The Dedalus Log

Comforter of the afflicted,
Pray for us.
Help of Christians,
Pray for us.
Mother of Good Counsel,
Pray for us.
Mother of Sorrows,
Pray for us.
Morning star,
Pray for us.
Mystical Rose,
Pray for us.
Tower of Ivory,
Pray for us.
Star of the Sea,
Pray for us.
Queen of Heaven,
Pray for us.
(Litany and Devotional titles of the Blessed Virgin Mary)

 The telescoping beams of glowing light shot through wide church doors, alerting the assembled audience that the ceremony was about to begin. The crowd of relatives, friends, and students had grown comfortable in the cool and whispered calm of the church, unaware of the long, processing line of eighth graders, who were winding their way to the back entrance. I could feel the tension and anticipation. Adults craned their necks, and whispered to their small children tiptoeing on kneelers or scrambling to the ends of the pews to get a better look up the aisle. The invited underclassmen tried not gazing backwards to avoid a hissed warning from their teachers. There were no sounds or movement from the back of the church, only the silhouette of a single maiden outlined in light, with two older women at her sides, awaiting the musical cue to begin. This was the annual May Coronation, or the May Crowning of Mary at Our Lady of the Valley Church. It is a Marian tradition performed every year in countless schools and parishes throughout the Christian world. Since medieval times, Christians had dedicated the vernal month of May to Mary, the mother of Jesus, and selected specific days to pay her homage and devotion. The exact prayers, litanies, and activities might vary from place to place, but the focal point was always one figure, and her coronation as Queen of Heaven. Besides Easter, it is one of the most colorful, lyrical, and evocative traditions in the Church. Its significance also lies in the fact that by commemorating Mary, the day also honored all mothers and women as the sources of life, nurturing, and compassion. As a child, I remembered the May Crowning as one of the most exciting activities in the school year. It was a Catholic rite of passage in which only 8^th grade students performed all the important functions of the day. They were the “big kids” who decorated the church, dressed up, carried the statue of the Virgin in the procession, led the prayers and the singing, and placed the garland of flowers atop Mary’s head. This hallowed tradition was again being played out at our church, as the congregation of families and students awaited the entrance of the 8^th graders and the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

As the event photographer, I had watched this procession from its inception. At first there was the indifferent loitering of adolescent boys, surrounded by a nervous covey of teenage girls, darting from classroom, to bathroom, and to office, primping and arranging their hair, cosmetics, and dresses. Then, with minimal commands, betraying hours of practice and preparation, their teacher, Ms. Kennedy, brought them to attention and lined them up in front of their classroom. Watching as they adjusted and maintained their intervals, the students slowly and reverently began the long, traditional march to the church. The coronation ritual snaked along the edges of the school playground, up the perimeter fence, and then through the church driveway to the street sidewalk. 18 garlanded maidens, dressed in the bright, floral and pastel colors of Spring, were followed by 5 young lads in blue shirts and ties, carrying a specially designed and decorated pallet, with the image of the Virgin Mary perched on top. With each measured step they took approaching the church, these tall and erect children became more serious, more solemn, and more grown up. This was the first May Crowning I had seen since my own daughter’s in 1994 (see Upstream Memories). I attended that event thinking it was just going to be another 8^th grade activity, like the Christmas show, the Pancake Breakfast, or countless volleyball, basketball, and softball games. In fact it proved to be a transformational moment in which I saw my daughter in a whole new light. Seeing her so tall, elegant, and mature, it finally struck me that Prisa was no longer a child; she wasn’t “Daddy’s little girl” anymore. I wasn’t prepared for that staggering epiphany. All I could do was look at her gorgeous, glowing face, while wiping tears from my eyes, and realizing that the years had gone by too quickly. It seemed as if I had glanced away for only a second, and my little “chula girl” was gone. I would never again be greeted by a beaming, shorthaired pixie, screaming in delight, and jumping into my arms to embrace me. She was now a tall, lovely, and serious young adolescent. I felt as though I had never adequately appreciated her childhood, or showed how much I loved her as a child. I saw then that it was too late, and I’d have to do it while she was a teenager in high school. As the student choir began the entrance song, the first maiden stepped into the aisle and the procession flowed into the church. On this modern day in May, I wondered if the parents who were here would share my past emotions when they saw their own daughters walking so erect, solemn, and radiant.

This year, I was only taking pictures and noting the changes that had occurred during the 16 intervening years. The May ritual had evolved a great deal under the direction of Ms. Kennedy. It was still primarily a Marian prayer service, ending with the coronation of Mary. However, the program now included six to eight testimonials to “Modern Marys”. These were women, young and old, who exemplified the strengths, virtues, and actions of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the real world. Students and adults were selected to speak on the strength of their essays supporting their choice of a “modern Mary”. The honorees could be mothers, mothers-in-law, sisters, friends, teachers, or students. I’d heard of this change in the ceremony 8 years ago, but I hadn’t given it much thought until now.  In the past, Kathy had honored her own mother as a Modern Mary, and this year she invited my mother, Maria del Rosario, to receive that tribute. To my delight, my mother said yes, and my sisters Tita and Gracie accompanied her to the ceremony. I could see them sitting to the right of the altar, with other invited guests, as the program began.

 

I occupied myself moving to different locations in the church and finding the best angles and positions for photographing the students and speakers. The eighth graders soon occupied the first three rows of pews, and then singly and in groups, students arose, bowed, and approached the altar to perform various functions. The program began with reflective meditations on Mary and then a decade of the Rosary. Then one by one, 7 speakers took the podium, asking their “Modern Mary” to come forward and stand by them, as they read their tribute aloud to the entire congregation. The first speaker was a student who called up her mother. The parent acted so flustered as she walked up the aisle, that I was puzzled. My mother knew of the honor being bestowed her, and I knew adults always needed a good reason to take time from work, dress up, and be present at a school function at 10:30 on a Friday morning. I assumed the mother was simply shy about such a public tribute, and I thought nothing more about it as I busied myself searching for different shooting perspectives. The next speaker called up a fellow student as her Modern Mary, and then Kathy arose and asked my mother to join her. I’d heard the tribute when Kathy practiced it at home, but I couldn’t help being moved when I heard it again. Kathy explained that just as the original Mary had put aside her doubts and fears and said, “Yes” to the angel Gabriel, Maria del Rosario said, “Yes” to a young Mexican-American Marine with whom she had corresponded throughout the War in the Pacific. As the mother of Jesus had done, so too, Maria married my father, Antonio José, left her home in Mexico City, and traveled to the foreign land of Los Angeles, California, to start and raise a family. Widowed at the age of 47, she finished the job as a single mother of 6 children. While listening to Kathy’s parallels, I knew my Mom was pleased and honored by the tribute. Once she finished, I was only half listening to the remaining speakers, when the depths of their essays finally broke through as if by revelation.

Another garlanded girl adjusted the microphone and called her mother up. This time, however, instead of heaping praise or drawing parallels, the student began quietly itemizing the specific hardships and sacrifices her mother had suffered in raising her family after a “horrendous divorce”. They lost their home, and her mother needed to work 2 to 3 jobs to make ends meet. Yet despite illnesses, misunderstandings, and the occasional arguments, they were making it. Through tears, sobs, and tortured pauses to regain control, the young girl spoke of her pride for this determined and hardworking woman, who made religion and a Catholic education such a priority in their lives. The tableau of this raven-haired young lady sharing her anguished tribute, and seeing her mother’s silent tears of remembered sorrows and joys, captivated the entire church. No one seemed to move or breathe during that speech for fear of breaking the spell, or betraying their own tears.
“That mother had no idea this was coming,” I said to myself, wiping my eyes. “It was a complete surprise!”
Four more tributes followed, but none was as gripping or authentic as that one. I managed to compose myself, and continued shooting pictures of the rest of the ceremony. Kathy told me later that, except for my mother, none of the honored women knew what would happen that day. It was a secret until the women were called up. The choir and students sang a new song, the statue of Mary was crowned, and the eighth grade girls performed a special liturgical dance. The ritual ended with Kathy taking the podium to thank the parents and guests for attending and inviting them to a reception in the parish hall. The emotional residue of the visual rituals and the gripping tributes to the seven Modern Marys stayed with me all day. I recognized the wisdom and importance of expanding the traditional activities and honoring actual women, young and old, who exemplified Marian virtues. I hoped the eighth graders who performed in the ceremony, and the congregation who witnessed the ritual, would remember it not only as a rite of passage but also as a goal to work towards and appreciate.

That May evening ended at the Doheny Campus of Mount St. Mary’s College in Los Angeles. We were there to attend the Accolade Ceremony of Kathy’s two sisters, Meg and Beth, (see Over The Hill). This was a recognition event and reception hosted by the university for the graduate students receiving their Master of Science degrees in Education, and other fields. The sisters had been reluctant about attending at first, but they finally realized that they deserved the tribute. They both had full-time careers as teacher, principal, and mothers, and had taken on the additional burden of weekend classes and monumental coursework. These mid-life graduate degrees were truly a big deal because they required so much extra work, determination, and sacrifice. As their raucous band of family supporters cheered, Beth and Meg proudly walked down the aisle to receive their recognition. Watching them on the stage, it struck me that the day’s Marian theme was extending onto this campus named after her, and that two more women were being recognized as Modern Marys.

Make me a channel of your peace
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
In giving to all men that we receive
And in dying that we’re born to eternal life.

Oh, Master grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console
To be understood as to understand
To be loved as to love with all my soul.
(Prayer of St. Francis: 1182 – 1226)

I was greeted by the loud and confusing sounds of roaring engines and squealing tires coming from a large bus yard filled with rushing vans, trucks, and busses, and police cars whizzing in and out of the driveway. Stepping back for a moment into the quiet stairwell of the multi-level parking structure I was leaving, I took out my letter and rechecked the written instructions. I’d made it into the safety of the parking structure at the end of San Francisco Street by explaining to the civilian attendant that I was attending a training class for prison volunteers. Now I needed to get my bearings. Looking past the bus yard, I saw an array of pale and ominous looking structures made of concrete and reinforced steel, with areas surrounded by high fencing, topped with concertina wire. The courts and arraignment area was to my right and the Detention Facility to my left. I was to walk to the first building and go inside. The meeting room would be on the second floor. The directions sounded simple, but there were multiple buildings all around me, and the cacophony of sights and sounds added to my confusion. Steaming vents pierced the beige, stucco walls, and thick pipes of corrugated steel and iron projected skyward like a soaring boiler room. Police officers looked down from overhead walkways looming above me, connecting one building to another. I’d driven into intimidating and confusing building complexes before, but this one reminded me of a nightmarish medical center on steroids. The facility seemed overly muscled, overly aggressive, and oppressively sullen. Instead of seeing ambulances and brightly lit lobbies, with helpful men and women in loose-fitting and rumpled scrubs and medical whites, I saw police cars and barred entrances with grim-faced officers in starched and fitted uniform shirts and cornered trousers. Resolved to find my meeting room and get this experience over with, I walked steadily toward the central flagpole, planted in a patch of green grass, in the central cluster of buildings, praying that I would find the meeting room nearby.

I was in the middle of a huge prison complex that houses two large entities, bisected by San Francisco Street. On one side of the street was the Detention Facility, composed of a medical services building, and the Jail Ward, and on the other side, the courts and holding areas. I was there an hour early to navigate the grounds and locate my meeting room so I could receive training in the policies and procedures governing religious and volunteer services in all state correctional facilities. Once certified, I would be authorized to serve as a volunteer for the Religious Detention Ministry. I had participated in some of these services at the Golden State Detention Center as an observer on three occasions (see Abandon All Hope), and I was now advancing to the next level of participation – an authorized volunteer, free to enter and leave detention facilities, and provide services to inmates. At the conclusion of my last visit, Gavin, the Director of Chaplain Services at the facility had put the deciding question to me:
“Well, Antonio, what do you think? Do you wish to continue?”
Without really deliberating, or asking for more time to consider, I simply responded, “Yes,” and here I was. Now I was forlornly wandering along San Francisco Street, looking around in bewilderment, trying to figure out which of all these structures was “the first building”, and asking myself why had I said “yes” in the first place?

The official name of the program I was joining was Chaplain Services, or Detention Ministry. Ministry - that word had been troubling me all month. In the United States (as opposed to England or Canada), a ministry is defined as the profession or duties of a minister of religion, a priest, or a rabbi. I really had a problem thinking of myself as a MINISTER of anything. I was just a guy who worked in schools as a teacher and administrator, and had some instructional skills and a lot of experience listening to students and adults. I considered my 3 earlier visits to the jails as mitzvahs, as our Jewish brethren would say in Hebrew – “acts of human kindness”. Catholics don’t have a word like that, so we call them Corporal Works of Mercy. Every time I entered the jail, I never thought that I was ministering to the inmates in a religious way. I was only trying to be helpful in some human way. I finally had to call a halt to all my mental doubts and second-guessing. I was over-thinking this whole experience and letting my HEAD get in the way of my HEART. I’d done this to myself before. I almost let my irrational fears of the term father figure torpedo my friendship and relationships with Mary’s sons, Eddie and John, after the death of their father (see Gethsemane). I already had two children of my own, I insisted to myself, and couldn’t imagine acting like, or being someone else’s Dad. I was at the point of denying all my honest feelings and emotions towards these two boys whom I’d grown to love, and halting all interactions with them. Was that stupid, or what? Talk about almost cutting off your nose to spite your face! Thankfully, I came to my senses and decided that I just loved these boys and would let my natural actions continue as before. My over-reaction to the term father figure and my current agony over the word ministry seemed very similar. So, without really understanding why I was volunteering for prison ministry, I decided to just continue doing what I’d begun. Since the moment Rick, an assistant chaplain, called inviting me to observe the volunteer services provided to inmates, I felt compelled, or led, to go along. Curiosity was certainly a factor. Prisons, jails, and inmates were foreign to me and I wondered how they looked, operated, and acted? I also wondered how I might help? The prison setting and my interactions with inmates had been new, scary, and challenging, but also strangely satisfying. I’d acted honestly and openly in all my prison encounters, and saw no reason to stop, even though I couldn’t explain why. It was like when a person helps a stranger in distress, and feels good about it later. Visiting prisons and interacting with inmates didn’t seem like a one-and-done stunt for me, like skydiving or running a marathon. I was helping an incarcerated group of people whom no one thought about or contacted. Prison and jail inmates are los desaparecidos, the vanished ones - men and women who, because of their criminal choices, were ostracized, locked away, and forgotten. They are modern-day unthinkables or untouchables; one could almost call them lepers.

