was one year behind in the 8th. Would we wait for one another at Garfield? Would she even go to Garfield High School? She lived off Evergreen Avenue and Folsom St. which was clearly Roosevelt High territory. What would that mean to our club if we were on opposite sides? We were the “Romeo and Juliet” of the week (we had just learned about Shakespeare in February).
But by late April that “uproar” had subsided and a new one had begun. “You haven’t kissed her?” my best guy friend Manuel blurted. “It’s been forever and she’s telling everyone that you haven’t asked her to kiss you. Are you afraid?.”
“No! I’m not. It’s just that I….my mom….I’m just not ready and it has to be right.” I retorted.
“Hugo” in a Spanish accent “everyone is talking about you guys and that you haven’t kissed. You need to” he emphatically continued ” do something because it’s been too long for you guys!”
“Thanks Manny” I said “I’ll try.”
“Whatever” he blurted “but don’t do anything stupid because I’ll fuck you up. She’s like my sister.”
Suddenly I took stock of his frame. Even for our age he stood tall at almost 5’10. He was big and fast and I was glad that he was on my side.
On that very late day in April, Desiree and I decided to walk home. Our parent’s had been late to pick us up (they both worked on the West side of Los Angeles) and Miss Gaughan couldn’t keep the gym open longer. 
The walk was long but fun as we walked up Brooklyn Boulevard and caught up on the day’s gossip. Then as we turned north on Gage and I caught a glimpse of the brand new Payless Shoe Source store and the talk grew serious to the “state of our relationship.”
We spoke for a mile or two about liking one another but that things were unlikely to continue past my graduation day. We went from joking to sad, sad to joking as we hiked up the long street.
She complained about my style. She didn’t like my hair and described it as “too tall” and my everyday pant/shirt combination was “wack.” During her monologue I impatiently stared at her Air Jordan sneakers which cost dozens of “hamburger specials” and felt my backpack grow heavier and heavier.
Then we turned east onto Blanchard Street and I carped about her family choosing to live in Roosevelt territory and hoping that she’d find a way to make it to Garfield High where I was destined to arrive in the Fall. She snorted, I sighed angrily and for the next few hundred steps we walked on quietly.
Then…at the corner of Rowan Avenue I grasped her hand and told her to stop. I had grown tired of the dance and the gossip. My reaction shocked her but she instinctively paused and waited.
At that moment, I took stock of Desiree. Understood the softness of her chipmunk cheeks and gazed knowingly at her green eyes with one thing in mind. I noticed the fine minute blonde hairs at her nose standing and the wetness at her supple thick lips gaping towards me. Took in the smell of her sweat mixed with mine as we approached each other’s lips with awkward instinct.
Finally we touched and electricity flowed through awkward tongues. Time stood still and all the jazz……
—
Then….my ear caught a familiar wail in the distance that instantly broke the intimacy.  It was the panicky shriek that my mother let out whenever she thought danger lurked and it rattled me. As I opened my eyes and saw Desiree’s pupils a sickness started to build in the pit of my stomach. Turning in the direction of my mother’s voice I caught the first glimpse of our brown Isuzu speeding towards us and my mother’s glare zeroed in on my eyes. 
Desiree sighed and said “You have to go.” I turned to her and nodded. At that point I was unaware that this would be our one and only kiss since we would both decide to stop “going out” a week later after not finding another opportunity to try it again. 
As I said a final good-bye and headed to the already open car door I caught the vista from the East Los Angeles hills for a moment. Downtown was prominent in the the distance as always but it was the half dozen scattered puffs of unfamiliar black smoke that intrigued me. “Were those multiple fires?” I thought.
Once in the car my mother’s rant was worryingly loud. “Don’t you know there’s fighting in the streets?” she scolded as we dashed home on the afternoon of April 29, 1992. 

Oh Christmas Tree

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.