South El Monte Confidential

The memories are from a distant past... a lifetime ago, circa 1961-62. 

Mom and Dad divorced when I was around 5 years old, and Mom got custody of younger brother Chuck and me for a while before we went to live with other relatives. 

The memories of those early days living with Mom in our tiny South El Monte duplex have always been apparitions... screenshots... disjointed 8mm snippets that float in the cranial ether.

But they are memories that have stayed with me to this day.

Marybeth Avenue

We lived in a one-bedroom flat, the third small unit at the end of the long driveway behind the main house. Chuck and I shared the bedroom and a bunk bed (me on the top bunk), with Mom sleeping on a fold-out sofa bed in the tiny living room. I remember the place always being kind of dark and barely lit, maybe because we were usually only there from early evening until early morning.

Marybeth Avenue dead-ended at a corrugated metal fence that bordered The Starlight Drive-In Theater. I remember being a small kid on a bike, sitting with some other kids on bikes in the early evening watching the movie screen that towered over the fence, the sound from hundreds of pole-mounted metal speakers echoing in the distance. 

There was an older kid that lived across the street who I called Boss, and we rode our bikes up and down the street together a lot. One day we found a large Black Widow in a web on the side of the duplex's garage, so Boss got some matches and (on his recommendation) I grabbed a can of Mom's Aqua Net hairspray from the bathroom. Boss lit and held the match, I pointed the can at the spider and pressed the spray head and WHOOSH a huge hairspray flame shot out and torched the spider, reducing it to a crispy bit.

It was awesome, and I don't recall any injuries. Mom came out and yelled at us and Boss ran home and I was dragged away from the carnage.

One night I rolled off the top bunk and crashed onto the floor, knocking my head on the bed frame and making a huge racket in the process. Mom raced in to see what happened and I remember her being naked, something I'd never seen before. She brought me into the kitchen to put some ice on my head and I noticed a guy in Mom's bed, watching us. "Don't worry, honey", Mom said... "It's only Uncle Dophy." I didn't think anything about it because I was still half-asleep... but I never forgot the initial shock of seeing Mom naked.

Is that weird?

The Laundry Room

I was in First Grade and Chuck was still a toddler, so Mom needed someone to babysit Chuck during the days and a place for me stay before and after school. That turned out to be a house down at the end of the street that we knew as 'Aunt Rosie's house'. I never knew if we were actually related.

Rosie had three kids, and they didn't like having other kids in their house and made sure we knew it. I was always getting in fights with the oldest kid named Glenn (maybe 9 years old) and his younger sister.  In fact, one fight ended with Glen biting my upper right arm so hard he bit off a chunk of skin and I bled all over the place, with me jumping around and yelling "HE BIT MY MEAT... HE BIT MY MEAT!!!!"

I survived.

Mom's job in downtown Los Angeles required long daily bus rides, so she had to leave pretty early each morning.  She'd get us both up, fed and dressed, and the three of us would walk up the street in the early morning dawn to Rosie's house.

We'd walk up the house's driveway to the back door that lead to the rear porch laundry room, left unlocked for us. The thing is, everyone in the house was still asleep and we weren't allowed inside the house until they woke, so Mom sat me and Chuck together on a small bench inside the laundry room, next to the locked door leading into the kitchen. 

I remember her fussing with Chuck's hat and buttoning up our jackets, telling us "Make sure you stay really quiet and sit still until Aunt Rosie wakes up, OK?". She'd kiss and hug us both before locking the back door behind her and heading to the bus stop a block away on Garvey Avenue.

And then we were alone.

We sat there inside the locked laundry room, two little kids, heads down, waiting... waiting. Chuck was still a toddler but he was amazingly calm, rarely fidgeting around. When he did, I'd just shush him and he'd stop. Thanks, Chuck.

We sat there in the locked laundry room, our short legs dangling off the bench, waiting for someone inside to wake up and notice that we were out there, waiting to come inside the warm kitchen.

Sometimes it seemed to take forever.

I'd sit there, worrying that Chuck would start crying (he never did) or that they'd forget we were out there (they never did) or that somehow we'd have to sit in that locked laundry room all day. I'd look up and around the room, at the tall shelves that held soap and bleach and other stuff, at the dark open broom closet, at the giant sink next to me that was next to the wringer washer, or through the locked door glass and into the still-dark kitchen.

I'd sit there, wondering if I'd get in another fight with Glen or if I'd get in trouble at school for peeing my pants in class like that little girl did yesterday or if Mom might forget to pick us up after work and we'd have to stay at Rosie's house forever.