The central building with the flagpole in front was not the right one, but the uniformed deputy receptionist, behind a thickly plated window, was able to help. He directed me back to the boiler-looking building I had passed, next to a small parking lot, where I would see a two-story, glassed bubbled edifice.
“Push the button next to the door and identify yourself,” he advised. “When they let you in, you can proceed upstairs to the classrooms.” Sounded simple, right? Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing is ordinary or simple in a prison setting. I went through the security doors, walked upstairs to a small lobby with vending machines, and then I entered a narrow and oppressively lit corridor, with locked doors on both sides. I didn’t know how far to proceed, and the hallway didn’t invite casual exploration. I interrupted a pair of deputies and asked where I could locate the training class for volunteers. They pointed me to the Complex Center, which was halfway down the hall, and looked like a bank vault room behind tinted, bulletproof glass. As I came up to it, I was momentarily confused by the absence of a doorknob or push bar at the entrance, until I recalled their scarcity in jails. I searched the wall for a speaker grill or buzzer of some kind, and spotted a black button. I identified myself to the disembodied voice from the grill and then waited for the door wall to slide open. The Complex receptionist couldn’t help me, and advised me to telephone my contact person for a room number. As I returned to the lobby to make my call, a chubby faced deputy in a rumbled uniform caught my eye as I passed him and followed me to the end of the corridor.
“Are you here for the volunteer training?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, sighing with relief at finally being recognized.
“You’re a little early,” he said, smiling. “I hadn’t opened the classroom up yet. If you’d like, you can wait here in the lobby or in Classroom A. It’s cooler out here and there are vending machines. The training begins at 6 o’clock”.
“Thanks,” I replied, starting to relax for the first time since my arrival. “I’ll wait here for a while.”With a bottle of orange juice in hand, I sat down, calmly catching my breath and carefully observing the situation I was in, and the people who came and went into the building. The question that kept arising was whether this place was really as intimidating and confusing, as it seemed, or was I simply overreacting? Maybe it was the strangeness of my surroundings that disoriented me, but travel and movement sure seemed limited and controlled in this place: windows were barred, there were no doorknobs or push bars, only security grills and door buzzers, and the hallways and corridors were claustrophobically dark and narrow. All the people were in uniform, and they seemed to inspect me as they walked by. I was immensely relieved that I’d decided not to wear jeans to this training. Khaki slacks, with a collared, dress shirt, and a blue blazer looked sober and professionally appropriate and, I hoped, above suspicion. When I saw two women entering the classroom, I gathered my materials and followed. Soon, six more volunteers and a lead deputy with a secretary joined us for the training.

The training officer was the first deputy to appear sincerely happy to see us, and he acted like he wanted us to feel at home. His manner lacked the martinet formality I’d observed from younger deputies, and he smiled and laughed when he spoke. He explained that this was the official training for all religious and volunteer services in jails and prisons, and his purpose was to give us a clear understanding of the policy and procedures that dealt with our interactions with prison inmates. He wanted to prevent any inappropriate actions or behaviors that might harm the inmates or us, and jeopardize the programs we worked for. He candidly warned us that volunteer services were viewed as peripheral operations, not directly related to the primary mission of the correctional department, which was to provide secure long-term housing and services for men and women convicted of felonies. The professional officers and deputies who completed this mission were greatly outnumbered by the inmates they guarded, so there was always tension and attention to rules and procedures. All the vocational and rehabilitation programs that existed in the detention centers or jails were run by outside contractors and volunteers, and they were considered nonessential.
“If you remember a few important things, you’ll be fine,” our trainer stressed. “First of all, be aware that you are entering a jail environment. Be careful what you carry on your person and in your car when you come into a jail environment, because you are subject to a search at any time”.
The expression, jail environment, and the way the deputy enunciated and explained it, unlocked the mystery that had puzzled me all evening, and on my previous visits to jails. A jail or prison was not a normal place of business. I had been comparing jails to the buildings and institutions I was familiar with – schools, government buildings, military bases, and huge medical centers. This was a jail, a prison, a unique setting where cunning and violent inmates outnumbered their jailers 100 to 1. A jail environment addressed the paranoia over security, control, and violence, by strictly observing, limiting, and curtailing the constitutional rights of property, access, and actions. We were meant to feel observed, inspected, and restricted in actions and movements while in this place.
“Just remember that you are providing a special and heartfelt service,” the deputy continued. “A service that the inmates will not receive if you ignore procedures, loiter about unsupervised, disregard directions, or go sight-seeing. Any deputy can ask a volunteer to leave the jail or premises, and an ejection for violating procedure jeopardizes your entire program and the vital services you provide inmates. Be careful and thoughtful in your actions and associations with inmates, and you’ll be fine”.
Those introductory remarks grabbed our attention, and we focused our efforts at reading the materials he distributed, listening to his explanations and examples, and noting the importance of certain issues.
“Volunteers want to help,” he explained, “but that same impulse can sometimes get them into trouble. Since volunteers come across as generous and kindly in their dealings with inmates, it’s easy for an inmate to request a favor or a service from you. These requests can be innocent and may not seem like a big deal – like lending them a pen, checking on a wife or mother, contacting a friend or relative. But sometimes they are tests to see if you can be used. How you respond to these tests will determine whether or not you will be a victim in the game of manipulation that goes on daily in a jail setting. Don’t be naïve, and don’t believe everything an inmate tells you. Remember you are entering their world, a world they know and manipulate. Don’t be excessively friendly and don’t share personal or financial information or problems with an inmate. If you think you are being asked to do something wrong, tell someone. Just be professional, follow the rules, and don’t go beyond your job assignment. Don’t be afraid to say ‘no, I’m not permitted to do that’. It’s the truth and it will be respected, especially coming from a volunteer”.
I’d heard many of these rules and procedures before, from Rick and other volunteer counselors during my observational visits, but not as concisely or methodically as the deputy’s presentation. The entire session lasted about 90 minutes, after which we signed off on various affidavits and received our certification letter allowing us escorted access to any custodial facility in the county.

Leaving the jail facilities, and walking to the garage took a lot less time than my arrival. In the cool twilight of the evening, with a red tinged sky softening the sharp angles and contours of the buildings, I drove through the downtown area heading home. I felt more confident in this volunteer undertaking, but still uneasy about my inability to express why I was doing it. As I drove along the freeway, an image from my second visit to the Golden State Detention Facility came to mind. That night I was again participating in a “faith sharing” session in Cellblock M, the maximum-security dormitory for violent offenders and long-term inmates. On this occasion Thomas was leading the group instead of Justin and we had a less responsive group of inmates than before. Three of the inmates were young Hispanics, heavily tattooed with shaved heads, who sat together laughing and whispering much of the time. A lone, young African-American sat on the opposite side, moodily examining everyone in the group, and never volunteering to answer a question or participate. The other five inmates were older, grey-haired veterans who were eager to listen, share, and contribute to a discussion on choosing a “road” after prison. One man in particular, by the name of Juan, tried appealing to the 3 younger Hispanics, telling them they had something to offer and encouraged them to be serious. I was silent throughout the session, not finding anything in this topic or the readings to prompt any comment. Getting no response from his three fellow Hispanic inmates, Juan looked me straight in the eyes, and then turned to Thomas.
“I’ve never met the new guy,” he said, raising his chin at me. “Can he tell us who he is and why he’s here?”
“Sure,” I replied hesitantly, surprised by the subtle interrogation. “My name is Tony, and I’m a retired school principal.” I took a deep breath and continued. “I was here two weeks ago as a visitor. Rick, one of the chaplains here, called me a month ago to ask if I would be interested in coming to the jail to observe and visit. I said yes, but I honestly couldn’t tell you why. I’m not a counselor or a minister. The only jail I’d ever been to before was Juvenile Hall. I was there twice on guided tours as a vice principal. The last time I went I met one of my junior high school students there. He saw me and called out my name, so I went to say hi and talked to him for a while. He just seemed happy to see me. His name was Jerry and I had suspended him from school a few times. I felt bad that he was in detention, because he wasn’t a bad kid, really. He just kept making bad choices that got him into trouble. What really surprised me though, was how happy he was to see me there. I couldn’t understand it, because I was always the guy giving him the consequences and the punishments for his choices. You know,” I said to the group, pausing for a moment. “Now that I think of it, maybe Jerry was happy to see me because I reminded him of school and his regular life outside of juvenile hall. We talked for a while and then I said goodbye and rejoined my tour group. I’m not sure why that story comes to mind. Maybe it’s the reason I said yes to Rick, and why I’m here. All I did was show up at Juvenile Hall, and it made Jerry’s day better. I suppose that’s what I’m doing when I come here. I’m just showing up”.
It sounded silly at the time, and I was embarrassed by its simplicity. However, Juan seemed to accept it and thanked me for coming. As I recalled that scene while driving home from the jail, I thought perhaps it was the best answer I’d ever have and decided to leave it at that.

As easy as it was to tell black from white,
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.
Our choices were few, and the thought never hit
That the road we traveled would ever shatter or split.
(Bob Dylan’s Dream, by Bob Dylan: 1962)

“So, what did you do to erase the speeding ticket from your record?” John retorted from the back seat of the car.
“I took an online computer class,” Greg answered, laughing and shaking his head. “I managed to finish the whole thing in a few hours while working at the office. It was relatively painless. God, traffic school is such a pain in the ass!”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking over from the passenger seat. “I despise those classes too. I’m glad you cleared the ticket. I haven’t gone to traffic school in years. I think the last time was in 1993. I took the 210 Freeway through Sunland-Tujunga, and there were places along that route that almost begged you to speed up.  I got nailed there one afternoon on the way home”.
“Yeah,” Greg lamented, “I hadn’t gotten a ticket in a long time either. I guess my luck finally ran out last week.”
“Well, you sure had a long run,” John interjected from the back. “You’re so lead-footed when you drive, I’m shocked you haven’t gotten more tickets by now.”
“Have you ever taken one of those comedy classes after a ticket?” I interjected, steering the conversation away from the topics of speeding and tickets. I’d been on the verge of repeating the old wives’ tale about ‘tickets coming in sets of three,’ when I had an irrational premonition that if I did so, something bad would happen. “Kathy took one of those courses and thought it was pretty funny,” I said instead.
“I think those comedy classes are a waste of time,” responded Jim curtly, from the rear of the car, where he was sitting next to John. “Either watch your speed or do your time in traffic school, jokes don’t make a difference”.
Jim’s remark drove a stake through the heart of the conversation. We were silent until I asked Greg if we were driving through Las Vegas before turning off towards Boulder City.
“I’m not sure,” he answered, keeping his eyes and one hand on the steering wheel as he reached up to his visor to take down a printed page of Google-map directions. “Look it up for me, will you?”
“Sure thing,” I responded, sitting up and reaching for my reading glasses. Looking at the map, I answered my own question aloud. “We won’t be passing the city. We continue North on Interstate 15 and then turn off at Exit 34, Interstate 215 North. That’s just South of the Las Vegas Airport”.
“We should be seeing Las Vegas pretty soon, then,” said Greg, as he steered the BMW SUV between a set of desert hills, through an elevated pass. Turning downward and beginning a speedy northward descent into a wide valley, we saw the glistening shine of the city in the far horizon. Whizzing by a glover-leafed, over-pass, I heard John’s warning.
“CHP at 3 o’clock!” he barked.
Looking quickly to my right, I saw a police motorcycle, along side of a California Highway Patrol car, steadily rolling down a parallel onramp and picking up speed.
“Damn,” muttered Greg. “Do you think they spotted me?” He quickly slowed the momentum of the car, and we all kept our eyes glued to the approaching motorcycle, praying it would pass us by.
“I thought I saw him putting down a radar gun just before he started moving,” John volunteered. We all held our breath until the motorcycle pulled up next to the car and the officer signaled with his gloved hand for us to pull over to the side.
“Oh shit,” muttered Greg, “he’s giving me a ticket!”
A black silence descended over the car as we slowly lost speed, while Greg looked for a safe place to park. We passed one, and then another vehicle on the shoulder of the road with a police officer standing next to it.
“It’s a fucking speed trap!” John declared from the back. “Oh man, we drove right into it. We didn’t have a chance”.
We came to a halt along the wide, center divider of the freeway and awaited the approaching police officer.
“Reach in the glove compartment, will you Tony?” Greg asked in a strained, but calm voice. “My registration should be in there.”
“Sure,” I replied, guiltily. Gazing up at the cement highway ahead, I saw a line of three or four interspersed cars ahead of us, parked along the center divider and the side of the road, with police officers next to them. It was truly a speed trap, and we were helplessly caught. I felt as though a band of uniformed thugs were jumping and beating up Greg, while his three friends stood quietly to the side, watching it happen. My premonition about multiple tickets had been right, and I felt partly responsible for this turn of events. A fog of despair settled over us, and I feared it was going to dampen Greg’s spirits, and cast a deadening pall over this day’s adventure. So far, Greg had been the chief organizer, guide, and cheerleader of this trip, and he had maintained a delicate balance of enthusiasm and cooperation among us. The writing of an expensive speeding ticket shifted the fulcrum of emotions, and the success of this trip was now at a critical tipping point.

The Four Amigos were on the road again - this time commemorating a major milestone in our lives. Jim, Greg, and I had already crossed the 60-year threshold in ages, and John’s was fast approaching. But this journey wasn’t to mark our ages, instead it reflected our current and pending retirements from work.  Although John was the youngest of the group at 59, he had retired early from the Fire Department in 2005. A 28-year career of bending, lifting, carrying, and ministering to emergency patients as a paramedic and firefighter had taken its toll on his body, and he walked away from the job while he still could. I retired as a principal from the Los Angeles City Schools in July, after 35 years. Greg would be ending his career as a superintendent with the Evergreen School District on June 30, 2010. So we scheduled this trip on the first day of Jim’s retirement from the Western Union Alarm Company. Coincidently, all four of us had once worked at Western Union Alarm during various times in our lives after high school, but Jim stayed on to finish a 44-year run in operations and sales. So, on Friday, March 5, 2010 we were traveling to celebrate this turning point in our lives with a weekend visit to Primm, Nevada, at the state line between California and Nevada. Primm, you wonder, and ask, why Primm?  A very good question! I can answer it in a compound sentence. Jim wanted to visit Primm for a weekend of gambling, traveling through Joshua Tree National Park, and then spending Sunday night in Pioneertown. That sentence also contained the seeds of pending disaster, and promised to wreck this retirement road trip before it ever left the curb.

In past blogs I’ve tried encapsulating the essences of my three friends and me, into the characters of a Scientist-Accountant (Jim), Soldier-Medic (John), Seer-Visionary (Greg), and Scribe-Photographer (me). I think these characterizations are convenient, and they seem to manifest themselves when we get together for reunions and trips to different parts of the State. While we’ve been friends for 45 years, the four of us still remain distinct individuals with different emotional, cognitive, and interpersonal styles. Our relationships have changed and evolved over the years, with interpersonal alliances forming, changing, and then dissolving as we matured, married, and raised families. But we’ve always stayed friends and managed to stay in touch through these trips and reunions. At our last get-together at Pioneertown in October (see Flickr Album: 2009-10-03 Pioneertown), Greg took the lead in organizing and planning this latest trip to Primm. Since it was scheduled on Jim’s retirement date, we agreed that he and Jim should develop a proposed itinerary. John and I were happy to leave the planning to them, and we trusted Greg to make it work. However, when I received Greg’s first email with Jim’s suggested travel route and accommodations, I threw the first monkey wrench into the planning mechanism, and John soon tossed the second.

I had two issues with the original plan. First of all, I hated gambling. Throwing money away on gaming tables or machines was abhorrent to me. I have never been lucky at games, and spending two nights in a second-rate casino on the outer fringes of the state of Nevada was not going to provide enough alternative entertainment. I was also tired of Pioneertown. We had stayed at the sole motel there on multiple occasions, and despite its proximity to the wonderful, Pappy and Harriet’s Palace, its rustic and old-fashioned accommodations were a hardship. I felt there were newer and more comfortable places to spend the last night of our trip. John had a different issue. He had grown weary of being the designated driver of our road trips, and always carrying the load. In a pique of frustration, John fired off an email stating that he was not a chauffeur, and wouldn’t be going on the trip. Jim let Greg handle this blooming mutiny, and after making a few phone calls he unruffled our feathers and brokered a deal. Greg convinced John and me that a 45-year friendship was a fragile treasure requiring our patience and willingness to compromise.
“Trust me,” he said, ending his conversation with me. “I’ll make this work.”
So we went along with him, and the road trip was on – barely.

