Los Angeles

On the record

It was the last day of jury duty. We, the jurors, deliberated for a little over an hour and then called the bailiff to let her know we’d come to a decision. Half an hour later, all attorneys and defendants were ready for us to file out in to the jury box.

As we took our seats, the judge noted, “let the record show that all jurors and alternates are present… and one die hard Laker fan.”

The courtroom broke out into nervous laughter.

“Is that on the record?” juror #3, sitting directly to my right, asked.

“Yes,” the judge responded with a boyish smile.

That was it for the jokes and we got to business.

***

I sat next to juror #3, a tall, athletic Afro-Panamanian in his 60s, for our nine day stint on jury duty. I never learned his name, but did learn a lot about him. After seeing the Panamanian flag hanging from his rear-view mirror and learning he didn’t need to listen to the court-appointed interpreter to understand the testimony of a Spanish-speaking witness, I figured out he was from Panama. He passed out shiny purple and gold fliers and told the rest of the jury about his tax preparation business. The office doubled as a museum housing his Laker gear. Yes, he gave tours.

Oh yeah, he was diehard Laker fan. It’s on the record!

He distinguished himself from fair-weather fans (*raises hand*) by asserting that he was a Laker fan even during their slump in the 60s. But he didn’t have to say anything. His zealousness was clear.

Every single day he wore Laker gear from head to toe. Yes, even shoes. The cap came off only while in court. He always read the sports section for the latest news and analysis on the Lakers’ playoff run. If he forgot sports section, he’d ask to borrow mine. He had two flags — ubiquitous during the Lakers’ 3-peat in 2000, 2001, and 2002 — on his car. I suspect they never came off during the off-season or even the regular season.

***

I wonder if juror #3, felt sick after tonight’s game.

I know I did.

Escuela

Blogging like it’s 1998

June 17, 1998

This week’s been busy. I thought things would calm down after finals last week.

Monday:

In the morning, I had graduation rehearsal. It still really hasn’t settled in that on Thursday I’ll be graduating and done with Wilson forever.

I went with mom and dad to the senior awards assembly at Wilson. This year, the awards assembly was held in the afternoon rather than the morning. The rest of the student body didn’t have to sit in the gym for a couple of hours and learn about the accomplishments of a select group of seniors. I won’t lie. It was boring to learn that So-And-So was going to UCLA and Fulana got a scholarship to USC. I didn’t even know many of the people mentioned until last year when I knew a lot of graduating seniors.

Tuesday:

Tricia’s mom gave us a ride to the senior breakfast at Knott’s. We had breakfast and watched a hypnotist make fools of six or so students. The whole room burst out laughing when Jess (I’ve known her as Jessica since kindergarten, but I think she dropped the “ica” when we got to high school) told the whole senior class that she was sculpting Mike W. Everyone laughed. Mike turned red. Luckily his girlfriend — since junior high! — is a junior and wasn’t at the breakfast. Jess looked really surprised and embarrassed when she woke up and her friends told her what she said. I don’t think she could have faked that. Maybe she really was hypnotized.

After the breakfast we (Tricia, Janine, Brian, Adriana, and me) stayed at Knott’s for a while. There’s hardly ever any lines for the rides, especially in the middle of the week.

Rest of the week after the jump…

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Cuentos, Cultura

The tortilla incident

In my mom’s view, Summer was the perfect babysitter. She was in her teens, about 16 or 17. She was a longtime neighbor and trusted friend. I’d known her since I was in diapers and our mothers were close friends, BFFs even. Even though she stressed out her mom, Mary, she got along well with my mom who was a little younger and more like a friend. We (my siblings) liked Summer too. She wasn’t too cool for us, or bossy or mean. She was like a big sister. She lived three houses away; and even when her family moved to another part of Hacienda Heights, she was still close by.

She had curly dirty blonde hair and a round face. She looked white despite the fact that her mom was Filipina. She introduced me to the concept of a junior college and had the Cure and the Smiths posters on her wall. I liked her.

***

My parents were out on a date night or busy at church. Either way, they were both out of the house and Summer had been called over to watch me and my siblings, four kids ages 5 to 11. Any other babysitter would’ve turned down the job, but Summer was cool with us. She knew we wouldn’t act up with her.

Before leaving, my mom had cooked ground beef with potatoes and peas for yummy soft tacos. All Summer had to do was warm up the meat, tortillas and set out the fixings. She began warming up the meat. Next, she brought out the package of Guerrero tortillas, took a small stack, placed them on a plate* and warmed them up in the microwave.

“Can you do that?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah, I do it all the time,” she replied nonchalantly.