We NEVER EVER left that bench until the kitchen door unlocked and we were allowed to go inside. We knew how bad it would be if we made any noise and woke up the people sleeping inside... at least I knew it. Who knows what Chuck thought.

It was a daily test of will to behave, to stay quiet, to stay put, to act 100% unlike the way two small kids are supposed to act when left by themselves.

I don't know how long we endured that daily ritual before me and Chuck were whisked away to live with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Tony (another strange story), but I will never forget feeling lonely and afraid and forgotten inside that locked laundry room.

But I know we did what Mom told us to do.

A Dead Dog

One day after school, we were playing in back yard at Rosie's house, running around and screaming and just being stupid noisy little kids. I don't think Glen was there because he and I always wound up in a fight, and I'm sure Chuck was inside with Rosie.

We were playing hide-and-seek and I was 'it' and the other kids were doing their best to disappear. After counting to 20, I started my mad search looking high and low because I didn't want to be 'it' again.

After spending a minute searching the yard, I ran through the side gate and into the detached garage because I knew it was a good place to hide. As soon as I stepped into the garage, I stopped in my tracks.

Laying there on its side on the floor, right inside the open door, was Rosie's dog (whose name escapes me so many eons later). I looked down at it, the garage dark except for the light coming in through the open door. It was a small short-haired dog, white with large tan spots, it's legs out straight and mouth open and eyes wide, unmoving.

I knew it was dead, although I'm unsure how or why I knew that. I couldn't stop staring at the open eyes... the open mouth... the stiff outstretched legs. After a few moments, I sat down and poked it with my foot to see what would happen. The stiff dog did a half-spin, as if I'd kicked a piece of wood.

I was fascinated.

I sat there wondering how long the dog had been dead, wondering why the dog had died, wondering how old the dog was. I sat there for several minutes in the middle of playing hide-and-seek, thinking (maybe for the first time) about death and dying. It didn't scare me to think about it, because here was death laying on its side at my feet, mouth and eyes wide-open, a stiff.

And soon enough, in came Aunt Rosie who grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away from death and back into the sunny back yard.

And then I wasn't 'it' any more.

The Alley

An alley ran alongside Aunt Rosie's house that ended in a driveway next to a liquor store on Garvey Avenue. It was long and narrow, bordered by rear-yard fencing on both sides that gave way to parking lots behind the stores facing Garvey.

For some reason, that alley was a center of much activity and youthful indiscretion. 

It was the route we used on Sundays to walk and have lunch at The (original) Hat on the corner of Garvey and Rosemead Boulevard. We'd sit on the counter stools that surrounded the outside of The Hat, munching away while traffic buzzed along behind us in that busy intersection. The stools were too tall for my feet to touch the ground, so I kneeled on the upholstered seat pad to reach my food on the counter.

Us kids used the alley a lot to go buy candy and sodas at the liquor store that we'd bring back to Rosie's back yard and scarf down while sitting on the sunny grass. It was also the perfect place to ride our bikes super-fast back and forth without having to worry about cars hitting us.

One day we were throwing gravel from the alley onto the street (who knows why?) and didn't see a car coming by, so it got pelted with gravel. The car screeched to a stop and we knew right away that we'd get in big trouble so we scrambled out of the alley and into Rosie's back yard, hiding along the inside of the fence,  The car's driver ran into the alley screaming bloody murder but he didn't find us there, right on the other side of the fence, hidden and shaking with fear. He walked away just in time for Rosie to come out and start smacking us because she knew EXACTLY what had happened.

Yes, we got in trouble.... lots of spankings and indoor quiet time, no playing allowed.

Leaving South El Monte

Soon enough, Mom lost custody of us, so we left Mom and South El Monte to live with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Tony in La Puente.

Based on conversations I've had with Mom (R.I.P.) and Dad, Mom was taken to court and found to be an unfit Mother, so custody was awarded to Dad. Since Dad didn't have a place of his own yet, it was decided me and Chuck would live with Peggy and Tony until Dad's situation became more stable. We lived with them for several years until we moved into our Grandma Silva's La Puente house where Dad had landed.

It wasn't until years later that I learned Grandma Silva was in fact my Grandpa's Mother-in-law, and not really my Grandma at all. Mexican families are weird.

I have very fond memories of living with Peggy and Tony, and of the many wonderful things that Peggy did and the care and love she showed us. There were also things that happened in that house which were awful and terrible and should never have taken place. I've dealt with those awful and terrible things and have cast them aside, but I'm not sure if Chuck (R.I.P.) was able to do the same because I'm certain those same awful and terrible things happened to him as well.

So it goes.