On a gorgeous Friday morning, John arrived at my door in his BMW roadster convertible to drive us to our first rendezvous point at Peggy Sue’s Diner, in Barstow, California. I had not driven in an open convertible for any extended time since my senior year in high school, when Russell Dalton picked me up in his Corvette convertible to drive up Pacific Coast Highway to see the Pink Lady Mural on a canyon wall of Malibu in 1966. It was an inspired idea to bring the sports car. The two-seated roadster made for a fabulous, open-air ride along some incredible scenic routes. John had alerted me the day before to bring a cap, jacket, and sun tan lotion. I also brought my camera to digitally record our drive and the trip on a beautiful, crisp, and sunny day. Between merrily, snapping pictures of the L.A. Aqueduct Water Cascade on the Golden Gate Freeway (Interstate 5), the snow covered peaks of the Angeles National Forest along Pearblossom Highway (Hwy 138), and the endless desert vistas on Highway 18 and the Mojave Freeway (US Interstate 15), I questioned John about his wife and sons. When I mentioned his change of heart about the trip, he said it was no big deal, really.
“I never had a problem with driving,” he explained. “After talking with Greg, I realized that I got annoyed at Jim’s backseat driving. His directions would get under my skin and I was letting them fester and spoil these reunions. I just decided to eliminate the friction by bringing the roadster and letting Greg do the caravan driving”.
“You were inspired!” I complimented him. “I love the car, and this drive is wonderful.” (see Flickr Album: 2010-03-05 Road to Nevada)




 

Jim and Greg were waiting in the parking lot of Peggy Sue’s Diner, just outside of Barstow, when we pulled up. To my surprise, we each ordered moderately proportioned lunches of soup, grilled cheese sandwich, or salad. It was clear that our youthful days of high calorie, bacon and cheeseburgers, with fries, and multiple beers were over. During the meal, Greg reviewed our plans and discussed the itinerary changes for the weekend.
“So I figure we do a little gambling at the Primm casinos for two nights,” he began. “We can drive to Hoover Dam on Saturday, and then leave Sunday by traveling through Joshua Tree National Forest. We can make some scenic stops along the way, and finish up at Pappy and Harriet’s Palace for lunch or a drink. I couldn’t make reservations at the Pioneertown Hotel because they have a new owner who’s renovating the place. So I booked us into a new Indian casino in Rancho Mirage, near Palm Springs. What do you think?” he asked.
“Great”, “good job”, “excellent,” we chimed in together.
“Now you just have to overcome my aversion to gambling,” I challenged. “If you can do that, this trip will be perfect.”
“I’m working on it,” Greg shot back with a smile.


 

Primm is a gaudy, over-illuminated rest stop in the middle of the Mojave Desert on Interstate Highway 15. It is a strategically located mini-mall on the state line between California and Nevada that invites California residents to begin gambling there, instead of driving for another hour to Las Vegas, or playing one last slot machine before leaving Nevada. At first glance, the complex appears to be three separate hotels, built around a miniature amusement park, but they all belong to one syndicate called Terrible’s Primm Valley Casino Resorts. Each hotel had the same freshly painted, papier-mâché look of a false façade on some movie studio back lot. We were staying two nights in the least garish of the three hotels called the Primm Valley Resort and Casino. Resembling a pre-Civil War, Gone With the Wind mansion, it was next door to a Western saloon-looking Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino, and across the freeway from an Arthurian castle called Whiskey Pete’s Hotel and Casino. After checking-in and unpacking, we explored the casino floor and its adjoining store outlets. John continued playing the slot machines while Greg, Jim, and I doubled back to the bar, next to a Sport’s Book. A casino cop stopped me from taking candid photographs on the gaming floor, so I spent the remaining afternoon drinking complimentary beers as we played video poker at the counter. After an hour of feeding dollar bills into the video slot, we reconvened for an early dinner at the coffee shop. John had given up alcohol a year ago, so the prospect of further casino trawling and drinking did not appeal to him and he retreated to his room. We continued wandering around the gaming floor without settling into any particular game or distraction. The evening was becoming steadily more and more tedious, and I was on the verge of following John’s example, when Greg came suddenly to life.
“Okay,” he announced, looking around and rubbing his hands together, as if scrubbing up for surgery. “This place is dead. We need a change of scenery. Let’s go to Buffalo Bill’s for a change of luck and to get something going.”  In Pied Piper fashion he led us out of the casino, through the parking lot adjacent to the theme park, and through the wide sliding glass doors of the neighboring hotel. The lobby looked down at a darkened canopy of fake sequoia trees that sheltered a vast, glittering floor of gaming tables, gambling kiosks, and slot machine centers. We walked down onto the floor and followed Greg as he cruised the roulette and card game areas.
“Have you ever played craps?” Greg asked, pausing at a half filled table.
“It’s supposed to have the best odds for winning,” added Jim, “but I’ve never played”.
“I did once in Tahoe,” I volunteered, “but I was with a friends who explained what was going on, and advised me as we played. I have to admit it was fun”.
“Well then, let’s play,” Greg announced. “Come on,” he encouraged, “how hard can it be? Let’s find an empty table. The table crew can teach us how to play!”


 

To this day, I’ll never understand how Greg suppressed our inherent male phobia of asking directions, and got us to play a new game. Before I had a chance to protest or resist, he spotted and made a beeline for a deserted craps table with a decidedly Asian-looking pit crew and a single African-American man in a tuxedo, standing around it. The Wingman Code required that we back him up, so Jim and I followed and stood by his side as he engaged the tuxedoed, African-American gentleman in conversation. He was the crew supervisor, or boxman, and he identified his crew as consisting of a stickman, who called the rolls and announced the bets, and two crap dealers, one at each end of the table, who converted cash for chips and made sure the bets were placed correctly on the table. The boxman smiled at Greg’s request and assured us that his crew would be happy to guide us through the game. Greg and I changed 20 dollars into chips and settled in to play this game for as long as the chips lasted. Greg started rolling first. The first roll in a Craps round is called the come out roll. If the dice total is 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10, then the point is established. On the other hand, a roll of 2, 3, 7, 11, or 12 on the come out roll immediately ends the round. When the point is established, an “ON” puck is placed on the point number. Once the point is established, the dice are rolled continuously until the same point is rolled again or a 7. Greg kept rolling and rolling, and by doing so he created many, many ways of betting. Honestly, I never got them all straight in my head, so I restricted myself to only a few and hoped for the best. I would always bet on the Pass, in the hopes that the roller would score or make his point, but I also bet on the Field. A field bet wagers that the next roll will be a 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, or 12. To place a field bet, the player places his chips in the Field bar. If the shooter rolls a 2 or 12, you get paid double your initial bet (2-1). If a 3, 4, 9, 10, or 11 appear, you get paid even money (1-1). You lose the bet if a 5, 6, 7, or 8 are rolled.


 

By the time Greg crapped out, five or six more people had joined us at the table. The pit crew kept explaining the game, but the noise level, enthusiasm, and our confidence was steadily building. I rolled next, and then the dice passed to a young woman at the far end of the table. As I became more comfortable with the game, I began dabbling in riskier, high return bets, called single roll bets. As the name implies you call out these bets to the dealer, before the dice are rolled, and the dealer places the chips on the designated location. My favorite call was aces (one and one), and it paid 20-1. The lucky lady managed to roll it enough times to guarantee that I would be at the table for three rounds of complimentary drinks. Thirty minutes later, the dice worked its way back to us, and we tried it again. We were at the table for about two hours, and left with more money than we started. Walking out of Buffalo Bill’s, three abreast, Greg began discussing our drive to Hoover Dam on the following day, and how fabulous it would be. I found myself smiling and nodding at his extravagant predictions of the sights and travels. I was beginning to believe, for the first time that this trip might work out after all.


 

End of Part One: to be continued in “Many A Road Taken: Part Two”.

It’s a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It’s a beautiful day
Don’t let it get away.
(It’s a Beautiful Day – Bono of U2: 2001)

Until Eddie’s statement, it was an ordinary day. Well, not ordinary, exactly. Easter Sunday is never just ordinary. It is a special day. A day we are prompted in our churches to greet one another with the paschal reminder of our Faith, “He is risen, Alleluia”. To which the person being greeted is supposed to reply, “Indeed, He is risen, thanks be to God, Alleluia”. It is not supposed to be an ordinary day, but until I heard what my nephew Eddie had to say about the day, it had been rather traditional.

It was Easter afternoon, in the backyard of Kathy’s sister, Tere, and her husband Mike. They were hosting Easter Sunday brunch this year at their home. The festively decorated, patio table was filled with strategically placed guacamole dip, tortilla chips, and little Cuban, hors d’oeuvres sandwiches with no crust. Two giant ice chests, located by the back bedroom stairs, were brimming with crushed ice, soft drinks, bottled water, and beers. Everything was ready for the guests and members of the family to arrive. When Kathy and I got there at 3 o’clock, a handful of people were already seated inside and outside of the house. We sat with Meg in the back yard, and greeted the steady procession of sisters, husbands, nephews and nieces who followed: Prisa and Joe, Misa and Eddie, and Patty and Dick. Even Brian had arrived from Washington D.C., with his friend Phil. Some people sat in the patio, while others returned to the house where it was warmer. Those of us wearing coats, sweaters, or shawls basked in the intermittent sun, sipping cokes or beers as we chatted and laughed. At about 4:30, Mike announced that the food was prepared and to help ourselves to the buffet that was set.

When I returned to the patio table with a plate full of honey-baked ham and chile relleno casserole, the chairs had been rearranged and a preponderance of cousins were seated around  my daughter, Prisa. Brian and Phil, along with Patty and Dick, had moved to the lower barbeque eating area, while Joe, Lou, and Meg sat on the stairs next to the ice chests. Eddie and I were the only men in a table of 5 women and 1 teenager, Maggie. With only half an ear to the rhythm of their laughter and conversation, and giving little attention to the content of their discussion, I was mildly amused that these cousins were discussing the same things we, their parents talked about at these gatherings many years before – movies, sports, and finally the weather. It was all pretty predictable, until I heard Eddie’s gravelly baritone voice say:
“I love these early spring days. The way the sunshine breaks in an out of the thick, billowy clouds, and the way the temperature drops suddenly after 3 o’clock. It’s great weather to be in a Jacuzzi, sipping a coke and flipping flash cards, while studying for an exam. If you add in a plate of sushi – it’s a perfect day.”

I was struck by the chilling and  sparkling scenes that slapped me in the face, forcing me to gasp for breath at their unexpected colorful imagery. The statement was so VISUAL!  The words plunged me into a caldron of swirling pictures and sensations: the glowing sun, grey and white clouds, radiant beams, cold and warm intervals of light and shade, bubbling hot water, frosty mugs of coca-cola, moist flash cards with scribbled notes, test papers, and a plate of tasty, vinegary rice, topped with fish. I re-focused my attention on Eddie’s long angular face, and his newly, clean-shaven jaw.
“I need to write that sentence down,” I told him, when he returned my surprised look. “You touched all the senses that made you aware of that moment and how it helped you study for a test. It was beautiful!”
“Well, it’s true,” he said, laughing.
“It was true indeed,” I agreed.

I don’t know if anyone else heard our brief exchange. Even Eddie’s attention wandered off to the next topic of conversation at the table. But I suddenly found myself more alert and responsive to the people I was sitting with and the talk that was going on around me. I think it was Brigid who asked my three-month pregnant daughter, Prisa, if she and Joe had decided on names for their baby.
“We’re considering all possibilities right now,” Prisa explained. “Joe was thinking of Leonard, the name of his deceased father.”
“Leonard, Leonardo,” Misa repeated the names aloud, “very cool names. Are you going with Spanish or English pronunciation of names? There are a lot of Spanish names in our family and they make great nicknames. Eddie can vouch for me on this, he made up my nickname, Misa”.
“Yeah, there’s Maria Teresa, Antonio, Teresa, Eduardo Luis, and Marisa Elena,” recited Eddie, imitating a Spanish pronunciation, by rolling his r’s and exaggerating his vowels. “These are family names that just roll off the tongue”.
“They’re beautiful names,” Prisa agreed, “but they don’t sound quite right with a Scot-Irish surname.
“Leonard is a great name,” I agreed, hesitantly, not wanting to appear overly interested as the future grandfather of the baby being named. “It has a lot of nickname possibilities – Lee, Leo, Lennie, Lonnie, and even Nardo.”
“I’m not crazy about Nardo, but I hadn’t thought of Lee or Len. Not bad, Dad,” she added, “thanks”.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, very pleased with myself. “But I’m rooting for a girl. Have you thought of any names for her yet?”
“Well, I know mom’s suggestion,” she moaned, looking to her mother sitting across the table.
“What name do you like?” I asked, turning to Kathy, who was also following the conversation.
“I think Mary Kathleen fits the bill,” she replied quickly, “but that’s just one of many ideas. Prisa will know what’s best.”
“Hmm, Mary Kate,” I said, letting the sound of those names roll off my tongue. “I like it. I could do a lot of improvising with that name.”
“Well there’s a long way to go before any decisions are made about names,” Prisa announced, bringing the matter to a close. Then looking over to the youngest cousin at the table, she changed the subject by reminding us of Maggie’s upcoming 16^th birthday. As if on cue, Tere and Mike walked outside carrying two small cakes to symbolize the birthdays that their daughters Maggie and Anora would be celebrating the following week. When the singing was done, and the cousins had tasted the designer cake, the group at the table broke up for dessert and departure. Eddie announced he had to study. Joe wanted to get Prisa home so she could rest, and the party began to disperse. Kathy and I left soon after.

All this happened on a spring day, at a family Easter party. It was an ordinary occasion that came to life with a few words. Eddie’s statement was a pictorial poem that created a scene for me. An image of Misa, Prisa, Brigid, Maggie, Kathy, Meg, Patty, and Eddie and I, seated at a circle table, talking and laughing. Too late, I realized on the drive home, that I had taken no photos of the day. Strange, isn’t it, the way we overlook the significance of a moment when it occurs. We realize an opportunity was missed, only when it’s lost and can’t be retrieved. If I wanted to remember this day and this scene, I’d have to write about it. As Eddie demonstrated, a perfect day, or a perfect moment can only be reconstructed in words – and a few extra photographs.

“The time of my departure is come.
I have fought the good fight,
I have run the good race,
And I have kept the faith.”
(2 Timothy 4: 6-7)

There was something different about the house on Workman. I could tell as soon I bolted through the front door, looking around for my Uncle Charlie. There was an eerie silence in the house, and the usual clutter and dishevelment of the living room was gone. Inspecting the long dining room table as I passed, it too had been cleared of the piles of opened and unopened mail, and the stacks of magazines, books, records, and board games that accumulated over the course of the week. Even the television room was empty of aunts or uncles lounging around in pajamas, drinking coffee, or finishing breakfast. Only abuelita, my grandmother, was in her usual place in the kitchen, drying the breakfast dishes and cups by the sink.
“Hola abuelita,” I announced, moving next to her, into correct saludar y besar position.
“Hola Toñito, querido”, she said, cupping my face in her still wet hands as she bent down to kiss my cheeks. “¿Como está me nieto consentido?”
“Bien, abuelita,” I replied proudly. Although I suspected she called all her grandchildren preferidos, or “favoured ones”, I delighted at hearing her use the Spanish endearment for “special one”. I felt that my position as the first male grandchild in the family gave me a unique status and special privileges. “Where’s Charlie?” I asked, switching to English.
“Está arríba limpiándo su cuarto (He’s upstairs cleaning his room),” she said, giving my chubby cheeks one more squeeze before releasing me. “Dile que baje cuando acaba, porque tengo un mandado que necesito (Tell him to see me when he’s finished, because I have an errand for him),” she added, returning to work.
“Sí abuelita,” I replied, rushing past the entering entourage of my twin brother and sister, with my parents right behind. Hearing that my 10 year old, Uncle Charlie was cleaning his room on this bright and sunny Saturday morning was the most unsettling discovery of all. Charlie and his older brother Kado played a waiting game with my grandmother called, “Who will weary of the messy bedroom first and finally clean it?” They usually won and sometimes tied, but they NEVER cleaned their room. I knew Charlie kept his comics under the pile of shirts and pants next to his bed, and Kado stored his sports equipment along with his socks and shoes on the closet floor. I shuddered to think how I would never recognize an orderly landscape. Learning that my youngest uncle was hanging, folding, and storing clothes, and cleaning his room was apocalyptic news.
“Charrrllliieee!” I yelled, dashing up the stairs and running into his room. “What’s going on? How come you’re not outside?”
“Oh, hi Tony,” a distracted voice said from inside the closet. “Do you want to help?”
“Sure,” I replied, enthusiastically, peeking into the closet door. “What do you want me to do?” I was always a willing sap when invited to share in the duties and responsibilities of my Uncle Charlie, who was five years my senior. Despite the monotony of the task, doing things for, or with my uncle was a treat. I felt it diminished our age difference, taught me new skills, and gave me intimate access to an uncle I imitated.
“I need you to match the correct shoes into pairs, place them in empty shoe boxes, and stack them under the hanging clothes,” he instructed. “Balls, gloves, and equipment go in that basket, and you place the bats, and other long items against the wall.”
“Okay,” I replied, sitting Indian-style on the floor and beginning to pick up and inspect street shoes and tennis shoes. “Where is everybody, and why are you cleaning your room?” I asked again.
“Oh, didn’t you know,” he said, looking up in surprise. “Everyone is busy getting ready for the party. Qui-qui is coming home from the war today!”