I was still suspicious. Even though I was still too young to really help in the kitchen, I knew microwaving a tortilla was not right. I liked my tortillas slightly toasted on the comal or even the open flame.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t allowed to use the stove.

When the microwave beeped, Summer got out the soggy tortillas and filled them with meat. She gave us our plates and we added cheese, lettuce, and tomato.

I gobbled up my tacos. They were yummy, but different.

A few hours later, we went to bed and Summer waited up for my parents. When my dad gave her a ride home later that night, she turned down the money he offered as payment for baby-sitting. When he insisted, she still said no. Her mom wouldn’t approve.

***

Looking back on the tortilla incident 20 years later, I’m not sure why it still resonates. Then, it was the first time I realized my family and I were different from white people, but it wasn’t about color or language. I’d noticed the physical differences much earlier as children often do.

Heating a tortilla in the microwave? Mundane, quotidian and easy to miss, but still weird.

I guess it really is about the little things.

Los Angeles

Antigua to leave El Sereno in three weeks (not by choice)

Sigh.

First Tía Chucha’s Centro Cultural and Bookstore was booted from it’s original location in San Fernando. The space is now reportedly a laundromat.

Now, Antigua Cultural Coffee House will close the doors of its El Sereno location. They’re “getting evicted or just simply not being granted a contract extension.” In three weeks they’ll be gone… but never fear, their Cypress Park location will open later this summer.

In his email (posted after the jump), Yancey, co-owner of Antigua, calls his coffee shop “the envy of the West side.” I can’t argue with that as evidenced by my reaction after my first visit. Since then, I’ve found a coffee shop where the owner notices when I haven’t visited in a while. It’s cool, but it’s no Antigua.

I visited Antigua a few weeks ago for a monthly meet up with fellow Latin@ bloggers. The meetings are a fun time to just catch up, support independent small businesses on the Eastside and talk about current issues. The next gathering will be at Antigua on Wednesday June 18th at 7 pm. For more info, check out Eastside Scene.

If you’ve never been to Antigua or met really cool bloggers (ahem!), you should stop by. Chances are Ed will be making me blush when he praises my blogging skills for the 31st time. Not that I mind, you know.

Email announcement from Yancey, co-owner of Antigua after the jump.
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Cultura

Problematic piñatas, revisited

I just got back from the park where I didn’t buy a raspado (thanks to those who gave me reasons not to in the comments to the previous post). I did toss around a basketball with a few friends from school. I’m not very good at basketball. In fact, I’m pretty sure I suck. Still, I played HORSE with three others. The only shot I made was a lay-up. Ouch. I was the first one out.

When we got back to the picnic benches, I noticed our neighbors standing under a tree. They’d tied a red fire engine on a rope and hooked it around a branch. They dangled it in front of a two-year old boy holding a stick. He tenderly pushed and poked at the fire engine piñata while a dozen adults stood around and snapped pictures. With the exception of two other boys too young to be out of their mother’s arms, he was the only child present. It was a little strange. I’ve never seen such a lonely piñata. I’m much more accustomed to seeing at least a dozen kids lined up ready to smack the candy out of a piñata. Those who have already had their chance at hitting the piñata stand on the perimeter — held back by worried adults — ready to run in at the first sign of flying Tomy candies.

The little blonde boy never hit the piñata hard enough to break it and draw out candy. He did try to kick it, but who ever was holding the other end of the rope moved it out of the way. The adults pulled him away and a man (his dad?) started tearing the fire engine apart. The boy didn’t like that.

“Wow, he looks kinda traumatized,” noted one friend. “He’s not happy.”

“He’s probably confused. He’s thinking, dad, I thought you told me not to destroy my toys,” said another.

“I think piñatas are a bit problematic,” I stated and summarized the reasons I mentioned in a post from the old blog circa April 2005:

I have a problem with piñatas at birthday parties.

I realized this as I was looking through the pictures (click to view as a slideshow) I took at my nephew’s first birthday party on Saturday. My cousin, Tony, and his wife, Ingrid, had Elmo decorations up all over the house. I assume that Anthony, the baby, has an affinity for Elmo.

So, what do they do? They buy two Elmo piñatas. And then what happens? They fill the piñata with candy, line kids up, give one a stick and blindfold her, and then let her loose against the image of Elmo.

Anthony barely noticed that the guests at his party were beating the crap out of his beloved Elmo. I’m sure if he would have been paying attention instead of having his diaper changed he would have been horrified.

So, first kids beat up a piñata in the image of a character they like, and then they feast on candy and play with piñata innards.

Moral of the story? If you hit something with a stick enough times, you’ll be rewarded with candy. Twisted!

Lotería Chicana

Author Archives: cindylu