Why This Matters

Childhood stories like these aren't rare and I'm unsure how many people either can't, don't or won't recall them with the same kind of intensity that I do.

These early memories are seared into my brain and are the very first events that had an impact on my young self. I knew me and Boss would get in trouble for torching that spider. I knew I wasn't supposed to see Mom naked with some strange guy. I knew I wasn't supposed to throw rocks at cars.

I also knew what happened to me at Peggy and Tony's house wasn't right.

I don't know how I knew, but I knew. 

All of these things were original building blocks of me, and I'm glad I haven't shed them from my soft hard drive.  They are reflecting windows into my soul, my past, the beginnings of ME. The bad and good that happened helped write the earliest chapters in my life's novel, just like my fractured youth and horrific first marriage and blissful second marriage have generated a lot of content for chapters that followed.

We write our own novels every single day. Our minds may do a bit of strategic editing which allows us to avoid the hurtful or troubled paragraphs and chapters, but editing too much out can leave a stilted narrative that is without continuity or context.

On the other hand, obsessing over and/or refusing to deal with the worst paragraphs or chapters, especially the ones that happen in our youth, can send us into a tailspin of regret, anxiety and dysfunction which can have a lasting negative impact on our lives. If you've ever seen an episode of 'Intervention', you know what I mean.

Like every good novel, sometimes the story line can be exhilarating or boring, captivating or repulsive, a page-turning barn-burner or an exercise in tedium and banality. The secret is to write your own story... push the narrative you want... change the context if it doesn't work for you.


Your novel is your life. Learn from the bad parts and revel in the good parts.

I wonder how many people have these kinds of early rooty-root memories floating in their cranial ether, or can close their eyes and watch that grainy 8mm film run in their head. Until I started to write this essay, that's where the memories lived, always slightly other-worldly... out of reach. Now they exist in the here and now, and I'm finally able to make them real.

Keep reading... keep writing... keep remembering. I know I will.






Lead image, gracias de google images; Rosie and The Originals 'Angel Baby' and Santo & Johnny 'Sleepwalk' videos, muchismas gracias de youtube; P13 por vida.

You Can't Get There From Here

I am an American citizen of Mexican heritage, born at General Hospital in East Los Angeles, California.

My Father was born in Gallup, New Mexico to immigrant parents.

My Mother was born in Los Angeles, California to immigrant parents.

My Grandfather was born on the road somewhere between Mexico City and the US border in Texas.

My Grandmother was born in Gallup, New Mexico to immigrant parents.

Before my Grampa died at the age of 94 years young, he loved to tell a story about our family heritage that many relatives weren't sure was true, but he swore it was. 

According to Grampa, his parents decided to take a chance for a better life by WALKING from Mexico City to the Texas border while he was still in his Mom's belly.  Along the way he was born and his Father died, so when the clan arrived at the border, Mom was carrying newborn Grampa in her arms and had several other children in tow, all hoping to cross into The Promised Land.

There was only one problem: she arrived at the border without a husband, and therefore would not be allowed to cross into the US as a single Mom.

Her distress was noticed by a man also planning to cross over, so when he found out why she was being denied entry into the US, he offered to claim that he was her husband and the Father of her children.  She agreed, took his last name as her own and they crossed into the US of A successfully.  She decided to keep the last name of the man who helped her reach this country, a name my family still uses today.

Is this story true?  Several of my relatives state he told them the same story, and since we don't have any living relatives to refute or corroborate the tale, we gotta take it at face value as mostly true.

What I know for sure is this: I am borne of a family of immigrants who came to this country for the same reason most immigrants still do -- to find a better life, to do better for their families, to become something more than they could in their own country.

The story of immigrant aspirational movement is the same in 2018, only much more vital and (in some cases) desperate. The United States of America remains one of the most desirable places on Earth for people to aspire to live, and people from other countries continue to stream towards us via both legal and non-legal methods.

BTW, you will NEVER EVER catch me referring to undocumented immigrants as 'illegals' because even if an immigrant breaks laws to enter our country, that human being is still a legitimate human being and cannot be denigrated as 'illegal' simply because he/she broke a law. It's what refugees do. 

Being of Hispanic lineage gives me a unique viewpoint about our current national Conservative freak-out over non-legal MEXICAN immigration by those who would 'build that wall' or restrict legal immigration only to those we deem worthy. The funny part about the freak-out is that IT'S ALL BALONEY and the issue revolves almost exclusively around MEXICAN immigrants, although immigrants from other countries are also now being impacted.