I spent the morning organizing the shoes in the closet and cleaning the bedroom with Charlie, while downstairs, others decorated the house for the homecoming party or went shopping. The gaiety and excitement in the house grew with each passing hour. It was heightened by the uncertainty of Qui-qui ’s arrival time. All Charlie knew for sure was that Qui-qui was coming home TODAY, but he didn’t know when. He stayed remarkably alert to the conversations of his older sisters and sought clues from the actions of his brothers. Charlie did not want to miss anything; so playing in the backyard, away from the house was out of the question. I just tagged along behind him until my abuelita sent him to the store on his bike. With that errand my tether was broken, and I sat on the front porch waiting for Qui-qui to appear.

Qui-qui was the nickname of my Uncle Enrique, who was also called Henry or Hank. I vaguely remembered him before he was drafted into the U.S. Army during the Korean War (1950-1953), but doubted I could describe or recognize him. I simply knew him as one of my two uncles in the war. The other was Tarcisio (also called Tarsi, Chato, or “Shadow”). Their absence was the unspoken concern of the family, amplified by the loss of two other brothers during World War II. My father rarely mentioned Qui-qui or Shadow, except to hope that the war would end soon, and they would return safely. He said nothing about today’s homecoming, so I wondered if he had been told. Coming to my grandparent’s house on Workman Street on Saturday was a weekly ritual. It permitted my parents to go grocery shopping or visiting, and gave them a break from their four children, whom they left in the care of my two young aunts and uncle - Lisa, Espy, and Charlie. In its entirety, my father’s Mexican-American family numbered 14 children in the following order:

Antonio Jose: Tony, my father, was born in 1921.
Alberto: Albert, died in France in 1944.
Manuel (also died in France in 1944).
Victor: Vic
Maria Guadalupe: Lupe, Lulu, or Lue.
Tarcisio: Tarsi, Chato, or Shadow.
Enrique: Qui-qui, Henry, or Hank.
Jovita: Jay-jay, or Jay.
Helen.
Ricardo: Kãdo.
Ana Maria: Tillie.
Elisa: Liza, or Lisa.
Carlos Cruz: Charlie, or Chuck.
Esperanza: Espi, or Espy.

In the course of the afternoon, members of the family slowly began appearing and involving themselves in the activities and rising tensions of the arrival. Charlie returned from his errand, but stayed near his older siblings. I just sat on the porch watching and wondering if I would recognize Qui-qui if he walked up from the sidewalk. But even that worry faded in the unending monotony of waiting. The afternoon passed and I began despairing that my mother would insist on taking us home for dinner before the homecoming, and we would miss the party. Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement in the house.
“Qui-qui’s on the telephone,” an excited female voice shouted through the screen door behind me. I catapulted off the porch as though sprung by a starter’s pistol-shot and rushed to the telephone room in the narrow passage way between the first floor bedrooms. Whoever the voice was sounding the alert, others already knew, because a throng of bodies blocked the inner corridor. I ran around to the opposite end for a better view, but could only get as far as Lisa, who was looking over someone else’s shoulder.
“Who’s talking to Qui-qui?” I asked, standing on tiptoes.
“Helen” replied Lisa, staring intently into the telephone scrum. “She’s trying to figure out what’s wrong”.
Adults behind me began muttering that he wasn’t coming, that the army had cancelled his discharge. Even though I didn’t understand what they meant, I sensed their frustration and rising panic over something being wrong. I heard Helen say something loud, but garbled, and suddenly the crowd began rushing out of the hallway toward the living room.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” I yelled, grabbing hold of Lisa’s sweater so she couldn’t dash away too.
“He’s at Savon’s,” she shouted, pulling away. “He’s up the street at the soda fountain, now let go of me!” She rushed after the rest of her sisters, with me following close behind. Even by leaping the porch steps, I couldn’t compensate for Lisa’s long and skinny legs, or match her speed. I could see Helen and Tillie far in the lead of the pack, with Charlie and Kado close behind them.
“Why didn’t he come home?” I yelled, hoping Lisa would answer and slow down.
“I don’t know,” Lisa panted. “I think he got scared”.
That didn’t make sense, I thought. How can a soldier be scared? Lisa was giving me crazy girl answers, so I stopped asking and concentrated on keeping up.

Savon Drugstore was located on one of the corners of “Five Points”, the 5-block intersection of Pasadena Ave and Avenue 26 in Lincoln Heights. It was only about 10 minutes away, on a leisurely pace. Running, I reached it in 6, but well behind my aunts and uncles. They were huddling around a tall, black-haired soldier at the soda counter. The girls were tearfully screaming, and Kado was laughing and pounding the back of a skinny, curly-haired, young man dressed in khaki. I stood back from the hectic scene and watched, leaning against the rear wall. The soldier looked vaguely familiar, and clearly resembled my dad and his brothers. His laughter was clear and sharp, and acted as a bugle call shushing the scolding of his sisters for making them run all the way to the drugstore.
“I just wanted to rest for a minute and have a soda pop before going home,” he protested with a casual smile, acting as if calling from a pay telephone booth was the common way of returning from war. “I also wanted to see who loved me most and would arrive first”.
“Cabrón!” Helen exclaimed, her long, lustrous hair flying as she punched his arm with her balled fist. “I wanted to be the first so I could slap you for being such a stupid ox!” With that she threw herself headfirst into his arms and began sobbing. That set off all five sisters, and even Kado was brushing away tears. I just watched, wondering what role I played in this family scene.

That was my first clear memory of my uncle Qui-qui, whom I soon started calling Henry. I was 5 or six years old at the time, and in awe of this tall, dark, and sharply dressed warrior. Eventually, someone noticed me, standing wide-eyed and silent in the rear of the drugstore, and I was pushed forward and introduced as Tony’s eldest son, the first grandchild in the family. He gave me a hug, mentioning how much I’d grown since he left - and promptly ignored me. Soon my mom and dad arrived to welcome and scold him good-naturedly for not going directly home. My dad ended the impromptu soda fountain break by stating that my grandparents were anxiously awaiting Henry at home and it was time to leave. Slowly and grudgingly, Henry arose from his seat, removed the folded garrison cap attached to his shoulder strap, and adjusted it rakishly to the side of his head. Then, with arms encircling the narrow waists of Helen and Tillie, they began the slow triumphal walk home.

After this homecoming, I had only sporadic interactions with Henry during his residence in my grandparents home. He quickly returned to his previous job in the County of Los Angeles and I only saw him in passing when we visited on weekends. His world seemed a faraway Olympian peak of work, older friends, dating, and sports. I found him very different from the other men in the family. Although his eyes twinkled when he gave the family’s characteristic deep and hearty laugh, he was remarkably serious and taciturn in his speech and manners. This separated him from the raucous group of uncles I knew, and made him stand out. I was used to joking and playful ribbings from the uncles who engaged me in conversation, quizzing me, and allowing me to join their games and activities. Henry didn’t do that. He would greet me solemnly, speaking to me in an adult fashion, and then dismiss me. He was always busy, and didn’t seem to have time for children, especially when competing in sports. He tolerated children, but didn’t play with them the way my father, Victor, Kado, and Charlie did. My dad said Henry reminded him of Manuel, the lean, dark, and brooding younger brother who died in the Second World War. Yet, despite his seeming indifference to me, I idolized him. He was cool and detached, handsome and brave, and strong and athletic. In the absurdist, wishing-based world of a 5 year-old, Henry was the one person I would have picked as my father. At family gatherings I silently studied how he spoke, and the way he explained his interests and values. He was very diligent about his work and anticipated his future responsibilities as a husband and father. I secretly envied him when he brought his girlfriend to family events the year before he married. Lupita was a cute and petite brunette, with a kind face and a charming smile. She reminded me of a Mexican-American June Allyson, in the Glenn Miller Story. The most crushing disappointment of my childhood was not attending their wedding in 1956. I was a 9-year-old student at St. Teresa of Avila School and Church. The same church in which Henry and Lupita were to marry, in a double ceremony with his brother Tarsi and Alice! I was excited to finally be old enough to enjoy a wedding, but I came down with the flu the week before and never saw it. I had to be satisfied with the verbal descriptions of my parents and siblings, when they visited me at home during the daylong nuptial activities.

Another clear memory I have of that period of time was the athletic club Henry and Kado organized called The Die Hards. It was a motley team, composed of friends, family members, and an occasional “ringer”, who got together as often as they could, and competed in a variety of intramural, park league sports. Charlie was my main source of information about this team with the unusual name, and who seemed to lose more games than they won. I remember watching them play touch football, softball, and horseshoes at various times during my childhood days, and longing to be old enough to join them. Henry was the president of the club, and although he and Kado were captains, Kado was the best player. I think Kado told me that, along with his explanation for their name when I asked who made up such a crazy name.
“Listen, J.R.,” he said, calling me by the initials for ‘junior’. “A team name is important because it describes how we compete to our opponents, and the rest of the league. We’re a collection of brothers, cousins, and carnales who play with heart and passion, because we love the games. We may not be the best athletes or the strongest players, but we are going to give all we have and never give up. Somos valientes, we are warriors, like the ancient Aztecs of Tenochtitlan, or the revolutionary soldiers of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata, who didn’t fear death when they fought against the superior odds of the Conquistadores and Federales. They were never defeated, even when they were killed, because they never gave up and they died hard. You can’t lose, when you don’t give up – even if the other team has more points at the end of the contest. That is what our name tells our opponents - we may not always win, but we never lose. Only quitters lose and we’re the Die Hards - we never give up”.

The name of that team always made me smile – Die Hards! When it became the title of Bruce Willis’ action-movie franchise (the Die-Hard series), I wondered if Bruce gave the same explanation for the title as my Uncle Kado. I doubted it.

My Uncle Henry died this month at the age of 81. I attended his mass and burial on March 10, 2010, with my mother and siblings, Gracie and Eddie. I’d been unable to attend the requiem for my uncle Tarsi (“Shadow”) in 2007, so it was my first family funeral in many years. It was a bittersweet experience. I was happy to see so many of my aunts, uncles, and cousins in one place, and yet saddened that it took Henry’s death to bring us together. It was also sobering to see how we were all inexorably aging and fading into grey. The realization of our own eventual demise kept me very detached from the proceedings and immunized me from the waves of sorrow and grief that swept over Lupita and her children. My connections to Henry and all my aunts and uncles had slowly weakened over the years. As I aged, married, and raised a family of my own, I rarely interacted with my father’s family. I only saw them accidently (when visiting my brother Eddie in Monrovia) and at special family reunions (See Celebrate and Rejoice). At first, the only thing the funeral was provoking were nostalgic scenes of Henry’s return from Korea, his days living at home with Kado, Shadow, and Charlie, and his Die Hard exploits. It wasn’t until the eulogy of one of his grandchildren at the end of the service, that I learned a startling truth - something I never suspected about this uncle whom I believed to be so strict and self-critical in his adulthood and middle age, and so aloof to children. Henry was a devoted and loving grandfather and great-grandfather. Who knew!

The stories told by his grandson, reminded me of the antics and joyful actions of my uncles Victor, Shadow, Kado, and Charlie when they recounted jokes and stories, and played games with me and other nephews. I recalled Charlie teaching me to make rubber band guns out of wood, Kado showing me how to build and fly a kite from scratch, playing horseshoes with Victor, and learning to draw with Shadow. Each brother had unique talents and told a special brand of story: Charlie about soldiers, Kado about athletes, Shadow about knights and kings, and Victor told jokes. The warmth, humour, and attention from these uncles seemed to coalesce and unite in the tales I heard from Henry’s grandchildren. It was as if his retirement as Head of Property and Supply for the Probation Department of Los Angeles released him to finally pay attention to the important things in life – games, laughter, and the play of his children’s children and their children. Henry had seven children, 20 grandchildren, and 4 great-grandchildren, and he became an integral and vital part of their lives, in the last quarter of his. I couldn’t help feeling a rekindling of my childhood jealousy of Henry’s good fortune. He had found the wisdom of age. He had discovered the real value of life and the importance of love and children. I prayed that this was a lesson I could learn and imitate as my own retirement began.

Later, standing next to my mother at the gravesite and watching Henry’s family slowly reach out to touch the casket as they trooped past, it struck me that Henry never stopped being a Die Hard. As an adult, he stoically faced the rigorous duties and responsibilities of marriage, a career, and fatherhood, and he never quit. Like a Die Hard, he never lost, and perhaps he even cheated death by finding the Kingdom of God on Earth in his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He retired to re-discover the joys of children and became one of them again. He played the game of life and never lost. Saint Paul’s epistle to Timothy seemed very appropriate in that moment, and I mouthed the words as we walked silently away from the grave:

“The time of my departure is come. I have fought the good fight, I have run the good race, and I have kept the faith.”

Goodbye tío Qui-qui, we’ll have to finish this game without you.

If you are interested in the complete photo album of our my father's family in Lincoln Heights check my Flickr account: http://www.flickr.com/photos/39441480@N02/sets/72157623640715263/

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command my love,
That was there at my command.

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heartbeat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth
And would last till the end of time my love,
And would last till the end of time.
(The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, written by Ewan MacColl: 1957)

The only time I was truly jealous of Kathy was when I saw her with Toñito in the days after his birth. She would be sitting up in her hospital bed, looking down at the blanketed infant with the black shock of hair, or later, sitting back on the couch in our living room. A radiant look of such intimacy and tenderness shone from her face as she looked down at her son that an invisible force field of loving exclusivity barred me from approaching. There was something physical and tangible in the connection I felt between Kathy and her first-born child. It was a phenomenon that I had never seen or experienced before, and it confused me. We had been married for three years, sharing the 9-month pregnancy, talking about the phases Kathy was going through, measuring the physical changes, and anticipating the discomforts. I held Kathy’s hand during the nightlong labor, releasing it only when she was wheeled into the operating room for an emergency Caesarian birth. At first I thought this unique linkage between mother and child had to be about breastfeeding, but that notion disappeared when Kathy gave me Toñito’s graveyard feeding so she could have an uninterrupted night’s sleep. No, I was seeing more than a nutritional moment between mother and child, I was watching an emotional and psychic bonding that I could never be a part of. From that moment, I knew that my exclusive hold on Kathy’s affection had ended forever. With the birth of our first child, the honeymoon, and my sole provenance to Kathy’s heart was over.

We had a two-year honeymoon. That’s the only way to describe the idyllic two years we spent in the two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment in Santa Monica. It was the perfect place to begin a marriage, discovering one another, and starting a family. The apartment was part of a grey, sun-bleached, 18-unit complex on the east side of Ocean Avenue, across the street from Palisades Park, and a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Our doorway exited into a narrow courtyard with decorative patio furniture arranged around two small, widely spaced trees. I never saw anyone sitting in those chairs, or using that area. When the residents wanted to relax or take in the sun (and sunset) they left the complex, crossed the street, and lounged on the lush green grass, gazing at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, or walking along the 5-mile gravel path that extended from San Vicente Boulevard to Colorado Avenue. I don’t recall ever being angry or unhappy there. Even during our second year, when I was struggling to acclimatize myself to the disciplinary trials of teaching troubled adolescents in an “opportunity” public school (I had taught in a Catholic high school the year before), simply crossing the street to breathe in the fresh, clean, ocean breezes, and absorbing the setting sun, erased all my worries and filled me with blissful tranquility. This was a time when nothing existed outside of our relationship, when Kathy was the whole focus of my life, and we did everything together.

Husbands and wives don’t like admitting it, but even after a long courtship (two years in our case) and countless formal and informal dates, family gatherings, and telephone calls, a man and a woman begin a marriage as total strangers. Everything before the public statement of vows was pretend, everything after is for real. In that apartment in Santa Monica, Kathy and I became WE. We learned to sleep together, wake up together, dress together, eat together, watch television together, walk together, read together, talk together, and be silent and comfortable together. We were two young people learning how to live together.
“Kath, I didn’t know you hated coffee!”
“Tony, I have a confession to make. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand refried beans. I can’t take their smell, taste, or sight. Do you forgive me?”
“Kathy, do you remember how I used to tell you how I loved your perfume? Well, I was pretending, because I can’t smell a thing”.
I revealed all the hidden skeletons in my family’s closets, both the Mexican and American sides, and came to learn that Kathy had not exaggerated her stories of kith and kin. In those first two summers of our young adulthood we began the process that continues today, only then it was bright and sparkling.

 

During the quiet times in the Ocean Avenue apartment, when Kathy was reading or busy doing something domestic, I watched and secretly studied her. It was a wondrous opportunity to watch this tall, lithesome, and longhaired beauty bend, walk, dress, and comb her hair. I never tired of seeing Kathy’s fluid movements around the apartment – from bedroom to bathroom, from living room to kitchen. If I had my wish, she would never need to dress while in the apartment and I could watch her in her natural state all the time. But that was impractical, and Kathy simply laughed with embarrassment when I mentioned it.

 

Kathy was naturally outgoing and social, and she forced me out of my solitary and isolating habits by simply modeling her friendly and engaging behaviors. She loved to visit friends and family members, and for them to visit her. In Santa Monica, we learned how to entertain as a couple. When she invited friends and family members to visit, she really meant it. Her sisters, brothers, and friends became regular guests. Hosting Frosty, Carol and Marilyn, and Kathy’s siblings became a regular part of our life. Greg, her youngest brother, was attending UCLA as a senior at the time, so he became our most frequent visitor – bringing along his family’s proclivity for laughter, self-deprecating humor, and excellent stories.

Dinners were the only meals we ate regularly together. Since we both worked at different schools, breakfast was an on-the-run affair, and lunch was something we did at work. Dinner was our time together, either at home or in a restaurant. Actually, in those early days, it was easier to drive or walk to a restaurant than to prepare a meal. The Bellevue Restaurant on Ocean Avenue was our favorite place to go. The French cuisine was light and tasty, and I loved experimenting with new dishes like bouillabaisse or frogs legs. We also learned to shop together for groceries, maneuvering the supermarket aisles of Santa Monica and discovering our gastronomical likes, dislikes, and preferences. Thankfully Kathy took the lead in the cooking department and I was happy to devour anything she prepared.

We did a lot of walking in those days. If there were a lull in the day, if conversations, chores, or lesson plans became tiring or annoying, someone would suggest a walk. Suddenly the complexion of the day changed when we exited the apartment, and walked, hand in hand, along the palisades, or up Montana Avenue looking at houses and neighbors.  Our usual destination was the liquor store and pharmacy on the corner of 7^th Street. At that point we sometimes bought something and then doubled back on Palisades or Alta Avenue. Occasionally we’d see Don Ameche, the film and radio star of the 1930’s and 40’s, taking his afternoon constitutional along Palisades. Walking gave us a chance to air out our differences, discuss our opinions or disagreements, and plan a course of action – for that day or the week. The future we discussed in other ways.

We didn’t pay much attention to finances during our first year together, because it didn’t seem important and we found that the two of us could live as cheaply as one – especially with Kathy working in a public high school. Her salary easily covered housing, transportation, and living expenses, while my wages from a Catholic high school barely took care of restaurants and entertainment. We paid the bills jointly because I wanted to learn the process, and budgeting consisted solely of maintaining a balanced checkbook – a frustrating operation that I never mastered. It was only in our second year of marriage, when I was hired by Los Angeles Unified School District, that we seriously began saving money by depositing my salary into a savings account. The plan was to eventually buy a house, although the time frame for that transaction was hazy - but we were in no hurry.

We learned to depend on each other more than we trusted long time friends, or relatives. A less romantic mind would say that a “partnership” was forming based on honesty and trust, and grounded in love. This was the alliance that became especially vital in later years. I gradually learned to communicate my anger, fears, and disappointments (despite my initial reluctance and stoic tolerance), and we grew in love for each other. My only apprehension was raising children. We spoke of “having” children as though it was a natural by-product of marriage, but the prospect of actually raising them was scary. The difficulties of parenting were exaggerated for me in 1976 when I began teaching in an “opportunity” junior high school. All my students were adolescents who had been “kicked out” of at least two schools before coming to us. They were hardcore disciplinary problems, emotional kids who acted out in anger and defiance. These children were so complex and resentful that I came to believe that it was impossible to raise any child correctly. There were too many genetic variables, too many emotional pitfalls, and too many unforeseen circumstances to guarantee a successful upbringing. Child rearing and parenting seemed an impossible task. Luckily our professions allowed us to observe the children we were teaching and listen to their stories.  As I came to know and care for them in the course of the year, and they grew to trust me, my students began talking and showing me the awful consequences of poor adult decisions. The actions of their parents were so childish and arbitrary, that by the end of the school year, I announced to Kathy that I was absolutely sure that – with her as my partner – we could do a better job. In fact, I told her, I was convinced that as parents we were an excellent bet, a sure thing!

When I saw how the mere presence of that tiny, black-haired baby changed the emotional equation of our marriage, I was shocked. I thought a baby was simply the addition of one more person to the family. Together, in love and partnership, Kathy and I were suppose to raise them, play with them, educate them, and care for them. I failed to anticipate the unique connection that exists between a mother and her children, and I felt left out. Kathy carried Toñito for nine months and he (and later Prisa) was a physiological extension of her. She shared a bond with our children I would never have, and never really understand. Until that first child, our marriage had been a tandem enterprise, an emotional monopoly between Kathy and me. Family and friends, apartments and houses enhanced it, but never changed it. The birth of our children rewrote the relationship between Kathy and me. Toñito’s birth was a revolutionary event, a life-altering occasion. A part of Kathy’s body became whole and independent. In a way she became two people – she and her child. This phenomenon repeated with Prisa, but by then I had come to accept this special bond and adjusted to it. Kathy has a unique tie with our children. It’s a tie I no longer envy because it carries an emotional burden I could never sustain. Her psychic ties to Toñito and Prisa make her think of them, worry about them, and feel for them at any moment of the day. I established different connections with the children – but they are pale imitations when compared to Kathy’s physiological ties. My relationship with Toñito and Prisa is close and loving, but it’s different. Women have a greater capacity for loving, I think.

Thirty-two years have passed since that January day when I first saw Kathy and Toñito together. With Prisa’s marriage and my retirement this summer, I believe we are entering a new phase in our married life, a phase that again changes the dynamic of our relationship. It may be just as scary as when children were first added, because it seems to separate and isolate us. Our ability to respond to this new situation (Prisa married and I retired) really depends on the groundwork we laid over the past 35 years. I suppose the best way to describe it is by relating an incident that occurred on the first night of our trip to New York City. I remember it clearly because it was a moment of pure panic, and one I had experienced before. It happened in the Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle (see NYC 1: A Helluva Town), while Kathy was exploring the different floors looking for a jazz nightclub and museum in Time Warner Plaza.

Kathy had been very patient with me after our dinner at P.J. Clarke’s Restaurant. I was clearly slowing down her brisk walking and explorations of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Everything I saw at the Lincoln Center Complex for the Performing Arts, and along our walk down Broadway begged to be photographed and recorded. I posed Kathy by the fountain next to Koch Theatre, seated in front of the Museum of Biblical Art, and standing in front of the sign announcing Jazz at Lincoln Center in the Time Warner Plaza. Even though she didn’t show it, I felt that Kathy was becoming impatient to move quicker and continue exploring. This urge was amplified by the biting arctic winds that were penetrating our coats. When she scooted into a towering building at Columbus Circle, I thought it was to get out of the cold, until I gazed up at the dazzling lights and colorful displays in the lobby, and the multiple levels of shops, restaurants, and stores ascending up the glassed-in skyscraper. Everything fascinated me, especially the people. Instead of simply taking static pictures of objects, I found myself waiting and studying the actions and behaviors of the people around me, especially the tourists, and then taking their candid photos. This was hugely entertaining, until I spotted Kathy pacing and waiting for me to catch up. We ascended the building this way, Kathy looking for the Jazz at Lincoln Center club, and I people-watching and taking pictures, until I saw the Time Warner Office. The office was impressive enough, but it overlooked a balcony with a spectacular view of the Columbus Circle Monument and 59^th Street, with the illuminated Upper East Side skyline in the background. I was lost taking pictures and watching people, and when I turned to locate Kathy – she was gone. She had completely disappeared. “Okay, don’t panic!” I said to myself, as I felt my heart beating faster and the adrenaline surging through my body. “Kathy’s just around the corner”. But she wasn’t around the corner, or anywhere on this level. “Where did she go?” I repeated to myself, over and over. “Where could she have gone?” I was lost inside a strange building, in a foreign city, on the first day of the trip. Kathy on the other hand felt comfortable in New York. She had visited the city twice before and knew how to negotiate its streets, sidewalks, and buildings. My biggest worry was the temptation to rush around searching for her on other levels. She wasn’t on this floor, but I had not seen her going up or down the escalator, so if I guessed wrong, I only increased the distance between us. I fought down this flight behavior by reaching for my cell phone and calling her. No answer. She either couldn’t hear the ring, or there was no reception in the building.“Okay,” I said to myself, “calm down and think. What would Kathy tell me to do?” Thinking of Kathy, and the many difficult situations and problems we had discussed and solved together, relaxed me and allowed me to better review my options. I decided to stay exactly where I was and trust that she would find me. I marked the time and decided to wait 20 minutes. If she did not return by then, I’d walk back to the hotel and wait there. It seemed the logical, practical, and thoughtful course of action. The next 10 minutes were the longest in my life, and then I heard her calling my name.

 

 We resumed our exploration of the building and floors as if nothing had happened. Kathy wasn’t angry or annoyed. She had simply been surprised when I hadn’t followed her up the escalator in search of her goal. When she noticed I wasn’t behind her, she calmly retraced her steps back to my location. I, on the other hand, was immensely thankful and relieved. The episode reminded me of the time I’d lost touch with Prisa and Toñito in the Northridge Mall when they were 8 and 10 years old. I’d left them at one location with directions to meet at another, only they weren’t there. Somehow my instructions had been unclear or muddled, and we were in different locations. To make matters worse, I started rushing about in search of them. Luckily, they heard my whistle and knew I was somewhere in the mall, so they stayed calm and located a security guard. We were reunited in the security office after about an hour separation – a nightmarish hour I will never forget. Besides the fear of loss and the emotional state of the children, what I hated most about both experiences was the sensation of being utterly alone with a huge problem. I have never experienced that panic and sense of isolation with Kathy. Life is a difficult journey to navigate, and we’ve been frightened and nervous along the way - for each other and for our children. But WE never panicked. Kathy’s presence or prayers always gave me solace and confidence, and I believe mine gave it to her as well. I breathed easier as we walked to the balcony and I showed Kathy the glassed vista along 59^th Street. Together we found Dizzy’s Club on a floor above, and moved effortlessly together through the corridors of the jazz museum in Fredrick P. Rose Hall.

I can’t imagine my life without her. The trip to New York was significant for two reasons. It recalled those idyllic early days in Santa Monica, when our life revolved around just the two of us, and it raised the fearful specter of how it would feel to face life’s paralyzing problems and dilemmas without her. What would my life be like without Kathleen Mavourneen? Brrrr, that’s a chilling thought. After 35 years, I plan to continue facing this life together – with all its unlimited expectations and endless possibilities - because alone I’d be lost.
“Kathy, if you were not a part of my life, I’d have to search for you - regardless of the level or floor I was on. I’d risk becoming The Flying Dutchman of the Time Warner Plaza to find you. On this Valentine’s Day of 2010, I just want to say, I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you”.

New York, New York, a helluva town.
The Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down.
The people ride in a hole in the groun’.
New York, New York, it’s a helluval town!
(Original lyrics of "New York, New York" – Bernstein, Comden, and Green, sung by Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in the movie, On The Town)

Kathy and I flew home on New Year’s Eve after spending one of the most enjoyable trips in my life in New York City. This was my first visit to Manhattan, and Kathy had been urging me to go for years. Now I understand why! New York matched all the romanticized depictions I’d seen in photographs, movies, and on television all my life. The problem is - how do I write about it? How do I write about five days and four nights in this world famous metropolis they call “the Big Apple”? Do I tell you WHERE we went, WHAT we saw, and HOW we felt? Some people might find that engaging, but I think it would take too long and become a monotonous slideshow of locales (we went here, here, and here; saw this, this, and that, and felt challenged, amazed, and delighted). So how can I keep this account concise, interesting, and not too long? Hmm, perhaps by dividing it into two parts and starting with why it took me so long to go to New York.

I could never understand when friends and colleagues told me how they planned to retire AND TRAVEL. I never got that! Travel has never been a GOAL in itself for me - it was always a means of getting to a particular location TO DO SOMETHING else. I traveled to Mexico City to go to summer school, San Antonio to complete Air Force basic training, San Francisco for a second honeymoon (as well as birthdays and conferences), Portland to attend my nephew Tim’s wedding, Washington D.C. to see my son’s college plays (as well as Billy’s graduation and Kevin’s wedding), Savannah for Eddie’s graduation, Chicago to see my nephew Jeff’s (ill-fated) Broadway-bound musical, and Seattle to visit my cousin Raul. Even the road-trips I took with my high school friends to Big Sur, Monterey, Sacramento, Lone Pine, Mammoth, Death Valley, and Ensenada, were rough and tumble experiences, manly adventures meant to reunite us so we could play cards, tell stories, be silly, and spin dreams. So every time Kathy mentioned Ireland, Italy, or Spain as places we had to go and see, I would always ask WHY? I knew it was the wrong answer the moment I saw the light fade from her eyes and her smile disappeared, but I couldn’t help myself. Even I knew that I was hung up on an unreasonable inhibition (fear of traveling for the sake of traveling), because I always ENJOYED the places I visited. I loved exploring new cities, testing myself on their unique public transportation systems, walking, sightseeing, and discovering historical sites and cultural locations. Kathy knew, and I knew, that I would inevitably enjoy Ireland, Spain, Italy, or New York, if I ever got there. But I couldn’t overcome my deep-seated phobia of traveling for the sake of traveling by willpower alone - I needed A REASON. Luckily, an opportunity presented itself this year that offered a strategy around my inhibition and a solution to a bigger problem.