A few factoids to consider:

1. The rate of undocumented immigrants crossing the border from Mexico has dramatically decreased over the past decade (Thanks, Obama!).  In fact, more Mexican Nationals left the USA in the years 2015 and 2016 than came into the country during that same period due to increased border patrol, stricter US hiring laws, violence in Northern Mexico and the Great Recession of 2007.

2.  Undocumented MEXICAN immigrants are responsible for FEWER crimes of any type than non-immigrants, across the board. If this fact shocks you, then you're not paying attention. Google it if you don't believe me.

3.  Undocumented MEXICAN immigrants pay lots of taxes in this country, and almost half of them pay Federal Income taxes even though they get none of the benefits of having paid those Fed taxes. Sales taxes, excise taxes, State taxes, gasoline taxes, property taxes... all gladly paid by undocumented immigrants who understand that taxes are the price we ALL pay for a civilized society.

4.  Undocumented MEXICAN immigrants do not 'steal' jobs from anyone. The people who employ them choose to GIVE them those jobs because they will work for less money, don't complain about working conditions, don't demand raises, don't demand vacation days or any of the myriad headaches typical 'Murrican employees cause their bosses.

5.  Undocumented MEXICAN immigrants are the hardest-working people you will ever meet.  They will gladly work one, two or even three different jobs at once because they understand and appreciate the benefits of working hard to get ahead in this country, even if they get paid shit wages and work shit hours and are treated like shit by their bosses who chose them to pay shit wages to because they will gladly work for shit wages that 'Murricans would never ever accept.

Honestly, it's not that hard to understand the plight of undocumented immigrants if you spend even a little bit of time thinking about how YOU would deal with the same issues they do, every single day.

Imagine that you have no documents to show that you're in this country legally, and how much that single fact will impact every aspect of your waking hours.

It would suck, right?

Every time you walk down the street... every time you drive to or from work... every time you stop at El Pollo Loco for dinner... every time you go shopping... every time you go out to visit your friends... you are a target for arrest and deportation, which will rip apart your life and separate your family and cause wrenching upheaval in every way.

Won't matter that you're a model citizen.

Won't matter that you work hard and pay every tax that's imposed on you.

Won't matter that you contribute your hard work and life's energy to making a better life for yourself and those you love.

You'd be branded as a criminal and forced to return to a country that holds no future for you.

Real World Story #1: on the way home from work one evening last Summer, I stopped at a well-known local eatery to pick up some awesome roast beef and pastrami sandwiches for dinner. I entered the drive-thru in my dirty hippie van, placed my order and rolled up to the service window.

I looked through the window and into the area behind the counter, the place a madhouse of activity involving food prep, packaging and serving for the crush of people lined up at the counter... and I noticed something.

Every single person I could see working inside were obviously Mexican (don't worry, I know these things), and they were RIPPING IT UP in order to keep up with the mad crush of hungry customers who'd lose their shit if they had to wait even a second longer than necessary to fill their pie holes with savory cured meat sammiches.

Those workers were hustling, shouting, spinning, cleaning, folding, packing, pouring, stuffing, grilling, stacking... all in a whirlwind of dinner rush frenzy... and they were all SMILING and laughing, obviously glad to be gainfully employed and making money among like-minded people with the same focus:  work hard and feed the customers.

Now, I watched this for all of 4 or 5 minutes while my order was being whipped up by those Hard Working Mexicans, and found myself filled with a combination of appreciation and gratitude and pride. When the (obvious) Manager came to the window with my food, I gave him my money and when he handed me the change I shook his hand and said:

"Thanks... you know what? You have a really great group of people working in there. You and your crew are truly what Makes America Great!"

He froze, looked me right in the eyes, grabbed my hand with both of his and shook it vigorously saying "THANK YOU, AMIGO... it means everything to me to hear you say that.  I wish more people would tell us that, but you just made my day!" Yes, his eyes got a little damp and his smile was YUUUUUUUGE.

His eyes and smile made MY day.

When I drive past the sprawling strawberry fields alongside the freeway and see the MEXICANS out there, working in the hot sun for slave wages for the benefit of the business owners, I feel humbled at my good fortune and silently thank each and every one of them for their efforts.

When I'm travelling and I meet the MEXICAN maids or MEXICAN gardeners or MEXICAN janitors in the hotel, I always stop and thank them personally for their hard work.  BTW, a great way to show your appreciation to the long-suffering maid is to dump all your pocket change into a glass and leave it as a tip each morning.  Believe me.. they remember when you do that.

When I'm walking through my client's six-story office building during one of many daily visits, you can bet your ass that I say 'HI' and acknowledge every single MEXICAN janitor and MEXICAN gardener that I meet. And every time I do, they smile wide and respond in kind and know that I appreciate them being there.