Kathy was turning 60 in December, and she was having considerable difficulty dealing with that date and number. Last summer, without giving me any suggestions or ideas, she announced that she did not want a big party (surprise or planned), but expected something special for her birthday. Suddenly her birthday became an overwhelming burden of finding the right present and a way to celebrate without making it a big deal. In puzzling out this dilemma, I happened to remember Kathy’s wry observation that I tended to buy gifts for others that I secretly wanted for myself (especially in the genres of electronics, art and literature). It struck me that if I reversed this egocentric tendency I might discover the perfect gift. Kathy loved to plan and book trips, and travel, and I hated to go without a reason – so what if her birthday and gift became my reason? Eureka, I’d found it! That night I told her that I wanted to take her anywhere in the United States for her birthday. All she had to do was choose the location. She chose New York and my problems were solved (along with a trip that subconsciously I suspected I might enjoy).


In evaluating this trip, the main reason it worked so well was my travel agent/traveling companion. Kathy was a marvel! She booked us into the Essex House, on Central Park South overlooking the Park, with a view of the Upper East Side skyline; and scheduled the stay between two storms. Our sojourn occurred during the five most beautiful days in December (clear and cold on Sunday, and snowing on the Thursday we left). She was also the perfect guide and partner in a city that was new to me, but familiar to her. Kathy had been to New York on three previous occasions, so she had a conceptual layout of the city’s grid and its sights. All I knew was the line from the musical On the Town: “the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down”. A photographic tour of our trip can best be seen in my Flickr album (see 2010-12-27 to 31: New York City). But how Kathy and I handled unexpected situations in New York showed how much in sync we were during the trip, and why we managed to enjoy it privately and in tandem. We adapted and improvised whenever we were confronted with deadlines and obstacles. We also accommodated our personal preferences and sought spontaneous discoveries.


Through our jobs and experiences, Kathy and I have learned that no detailed plan of action (“with all the ducks in a row”) ever comes off as conceived. So, rather than preparing a fixed and tight itinerary of where to go, what to see, and what to do on this trip (which many people expected us to do), we simply generated a mental list of ideas, wishes, and possibilities that sounded interesting (For example, we opted not to pre-purchase Broadway show tickets, but decided to wait until we arrived and settled in). Our initial overarching idea was the possibility of catching 5:30 mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue on the evening we arrived. This sounded like such an illusionary, romantic idea (dependent on so many variables), that it captured my imagination at once. It also added a heightened awareness to our arrival time, the means of transportation to the hotel, and our check-in time.

We flew Virgin America Airlines, and it was delightful. Everything on the plane looked new and efficient. We had individual viewing screens and free wireless fidelity (Wi-Fi) was available on the flight. Not only could we check our email and other Internet sites on my laptop, but I could also monitor the plane’s exact location across the United States on a GPS map on my monitor. The trip was uneventful, aided by a strong tailwind that got us to JFK International Airport in a speedy four-hour flight, at 3:00 P.M. I assumed we had plenty of time to recover our baggage, get a cab, reach the Essex House, and catch mass at St. Patrick’s – until I experienced midtown traffic in New York. Catching a cab at the airport was no problem, and the initial drive along the Long Island Expressway was sufficiently steady to give me time to take photographs along the way. I quickly stopped worrying about being taken for a tourist, and became resolved to take as many interesting pictures as I could. The cabbie even got into the swing of things by alerting me to a fabulous shot of the Manhattan Downtown skyline at sunset. However, all our momentum stopped once we crossed the river and traversed the Queens Midtown tunnel into New York. I finally understood why New Yorkers, when pressed for time, would abandon their taxis and walk. The clock was ticking, and we weren’t moving – despite our incredible cartographic proximity to Central Park. The only thing that saved us from fixating and worrying about the traffic, time, and our likely disappointment in not catching mass, was my belief that Mass was a preference, not a requirement. The gridlock conditions gave me plenty of time to study the people, faces, scenery, and local pubs as we inched along the streets. Kathy pointed out avenues, plazas, and famous locations, and I was comforted by the knowledge that if we arrived too late for Mass, we would simply do something else – no big deal. But we did arrive on time. At 4:30 we found ourselves across the street from the Essex House, on Central Park South. The cabbie entertained the idea of a U-turn for a mil-a-second and then announced that he would go around Columbus Circle to be on the right side. We were appreciative of the idea, but said no thanks. It was faster to settle the bill and roll our luggage across 59th Street at a crosswalk than to keep driving.




We registered and settled into our 34th floor room by 5 o’clock. The views from our windows were unbelievable. I could see Central Park, the Ice Rink, and the Upper East Side of New York from one, and Midtown East from the other. The concierge assured us that St. Patrick’s was only a quick walk away and we set out, well bundled in layers of clothing to shield us from the temperatures that were swiftly descending with the sun. I naively expected no further delays, until we came to the first big crosswalk on 58th Street and 5th Avenue. There was a wall of humanity pressed at each corner, with more people stacked behind. How could so many bodies fit on a sidewalk! When the lights changed the pedestrian intersection became a battleground of colliding infantry, charging across the street. Somehow they merged, and citizens found pathways to the other side. It was incredible. I had never seen so many people in one small place. This scene repeated itself at every intersection, until we came to a complete halt and no one moved – pedestrian gridlock. How was it possible? After about 10 minutes of sidestepping and backtracking we came upon the crime scene that caused the delay. An ambulance was departing and police were just beginning to take down the yellow caution tape they had strung across the street and sidewalk. Welcome to New York on a Sunday evening.




My irritation at the jostling and bumping I received, and impatience with the delays, were dispelled by my fascination at watching Kathy glide through the offending traffic. Kathy’s typically cautious style of walking disappeared on the sidewalks of New York. I simply followed her speeding wake as she maneuvered the uneven curbs, switch-backed from one side of the street to the other, and skimmed the edges of the streets to speed our progress down 5th Avenue. Suddenly we found ourselves in front of a steep cement staircase, towering above us.
“This is it,” Kathy announced proudly. “This is St. Patrick’s Cathedral!”
The ascending stairs was crowded with people standing and waiting, or pointing. “Did we miss Mass?” I asked, confused by the number of people outside the building.
“No,” she replied, remarkably sure of herself. “It should just be starting now. Let’s go in”.
The church was packed. Not only were the pews filled to capacity, but the narrow aisles were crammed with tourists streaming to the front of the altar in one line, and then retreating back in another. We squeezed into a slight gap in a pew and took stock of our surroundings. St. Patrick’s is an awesome American Cathedral. Its towering pillars, high, vaulted ceilings, and gleaming, suspended chandeliers gave the grey walls an alabaster glow. The holly green and scarlet red of Christmas wreaths and decorations punctuated the view, acting as a reminder of the ending Advent Season, and the wintry temperatures outside. We peeled off our gloves, coats, and scarves, and soon relaxed into the rhythmic comfort of the Catholic liturgy and the priest’s soothing homily. After communion, I almost forgot that I was in a strange city.


Upon exiting the Cathedral and walking along 50th Street, I thought I was acclimatizing myself to the throngs of people on the sidewalks until we reached Rockefeller Center.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, when I saw what lay ahead. There was a wide, oceanic expanse of covered, bobbing heads, and bundled, jostling torsos from one end of the plaza to the horizon beyond. There was little room to maneuver or advance. The only sense of space was in the open sky above that was arrayed in front-lit, towering buildings, cascading holiday lights, and gleaming, Christmas trees. I felt a momentary wave of claustrophobia and then dismissed it. You had to love it! If I had known of the biting cold, the pressing crowds, and the frustrating inability to move in this part of town, I doubt that I would have come. But I was here now, and might never return again. I wanted to remember and enjoy this moment. I asked Kathy to pose with the famous Rockefeller Christmas tree in the background, and took her picture. The happy smiles and festive excitement of the people around us seemed to inspire Kathy, and she again surged forward to explore Rockefeller Center, searching the lower levels for the ice rink and restaurant. I traveled in her path-finding wake until weariness slowed me down and I began sending telepathic messages to stop. Kathy must have heard, because when we suddenly broke free of the masses of people descending up us, she made her way back to 50th Street and paused.
“Do these people ever stop coming?” I asked rhetorically. Since Kathy seemed to be channeling the attitude and behaviors of a native, I thought she might have a guess.
“I think Rockefeller Center is a tourist magnet at this time of year,” she said. “Once we get off this street it should get better. What do you want to do?”
We had never discussed our plans after Mass, so this question took me by surprise.
“I don’t know. All I can think of right now are the pubs we passed on the way to the hotel. Do you think we could find one, and sit for awhile.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” Kathy announced, happily. “Let’s get off 50th Street and start looking”.
We passed Radio City Music Hall, and then traveled uptown on 6th Avenue. Although the numbers weren’t as bad as on 5th Avenue, groups of pedestrians continued streaming down on us. By the time we reached 54th Street, I flippantly suggested that we turn right, away from the relentless current of people.
Kathy paused for a moment weighing my idea, and then said, “Okay”. I knew this was a major concession, because Kathy hates moving away from her destination. The Essex House lay uptown and westward, and we would be going backwards. But the Old Dutch Masters of Washington Irving’s time must have been with us, because after walking about 50 yards we saw the welcome sign of “Connolly’s Pub and Restaurant.” It was perfect. We settled ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks from Dennis the Irish bartender, and toasted our arrival in New York. In no time at all, Kathy introduced herself to the owner and Dennis, the Irish bartender, and confessed that we were having a drink after Mass. They laughed (in the lilting way that only Irish Catholics can), and asked us if we had used that line on our parents, without ever going to Mass. I admitted having done so– and was surprised to discover that Kathy had too, only she had been smart enough to pick up a Sunday bulletin to show her parents if they asked for proof.





The evening continued in this improvisational style. When we got back to the hotel and unpacked, dinner became our next brainstorming topic. I recalled a restaurant that Kathy’s brother Mike had recommended in an email as being close to our hotel and reasonably priced. When we checked with the concierge, he gave us a hotel map and agreed that P.J. Clarke's was good and very convenient. Of course, I hadn’t yet learned that in wintry New York, “close and convenient” actually means at the outer edges of comfort and tolerance, and hotel maps are notoriously imprecise. After 30 minutes of shivering explorations of Central Park South and the West Side along Broadway we discovered P.J. Clarke's at Lincoln Center. This pretty much set the pattern of our dining for the rest of the trip. We would pay attention to restaurants we passed in transit, tossing around ideas and inspirations at the hotel, and make last minute reservations. P.J. Clarke's was a great start. We had front row views of the Lincoln Center Music Plaza across the street, and later checked out a plethora of restaurants and tourist sights on our walk home after dinner. We spotted the Mexican restaurant, Rosa Mexicano (where we ate the following day) on our way back to Columbus Circle, and then found ourselves at Time Warner Plaza and Jazz at Lincoln Center. After exploring the Time Warner Building, we ended the evening by walking down 58th Street and having a nightcap at the Oak Room, the famous bar in the Plaza Hotel.




The next day, while having chai and coffee at a Starbuck’s on 6th Avenue, Kathy pressed, “Now what do you REALLY want to do in New York?”
“Generally,” I said, “what we’re doing now - exploring Manhattan as we go along. There are two things I definitely want to do today, ride on the subway and see the Statue of Liberty off Battery Park”.
“That sounds great,” Kathy announced. “That’s what we’ll do first. The rest of the day will take care of itself.”
That’s how we started our first morning in New York. Each day would begin the same way. Kathy or I would state a personal preference over coffee and tea, and then we’d fit it in through the course of the day. I wanted to see the Dakota and Columbia University and Kathy wanted to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was also curious about Times Square, Greenwich Village, and Central Park, and Kathy wanted to relax and languidly have a cup of tea in the lobby of the Essex House while gazing out at Central Park. We were usually so exhausted by the time we returned to the hotel in the evenings, that dinner and a nightcap was all we could manage.




Getting to Battery Park was easy, but negotiating the New York Subway system was a challenge. The subway system in New York is ancient and doesn’t employ the modern and redundant signs and universally accepted directional symbols that one finds in the metros of Washington D.C. or in western cities. In those places, you can always find a map, diagram, or instructions to guide you. New York may not be as obvious, but the subway system is certainly not hostile. It was not the dirty, grimy, and graffiti-ridden operation portrayed in the movies of the late 80’s and 90’s. With Kathy and I working in tandem, and by taking some precautions, I got the hang of it right away. I bought two unlimited 7-day Metro passes because the recharging machines weren’t as simple or convenient as in Washington or Chicago, and I hated looking like a fool in front of those automatic dispensers. Plus if I made a traveling mistake with a train or station, I could exit at the next stop and get right back on in the correct car or direction, without worrying about fares. Kathy agreed and then interpreted the uptown, downtown language of the signs in the multiple-tracked and confusing Columbus Circle Station (we had been standing in the wrong boarding location until Kathy correctly decoded the signs). The subway system became easier every day, and, other than walking, was our preferred means of travel in the city. Cabs were a frustration, unless you caught them late at night, early in the morning, or at a popular hotel entrance.




High noon at Battery Park proved as scenic and awesome as I suspected, but the buffeting wind and chilly breezes were freezing. Standing at the southernmost point of Manhattan in winter, with the Hudson Bay and its rivers on both sides, was a numbing and inspiring spectacle. We gazed out at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the New Jersey and Brooklyn shores, and took photographs. As encroaching hypothermia made speech and movement more and more difficult, Kathy asked, “Whurr da ya wanna go?”
“Sumplaze wurm” I managed through immobile lips.
“Me doo,” she said. “Lez go dezway.” She headed north, toward the nearest buildings and windbreaks. I had no clue where she was going, but I didn’t care as long as it was away from the stupefying cold and frigid winds coming off the Bay. I refused to take off my gloves to open and read a map. We walked by the U.S. Custom House and crossed Battery Park Place, staying as close to the buildings as possible. It was there that I noticed a large group of people assembled around a statue on a median street divider.
“Werr en da Funanshul Desdrick!” I mouthed, when the significance of the iconic charging bull made its way through my benumbed mental synapses. But even seeing how the milling crowds used the gigantic, shiny, bronzed bull as an ideal photographic prop, didn’t entice me away from the protection of the buildings. Only when I followed Kathy into a warm and cozy drugstore on Broadway in search of travel sundries and lotions did blood start flowing to our frozen extremities, allowing touch and sensitivity to return to our lips, fingers, and toes. When we left the store, it was to find a pub or tavern to catch a warm noontime meal. Paradoxically, this deliberate search for sustenance produced one sightseeing discovery after another. We made our way up Broadway, down a glamorous looking alley, and found ourselves on Broad Street. We wandered along the grey, glimmering edifices that seemed to telescope into the heavens, and suddenly we were on Wall Street. In quick succession we saw the entrance façade of the New York Stock Exchange, Nassau Street, and the monolithic front steps of Federal Hall with the beckoning statue of George Washington in front. We stared up at the Trump Building and Bankers Trust Company Building, and realized we were in the gilded courtyard of the rich and powerful, all dressed-up for Christmas and the New Year. The only redeeming image near this vast bastion of corporate wealth was the dark, looming presence of Trinity Church’s tall steeple, squeezed between the towering megaliths on Wall Street. After taking my quota of fiscal photos, we retreated back to Broad Street and found Bobby Vann’s Steakhouse, stopping in the bar for our own version of a stockbroker’s lunch - a Cosmopolitan and a Black and Tan, followed by a delicious French Onion soup.