When I'm working on my yards and the truckloads of MEXICAN gardeners roll into the 'hood to start working on my neighbor's yards, I make a point of waving and smiling and offering my visual appreciation for how hard they work and their efforts to keep the area looking great.

When our Racist President demeans and degrades and belittles and vilifies hard-working, tax-paying, America-loving MEXICANS, he shows just how small-minded and ignorant he really is. He shows us all how easy it is for him, a pampered and entitled and wealthy White Male Master of the Universe, to spew hatred and bigotry and stupidity when he's never done a single hard day's work in his life.

Fuck that guy.

If your response to all this is 'Yeah... well, they're here illegally and broke the law, so deport them all!"... well fuck you, too.  No, really... I MEAN IT.

Real World Story #2:  in order to comply with the draconian rules of our Homeowner's Association regarding lawn maintenance, I needed to repair the front lawn irrigation, rip out some massive overgrown tree roots from the lawn and re-seed the grass, a big job. It was a recent Saturday morning and I'd started to chop away at the tree roots but soon discovered it was waaaay outta my league.

I remembered Rosalindo, the guy I'd hired last Summer to trim a bunch of overgrown trees, and contacted him to see if he could stop by and offer a quote. He said he'd be over after another job, so when he arrived around 1PM and provided a reasonable quote, I asked him "So when can you do this work?" He said 'Well, how about right now?" Once the CFO approved, it was ON.

Rosalindo had arrived with a young boy that I soon found out was his son and another older gent. Within 30 minutes, the broken sprinklers and pipes had been identified and the tree roots had been exposed.  Rosalindo and his son took off to buy parts and the other guy set to chopping out the tree roots... ALL of them. It took him over an hour but he removed those nasty roots and, within a few hours, they'd completed all the work.

I asked Rosalindo's son if he enjoyed working with his Dad and he said "Yes Sir... I hope someday to have my own gardening business so I can use what Dad has taught me so I can be successful and take care of my own family." Rosalindo is exactly the kind of role model every kid needs in his life. 

They arrived at 1PM, offered a good price, started work and were finished by 5PM. This was on a Saturday and I'd called him out of the blue, never expecting he'd be able to do the work right away. That's what I call dedication.

Rosalindo, his work ethic and being a great role model for his Son is what Makes America Great. His immigration status is literally of no consequence because his words and deeds define the kind of person he is, and why we should all be grateful he's chosen to live among us to raise his family... his AMERICAN family.

So the question I'm left with is this:  how do we resolve this issue of so many citizens hating on undocumented (Mexican) immigrants who actually DO Make America Great? I have a few ideas about that.

1. STOP THE HATING. This should be a no-brainer, but our national psyche has been so infected with bullshit racism and bigotry that people don't even think twice about hating on 'them damned illegals'. Every single one of us (with the notable exception of Native Americans) are immigrants or borne of immigrants. That reality doesn't change simply because someone is a few generations beyond that immigrant status. Ignorance of history is no excuse for ignorant racism.

2. DO YOUR HOMEWORK. Unless you're a MAGA hat-wearing dumbass, try to educate yourself about the real situation around immigration reform and the challenges faced with enacting serious but empathetic changes to our current system.  Yes, our immigration system is broken, but it can be fixed if we choose to do so without all the hate and stupidity. There are people with selfish, self-serving and sinister goals who do not want to reform the immigration system. Those people suck.

3. TRY SOME EMPATHY ON FOR SIZE. Think about every service industry you rely on to get through your daily life. Every. Single. One. Then imagine that instead of all the 'illegals' doing those low-wage jobs, they're being done by you, your kids and Grandkids. It's a thought exercise that will totally mess with your head because once you place yourself in the same situation as the millions of undocumented immigrants whose efforts we take for granted, you might just view their plight in a different way.

4.  VOTE!!!!!! The reason we still have a broken immigration system is because politicians think we can be scared with bullshit stories about scary illegals raping our women and takin' our jerbs. We gotta stop being such sheep and being manipulated so easily. Pay attention, educate yourself on the subject and VOTE, BABY. 

I have no allusions about how this will all shake out, and I'm only one Born In East Los Angeles Mexican-American. But I know the facts, and I know where I stand: in support of every single human being who works hard, plays hard, loves life and loves others with verve and abandon. Let's work together to lift up everyone we can, no matter where they came from. 

Never forget: we're all Earthlings.




  Lead image, gracias de googleimages.com; 'A Day Without A Mexican' video clip y The Youngbloods 'Get Together' music video, muchismas gracias de youtube.com.