During our warm, extended lunch we developed our plans for the afternoon. Together we would see Trinity Church and then subway back to Columbus Circle, where I would go exploring the Dakota and Central Park on my own, and Kathy would return to the hotel and relax. Trinity Church affected me on many levels. A glowing Nativity crèche reminded us of the Advent of the Messiah and his promise of Peace, and the antiquity of the church reflected New York’s gigantic footprint on American History. New York was the nation’s first capitol and George Washington was sworn in at the nearby Federal Hall (ergo the significance of his statue on the steps). After that first Inauguration, Washington attended the Episcopalian Thanksgiving services at Trinity’s parish chapel, St. Paul’s. But it was the cemetery that gave me pause to think. Leaving the darkened interior of the church, guided only by the ethereal light emanating from the illuminated altar and stained glass windows, I was momentarily blinded by the outside light. As my eyes adjusted to the piercing sunlight, and the reflected sparkle of the surrounding glass facades, buildings, and towers, I saw that I was in a 250-year-old graveyard. This resting place of William Bradford, the leader of the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, Alexander Hamilton, and Albert Gallatin, two of the nation’s first Secretaries of the Treasury, was ironically located in the middle of the Financial District, under the very shadow of the American Stock Exchange. I chuckled to myself as I photographed the weathered and fading tombstones, decorated with Christmas wreaths. What was the lesson here, I wondered to myself, and who was supposed to learn it?




Kathy and I split up at Columbus Circle, and I walked alone along Central Park West, taking pictures of the park and buildings until I came to 72nd Street. I had deliberately avoided visiting Ground Zero, the former site of the World Trade Center and the target of the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. I still recalled the morning of that willful act of violence and destruction, and how it confused and disturbed the students and teachers of Shangri-la Middle School. I did not want to relive the sensations of that morning, or the questions it generated about mankind and our ability to find reasons and motives to justify murder on a grand scale. Yet I felt compelled to see the spot where a single madman had snuffed out the light and life of a transcendent artist, musician, and dreamer – John Lennon. The gables and deep roofs of the Dakota gave this building overlooking Central Park a brooding and ominous look. I solemnly joined the lines and groups of pilgrims, young and old, who explored and photographed the Dakota, the section of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, and the memorial Imagine mosaic on a nearby pathway. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and the Beatles had been a significant part of my adolescence and youth during the 1960’s, and it was reassuring to see that their music and appeal continued to attract and influence succeeding generations. Sir James Paul McCartney, the other half of the famous song writing team, was knighted in 1997, but John, by his tragic death in 1980, became immortal. Perhaps that was why I had come to this place and not Ground Zero. John’s mindless murder had the paradoxical effect of giving his songs and their message of Love, Peace, and Brotherhood an impetus that would make them last forever. Calculated acts of hate and terror only generated momentary (but deep-seated) fears. I preferred to imagine that one day the policies of our nation would not be guided by acts of war and terror, but work constructively for peace and harmony. That would be something.




I walked through Central Park and along 5th Avenue back to the hotel. There I spotted Kathy sitting by the lobby window of the Essex House, finishing the New York Times crossword puzzle for Monday. I watched her there for a long time as she sipped her tea, looking languidly at the steady flow of traffic and pedestrians along Central Park South. She looked quite at home in New York and I was glad to be there to share it with her.




To be continued………

If you are interested in the complete photo album of our trip to Manhattan, check my Flickr account at: 2009-12-27 to 31: New York City.

And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me,
And when I’m feeling blue
The guitar’s coming through
To soothe me.
Thanks for the joy that you’ve given me.
I want you to know I believe in your song,
And rhythm and rhyme and harmony.
You helped me along
Makin’ me strong.

Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n roll
And drift away.
Give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n roll
And drift away.
(Drift Away - written by Mentor Williams & sung by Dobie Gray: 1972.)

On the evening of October 24, 2009, Kathy and I attended a special Saturday mass at the Cathedral of Our Lady Queen of Angels in Los Angeles. As the priest was concluding his homily, I noticed Kathy’s eyes wandering to her right and coming suddenly alive in recognition.
“There’s Marilyn,” she whispered with a radiant smile, raising her arm to attract attention.
I followed her gaze to see a spry and erect, midsized woman with short graying hair, combed to the side. She wore a boldly bright blouse that made her look ten years younger. It looked like a feminine version of a festive Hawaiian shirt, and not something one expected a nun to wear on a formal occasion. But Marilyn never dressed the way I thought a nun was supposed to dress. Sister Marilyn dressed like Marilyn Rudy, a Berkley radical and Jubiliarian of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ), with 53 years of dedicated service. Her eyes lit up with a smile when she recognized Kathy, and she and her companion made their way to join us in the pew.
“Hi Kathy, hi Tony,” she whispered huskily in greeting. “I didn’t think we’d make it”. She quietly introduced us to her friend, Sr. Maureen, and gave us each a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“The priest said some wonderful things about you and your work in his homily,” I said proudly under my breath.“Oh really”, Marilyn said in surprise. “That’s nice”. That simple, unaffected reply was Sister Marilyn’s typical response to praise and adulation.

 

Kathy and I were there that evening to honor the work and spirit of Sister Marilyn Therese Rudy, CSJ, an old friend, teacher, mentor, and model to each of us for over 40 years. Actually, Kathy knew her longest (41 years) – meeting her as a student at Mount St. Mary’s College (MSMC), when Marilyn taught undergraduate History. I didn’t meet Marilyn until she was the Social Studies Department Chair at St. Bernard High School and I was hired to teach U.S. History in January of 1972. We each developed separate and distinct ties with Marilyn during the early years of our relationship, and were not introduced to each other until we accepted invitations to a Seder Dinner at the CSJ’s Westchester apartment/convent in 1973 (see You Look Wonderful Tonight). Since that evening 36 years ago, Kathy and I maintained a combined relationship with Marilyn that stayed constant through courtship, marriage, children, and careers. However, we always considered her our PERSONAL friend first, and our MUTUAL friend second, and we would occasionally banter about who knew Marilyn best. Kathy always won because she knew her earliest and stayed actively in touch with Marilyn through MSMC Alumnae friends and her own membership as a CSJ Associate. It was through these connections that we learned that Marilyn was being honored as a 50-year “Jubilarian” in 2006, and one of the recipients of the CSJ Charism Tribute in 2009. These functions were “automatic acceptances,” and we made a point of attending. But they were usually large and formal affairs, with too many other friends, associates, and family members in attendance, so we rarely had a chance to really sit, relax, and talk about everything – like in the old days. In fact, the last times I remember talking with Marilyn for any great length was our visit during her residence at La Casa de Maria in Santa Barbara in 1999, and a chance encounter at the Religious Education Congress last February, 2009.

For the remainder of the mass, which preceded the reception, dinner, and tributes that followed in the banquet hall of the Cathedral complex, I found myself studying Marilyn. She looked remarkably vibrant and youthful standing next to me in her floral print blouse. The celebrant’s comments about Marilyn’s work and commitment to religious life, education, social justice, and social service reminded me of all that she had accomplished in the time I’d known her. When we drove up to visit during her residence at Casa de Maria, she had retired from active social work and was studying Organic Gardening and Earth Harmony. For reasons I couldn’t define, this new direction in her ministry greatly irritated me, and I brought it up at the first opportunity.
“I can’t believe a Berkley grad and social activist is learning how to garden!” I announced dramatically, once Kathy and I had related our current family and job information. “What exactly does a New Age Master Gardener do?” I added sarcastically.
Marilyn crooked her head sideways and gave me a curious smile. “You’re really having a hard time accepting this, aren’t you?” She did not say it accusingly or angrily, but as a simple point of observation. Her gentle smile and calm manner took me back to the lunchroom in the St. Bernard Faculty Lounge during my first years of teaching. There she would listen to my vocal frustrations at mastering the Inquiry Learning method of teaching social studies and establishing effective classroom discipline. I expected a department chair to have all the answers, but Marilyn never prescribed her own solutions to my problems. Rather she would listen, ask questions, reframe my difficulties, and only then offer suggestions and resources. She made me feel that I had solved the problems for myself.
“I seem to recall” she continued, “that we had this same kind of conversation when I first told you and Kathy about my plans to leave teaching and start St. Joseph’s Center”.
“Oh,” I said, caught off guard by this indirect response, and not recalling the conversation. “What did I say?”
“Something about a Thrift Shop not being a practical solution to poverty, and running a store was a waste of my talent”.
“I said that?” I asked in embarrassment.
She nodded and said, “That’s more or less what I remember”.
As a grey morning fog lifts to reveal the verdant grass and bright garden beneath, so the memory of that time reappeared in my mind. I’d forgotten how betrayed I felt that Marilyn was leaving a craft I was still trying to master. She was so good at teaching and motivating students, that I saw her decision as a waste of her intellectual abilities. I said so - and Marilyn heard me out. Then she gently explained what a religious vocation meant to her as a CSJ and how she could no longer teach religion and social justice in high school or college without practicing it. She felt the call to move from the theoretical to the practical, from ideas to action. I listened - and her passion and determination won me over. Kathy and I became two of the center’s earliest supporters and volunteers. I met Sister Louise Bernstein, Marilyn’s partner in the storefront venture when we helped paint the interior and the outside fence. After the founding of the center, I came to view Marilyn as a model of what educators and religious members should become – activists in addressing social wrongs and fighters against political and religious injustices. That she was a CSJ only made her more special. Sister Marilyn came to define what I thought a nun should be and do: Choose the religious life after experiencing a full, secular education at the finest university in California. Train and become a mentor high school and college teacher and administrator. Establish a brick and mortar center serving the social justice and advocacy needs of the poor, the hungry, the powerless, and the homeless.
“Well, okay,” I admitted, resuming our conversation in Casa de Maria. “Maybe it took me awhile to get used to the ideas of you as a social worker, but I did – and you were great! But I don’t get this gardening thing,” I exclaimed, indignantly. “It sounds like your abandoning everything you’ve accomplished. You’re too young to retire!”
“Don’t worry, Tony”, she said, laughingly. “I’m not retiring. I’ve truly become very interested in the ecology of the planet and finding harmony with agriculture and gardening. I intend to be very active and involved for a long time. Sisters don’t retire,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes “like public school principals do.”

As we left the Cathedral after mass, Kathy and I quickly lost sight of Marilyn when more and more people approached and spoke to her. Many guests were arriving now, so we made our way to the reception area for some wine and cheese before dinner. Kathy recognized many of the CSJ sisters and guests from her connection to Mt Saint Mary’s College and the CSJ Associates. I entertained myself by rubber necking for the few nuns I knew and reading the program for the evening. The purpose of the evening was to recognize 5 Sisters of St. Joseph for their dedication and commitment in serving the physical and spiritual needs and concerns of the poor and underserved. The event was called a Charism Tribute because it honored these sisters for uniquely practicing the Charism of their community. This is a word that I’d heard Kathy use on occasion, but never really understood until that night. In researching the word on my own, I found one explanation by Sister Sue Torgersen, CSJ, and Director of Vocations, which seemed to make sense:

“Each religious community is a special blessing in our church, with its particular mission, spirituality and flavor. Religious communities share so much in common with each other, and yet, each one has its own unique spirit, or Charism. All communities are called to manifest the Gospel to our church and world, but the Holy Spirit has led each one to grow in its own unique way in reflecting Jesus’ Good News. Hand in hand with your outer journey exploring various religious communities, will be your inner journey of identifying your own unique spirit. When you find the community you feel especially drawn to, you will have found something in yourself. You see the spirit of those community members is the same spirit that has been present within you all through your life. At a certain point, you will know that your discernment journey has reached a conclusion when you, through your sense of joy and peace, recognize a ‘kinship in grace’ with one particular community”.

I found a simpler definition in an online dictionary: “Charism (from the Greek, charis – grace). The divine influence on a person’s heart and its reflection in their life; a power, generally of a spiritual nature, or a freely given gift of the grace of God.
 

I periodically caught glimpses of Marilyn as she glided from table to table, and from friend to friend, smiling and thanking them for coming this evening. Kathy and I were resigned to brief encounters with her, but firmly resolved in taking two or three group photographs. Thankfully we had a longer opportunity to chat in February when we met Marilyn at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim. Kathy had discovered her working in one of the booths and she called me on her cell phone to join them. I was particularly curious to find out if Marilyn had read the Valentine’s Day blog I had written about Kathy the week before Congress. My story recounted my first meeting with Kathy at the Seder Dinner in 1973. Marilyn and Sister Carol had organized the dinner so we could finally meet (see You Look Wonderful Tonight). So, as soon as there was an opening in our conversation, I asked Marilyn, “Did you have a chance to read my blog?”
“Yes I did,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I loved it”.
Instead of accepting her enjoyment of my story, I was disappointed by the brevity of her answer. “I tried being as factual as possible,” I continued, pressing for further elaboration. “But I’ve discovered that people’s memories sometimes differ. Do you think I got most of it right?”
“Well,” she began slowly, “I don’t quite remember it the same way.”
I was shocked by her response. “How do you remember the evening?” I asked, unsteadily.
“Well,” Marilyn reluctantly continued. “In the story you have Kathy doing all the talking when you first met. I recall you dominated most of the conversation that evening. No one else could get a word in.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. “I did most of the talking? Wow, that’s quite a difference”. Kathy was standing next to me, but she wasn’t taking sides in this conversation. Instead, she smoothly changed the subject and moved on to other topics. As I stood there, pretending to listen, I couldn’t help thinking that Marilyn had done it again. I had asked a question that vainfully begged for an answer I wanted to hear, and she had turned the tables on me with the truth. It seemed as if Marilyn’s gentle words had pulled on some forgotten, rusty lever, and a truer version of my story gradually appeared. She was right. I had projected my behavior onto Kathy in the story. I was the nervous guest who sought to impress the beautiful girl that evening, and I, unconsciously, did so by dominating the stage and conversation. This was the same type of revelation I experienced with Marilyn many, many years before, in my second year of teaching. During a small TGIF party at her apartment/convent one Friday evening after school, I recounted the story of my interview and hiring by Father Dunphy, the principal, and Marilyn. I was feeling smug and confident as a teacher in those days, and my story was based on the assumption that they wisely perceived my potential and took a chance on hiring an inexperienced teacher.
At the conclusion of my story, Marilyn gently clarified, “But that’s not what happened. It was Larry who decided to hire you. You interviewed very well, and the previous teacher gave you a strong vote of confidence, but I wanted to hire a more experienced teacher we’d already interviewed. As it turned out, Larry was right, and everything worked out better.”
I was momentarily stunned. I looked to Larry for a rebuttal, but he only nodded and said, “Marilyn’s right. That’s what happened”.
I wanted to feel hurt and angry, but I couldn’t find a valid reason. Marilyn was my department chairperson, my mentor, booster, and friend.  I couldn’t be angry with her for telling me the truth in such a kind and thoughtful manner.

We did get a few more moments with Marilyn on the evening of the Charism Tribute. We took pictures and were introduced to her relatives and friends. Marilyn described us as the love story she and Carol had initiated 36 years ago, and how we called her the spiritual godmother of our family and children. In reviewing her brief biography and career synopsis in the program, I felt incredibly proud of her life and achievements and thankful that I knew her as a friend. The evening was a wonderful tribute to a great lady whom I loved and admired. I felt an overwhelming desire to remember this evening in a blog; despite my apprehension that Marilyn might tell me something I didn’t want to hear if I asked the wrong question. We kissed her goodbye and promised to see her soon.

Two weeks later, we learned that Marilyn was diagnosed with lung cancer and was beginning treatments. We vowed to visit her at the MSMC House of Studies, but never found the time as family, school, and holiday commitments crowded our calendar in November and December. Our consciences were momentarily assuaged by the upbeat and optimistic reports we received from the CSJ Associates and friends. We felt sure that we had plenty of time to see Marilyn after Christmas and our trip to New York. We were wrong. While in New York, Kathy and I learned that our dear friend Marilyn Therese Rudy died on Saturday, December 26, 2009 (see Obituary - The Tidings). Her condition was more serious than we suspected and it had slowly worsened. After Christmas she required more and more sleep, and her breathing became difficult. Somehow, she still managed to give direction to things she wanted sorted and “assigned” to family and friends. On Saturday morning Marilyn realized that she was dying and she requested and received comfort care. Several sisters were with her throughout the day, praying Marilyn into heaven. Her suffering ceased at about 7:05 P.M. I am so saddened by this news that it is hard to hold back my tears even as I write these words now.

I cannot write of my regrets or the promises I did not keep. My thoughts go back to the last time I saw Marilyn alive and happy, in her delightful floral print blouse. I was pleased that so many people recognized and appreciated her achievements and accomplishments that evening, but I can’t believe that was why they came. The dinner and tributes may have been the prompt or the excuse, but not the reason. Marilyn lived the Charism of her community because she had already received it as a gift from God. She never stopped being a seeker of truth and justice, and her life and actions were models for others to imitate. Marilyn helped me to be a better teacher, husband, and father by her short laugh, her crooked smile, her gentle questions, and her indomitable spirit. Marilyn had a personal grace that matched the Charism of the community of sisters she joined and was a part of. I think I will never see her like again, and I feel blessed that she chose me as a friend.

Father John occasionally used the song “Drift Away” in his liturgies at St. Bernard in 1972 and 1973, the years Marilyn and I worked there together. It is the only song that provides solace when I’m feeling blue over her death. So Mare, thanks for the joy that you’ve given me. I want you to know that I believe in your song. You helped me along, and made me strong. So perhaps one day I’ll be able to let you drift away.

Do you hear that whistle down the line?
I figure that it's number forty-nine,
She's the only one that'll sound that way,
On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.

See the old smoke rising round the bend,
I reckon that she knows the's going to meet a friend.
Folks around these parts get the time of day
From the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.

Here she comes!
Ooh, ooh, ooh.
Hey, Jim, you better get the rig!
Ooh, ooh, ooh.
She's got a list of passengers that's mighty big,
And they'll all want lifts to Brown's Hotel,
Cause lots of them been traveling for quite a spell,
All the way from Phi-a-del-phi-ay,
On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.
(Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe: Warren & Mercer - 1944)

I recruited two traveling companions for my Wandering Wednesdays with the same name - John. One is a long time high school friend who has appeared in previous stories (see tag: amigos), and the other is a younger friend whom I’ve known since he was 8 years old (see Beacons of Light and Gethsemane). Either they had the time and inclination to explore various parts of Los Angeles and Southern California; or they were mesmerized by the siren’s song of German youth singing The Happy Wanderer on my first blog on the subject. Sadly, young John was unavailable for our first excursion, so Elder John and I went alone. Even though our itinerary was crowded, with many places to see and things to do, I had only one real objective. My mission was to have lunch at Philippe’s Original Restaurant on Alameda Street in Los Angeles, home of the Original French Dipped Sandwich. To accomplish that goal we would be spending the day in and around Union Station.

Union Station is the terminal station of the Metro Red Line, and it is within walking distance of many scenic and historical Los Angeles sites. For this trip, we decided to forego our cars and traveled by public transportation. We began our journey at the Metro station nearest my home, the Metro Orange Line at Canoga and Victory Boulevard. John and I left the car at the Park and Ride and boarded the double-joined, orange bus that ran 14 miles along a dedicated transit lane between Warner Center in Woodland Hills and North Hollywood. Traditional bus transportation is notoriously slow, especially in densely populated, downtown areas, where crowded, urban buses inch along through traffic and stop at every intersection and corner. However, the Orange Line, is an expressway-coach that travels swiftly on a paved-over, former railway route, with controlled lights at intersections, and designated station-stops. The end of the line was at the North Hollywood (NoHo) Metro Station on Lankershim Boulevard. There we descended into the bowels of the earth via a steeply plunging escalator and boarded a Red Line Coach heading to the city. The southern route took us through Universal City, Hollywood, Pershing Square, and the Civic Center, to the terminus point at Union Station.

Union Station was built in 1939 and it originally served the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway, and the Southern Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads. It is a marvelous structure that combines Dutch Colonial architecture, with Mission Revival and Streamline Modern styles. Parkinson & Parkinson, the architectural firm that designed Los Angeles City Hall, drew the plans of this historical building. John and I took our time walking around and taking pictures of the enclosed garden patios, the waiting room, and the cavernous corridors covered in travertine marble and tile. John’s erstwhile attempts at a time-lapsed photograph eventually caught the attention of a security guard (who had him sign a liability waiver) and a commuting tourist who was fascinated with his German camera.

Exiting the towering building, we crossed Alameda Street to the oldest part of downtown Los Angeles, Olvera Street. Calling it a “street” is misleading; Olvera Street is really a walkway or expanded alley that was named after Agustín Olvera, a prominent local judge, in 1877. There are 27 historic buildings lining Olvera Street, the most notable being the Avila Adobe and Sepulveda House. In 1930, it was converted into the colorful Mexican marketplace that tourists see today. On this trip, John and I did not spend much time shopping. We moved quickly past the festively festooned stalls and kiosks, made a cursory detour into the Avila Adobe, and soon arrived at the intersection of Cesar Chavez Boulevard and Alameda Street. There we got a scenic look of the U.S. Post Office – Los Angeles Terminal Annex.

As a child I remember driving to this ornate building to pick up my Uncle Charlie, who worked there as a postal clerk one Christmas holiday season (on that occasion he told me that my Aunt Helen worked in the towering City Hall building, turning the evening beacon that flashed red and white all night). This was also the place where UCLA students, seeking the early processing of their class schedules for the following quarter, dropped off their registration packets and quarter payments, so they could be postmarked at midnight. Los Angeles Terminal Annex was built in 1940, and it shared the Mission Revival design style of Union Station. Across the street from the Post Office lay our lunchtime goal, Philippe’s Original Restaurant.

Philippe’s was originally established in 1908, and the restaurant claimed to have created the “French Dipped Sandwich.” According to legend, in 1918, when the owner, Philippe Mathieu, was making a sandwich, he inadvertently dropped a sliced French roll into the roasting pan filled with juice still hot from the oven. The customer, a policeman, said he would take the sandwich anyway and returned the next day with some friends asking for more “dipped sandwiches”. The restaurant relocated to its current location on Alameda and Ord Street in 1951, and it remains a storied and busy, cafeteria-style restaurant. Despite living in Los Angeles all my life, it was only as a college student working at ADT Burglar Alarm Company on Flower Street that I was introduced to Philippe’s and a French-dipped sandwich. My friend Jim, and his father George (see Friends and Tears in Heaven) took me there in 1969. I remember it clearly, because I had never tasted horseradish sauce until I put some of Philippe’s (Hot) Mustard on my sandwich. The pungent chemical reaction traveled straight up my nose and paralyzed my brain for 5 minutes. The restaurant has changed little since that day. A few more rooms were added upstairs, but the eatery still had sawdust on the floor, and long, but quick-moving lines at the counters. That afternoon, another of George’s sons and I stood in line and ordered two beef, French-dipped sandwiches, chips and drinks. We ate them on high stools next to perched wall-counters, in a cool and relaxing side room of the restaurant.

Exiting the restaurant refueled, refreshed and renewed, John and I decided to explore Chinatown, before returning to Union Station. It was only a short distance away, and it held many exciting, childhood memories. We traveled up Ord Street to North Broadway Ave, and then walked two-and-a-half long blocks to Chinatown Central Plaza. Being Mexican-American, I never considered local tourist attractions like Olvera Street or Grand Central Market as exotic, or especially picturesque. Mexico was part and parcel of my standard, cultural environment in Lincoln Heights, Boyle Heights, and East L.A. However, Chinatown was something else. This was a truly strange and magical location, filled with unique colors, costumes, and designs. The shops in Chinatown were bursting with marvelous toys and tools (I had never seen so many back-scratchers in my life). Walking along the crowded sidewalks, passing restaurants, entering enclosed bazaars, foreign markets and pharmacies, and festooned courtyards, I felt I was in the mythical wonderland of my youth. The Chinatown Plaza had not changed at all. After walking through the plaza, John suggested that we catch the Metro Gold Line at College Street and Alameda and ride back to Union Station in comfort.

The Gold Line dropped us at the Vignes Street side (the East side of the tracks) of Union Station. While passing through the wide concourse that tunnels under the train tracks to reach the other side, we walked up one of the ramps to see a train loading its passengers for departure. This was where the fabled trains of the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe deposited the new wave of “forty-niners” seeking their fame and fortune in the “western goldmines” of Hollywood and Los Angeles. John proposed one more stop before returning home on the Metro Red Line, and we left Union Station one more time to visit Our Lady Queen of Angels Church, called La Placita.

We left the terminal and, again, crossed Alameda, only this time walking through the wide plaza next to Olvera Street. We then scampered across Main Street to inspect the church directly opposite the plaza (in fact, the church is often referred to by Spanish-speaking residents as La Placita, the “The Plaza Church”). The church was founded in 1814 and dedicated on December 8, 1822. It was officially named after the patron saint of the city, Mary the mother of Jesus Christ, or as she was also known, Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles (Our Lady the Queen of the Angels). The interior was remarkably both simple yet ornate, and the altar was dominated by 5 large oil paintings of Mary and the Holy Family in a golden baroque façade. After taking a few more pictures we left the church and began our long trek back to the San Fernando Valley.

This was the most satisfying trip so far. The intervals on the buses and metros sped by quickly in animated discussions and observations. Each of us brought our own memories and insights of the places we visited to the talks we had. We agreed that we needed to try John’s time-lapsed photography one more time and also explore the Gold Line into East Los Angeles. So we laid the groundwork for our next trip, and perhaps John the Younger could come along.

I’ve enclosed some photos of our trip, but if you’re interested in a more comprehensive album, check my Flickr account at: 2009-11-17 Metro Tours. If you have any suggestions for trips or events, please don’t hesitate to mention them to me.

The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
The Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine
(Cisco Kid by WAR, 1971)

I turned off the television set in the Family Room at about 10 o’clock and walked into the study to check my email and see the latest postings on my favorite blogs. They are found as “Bookmarks” on my browser, and I’ve listed them in order of preference. The first six were: The Dedalus Log, Tablesaw, Flor Y Canto, Militant Angeleno, LA Eastside, and Chimatli. As I settled back into my desk chair, looking at the screen, I opened my son’s web log, Tablesaw/Sharpest Blades. A large billboard-style picture of a masked stranger came flying onto the screen. Captivated by the gaudy poster, I read the rest of Toñito’s blog for November 5, 2009.

Is anyone interested in seeing this with me next week?

“Get ready boys and girls for a thrilling episode of El Verde! Meet mild mannered Arturo Sanchez, born as an alien from the not so far away world of Mexico and raised in the good old U.S. of A. All Arturo ever wanted was to live an ordinary life, but after a freak elote accident, Arturo became… El Verde!!!

“Join us as we go back, way back, to see how it all began. This November, TeAda Productions will present THE ORIGINS OF EL VERDE. Watch as Arturo becomes the superhero who fights for truth, justice, and the Mexican-American way! Then watch him battle the evil La Quinceanera with her ultimate plot to destroy the world.

“Yes, El Verde is the live superhero show that’s fun for the whole family. If you’ve never been to an El Verde show before, be sure not to miss this one".

I meant to catch the show in August, but we got all busy. I don’t want to let this one go by.

The flamboyant promotional language was amusing, but Toñito’s invitation was enticing. On impulse, I immediately responded to his blog: “Mi Raza on stage? I’m always up see Chicano or Mexican-American theatre. Just let me know who else is going so I’ll know when (or when not) to laugh. Let’s coordinate dates, because next week looks bad. Dedalus”

Last Saturday, Toñito and I met at Miles Memorial Playhouse in Santa Monica to watch El Verde-Origins. It was just the two of us (a father and son) getting together to watch a local play about a Mexican-American hero in America. I had not shared an encounter this long with my son in months. We had seen each other at numerous family events and occasions, and chatted; but there is no substitute for sitting, watching, listening, and sharing a ballgame, movie, or play with your child, and knowing that you have all the time in the world to talk. That’s what we did that night.

The play was funny and exaggerated, and it provoked childhood images of comic books, cartoons, and Saturday matinee movies. There was nothing really exceptional in the staging or acting, and the story’s premise was absurd, but I smiled and laughed all evening. It reminded me of the campy, over-the-top, 1960’s TV series, Batman. The costuming, dialogue, actions, and music were bright, flashy, and outlandish. One could almost imagine the words POW, THWACK, and KABOOM flashing across the stage, as the heroes and villains fought and chased each other through the sets. Only these characters didn’t look, dress, or sound like your typical American heroes and villains in Gotham City – they were different. These good guys and bad guys looked, dressed, and acted as if they were cast in a Spanish language telenovela, located in East LA. For the space of 90 minutes, I was a kid again; suspending my beliefs and watching an improbable, Mexican-American factory worker transform himself into an urban, barrio crime fighter. El Verde wasn’t “super” because he had no super powers. True superheroes like Superman, The Fantastic Four, The X-Men, and Spiderman, were aliens from other planets or Americans who acquired superpowers. El Verde was just a naively confident and ambitious Mexican-American who wanted to defeat evildoers. He reminded me of the two Mexican-American heroes of my youth, The Cisco Kid and Zorro. In fact, except for the color of the mask and his lack of a sword, El Verde matched El Zorro in mask and suit color (I chose Cisco Kid for my title and epigram because I liked his song by War better than Zorro’s television theme song). It occurred to me, while discussing the merits of the play with Toñito over a late supper, that I would never have seen this production on my own. My son was our family’s guidon, carrying the ancient pennant of our cultural past.

My son Toñito has many admirable qualities. He is smart (tall), talented, logical, artistic, and passionate; and when he puts his mind to a task, he can be relentless. He brought this determination to bear on many of the duties his mother and I assigned him as a youth (athletics and academic achievement), and in the personal endeavors he discovered and pursued on his own (children’s theater, high school drama, and college fine arts). As he grew older, Kathy and I assumed our parental balcony seats to watch his life unfold - curious how this motivation would manifest itself next. We saw it in his involvement in intellectual puzzles and games, and in his committed relationship with his fiancé. However, the most surprising imperative developed from Tony and Jonaya’s understanding that their children would be bi-racial and multi-ethnic. I first became aware of his interest in Mexican and Chicano history, language, and culture, in September of 2008 when another of Toñito’s blogs caught me by surprise (See Cosmic Quest)

Since then, Toñito has continued his quest of learning more about the Mexican-American experience, history, language, and culture in Los Angeles, California, and America. I’ve stayed abreast of his progress through sporadic conversations, but mostly through his blog. In fact, it was while reading his commentaries on ethnic diversity, race, and cultural history that I learned of Militant Angeleno, LA Eastside, and Chimatli, three Mexican-American web journals that chronicle the styles and culture of Los Angeles, and East Los Angeles from a Mexican-American perspective. We had once talked about seeing The Culture Clash, the Chicano/Latino performance group that mixes comedy, satire, and social commentary through a Latino perspective, but we never followed through. Toñito’s Internet invitation to see another type of comedy about a Chicano culture hero was more than enough to compensate. I look forward to another date.