The Dedalus Log

I had a friend was a big baseball player

Back in high school,

He could throw that speedball by you,

Make you look like a fool, boy.

Saw him the other night, at this roadside bar;

I was walking in, he was walking out.

We went back inside, sat down, and had a few drinks;

But all he kept talking about was

Glory days – well they’ll pass you by,

Glory days – in the wink of a young girl’s eye,

Glory days, glory days, glory days.

(Glory Days, Bruce Springsteen, 1982)

“Hi Ed, what’s up?” I said.

“I’m calling to make sure you’re still going to the game today”.

“Of course” I replied, “I’m on my way now. I should be at Art’s house by 5 o’clock. Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving Monrovia, but I should be there by 5:00. I’ll call back when I get off the 605 Freeway in Artesia”.

“Great, I’ll talk to you later.” I pushed the face plate of the speaker to disconnect the call. About 10 minutes later, the speaker again emitted a high pitched “beeeeep”, signaling that another call was coming through. This was immediately followed by a robotic voice, in a faintly British accent saying “call from: four-one-nine-two-five-five nine”. I pushed the face plate again and said, “Hi Prisa!”

“Hi Dad, are you still going to the game?”

“Sure am, I’m on Interstate 5, heading for the 710 freeway. What about you?”

“I’m leaving my apartment now” Prisa replied, “but I’ll be taking surface streets to Art’s house. Artesia Blvd is a straight shot to his house. I’m hoping to be there around 5 o’clock”.

“Great, I talked with Ed, and it looks like we’re all synchronized to arrive at Art’s at about the same time”.

“Ok, then; I’ll call you if you’re not already there. Bye”

After I said goodbye, I was struck by the suspicion that my brother and daughter were in a conspiracy to make sure that I followed through on my intention to come to the soccer game today. I had cancelled on two previous occasions, and I was the last of my brothers and sisters to watch a Chivas USA soccer game, at the Home Depot Center in Carson. Since purchasing season tickets, my brother Arthur had begged me to be his guest. Even my daughter Prisa and her fiancé Joe had gone to a game. I had declined every one of Art’s entreaties. All my reasons were logical – the distance was too great, the starting time too late, or a prior engagement conflicted with the date; but they were all excuses. I simply didn’t want to go, and I couldn’t explain why – even to myself.

Art had been a devoted soccer fan since high school. Before the advent of local professional teams, he was attending matches of touring Mexican and European teams that visited Los Angeles from time to time. When Major League Soccer (MLS) attracted two franchises (first the Los Angeles Galaxy in 1996 and Chivas USA in 2004), he was the first person in line to buy Chivas season tickets for their new facility in Carson. Art told me they were the best seats in the house, but I was not inclined to believe him until evidence started trickling down from family members.

“They are REALLY good seats!” my sisters, Stella and Gracie, exclaimed in amazement. “Honestly, you have to go just to see his seats!”

My curiosity to visit the Home Depot Stadium and see these wondrous seats for myself finally overcame my mysterious case of ambivalence. When Art once again sent an email inviting me to a Galaxy - Chivas game, I said “Yes”.
 

I have a peculiar relationship with the game of soccer; a relationship that sometimes confuses people who know me - especially people who knew me in high school. I find the sport slow and boring, even at the professional level. I rarely go to games or watch them on television. The only exception is the World Cup playoffs. This is the month-long tournament which occurs every four years, when the finest soccer athletes of each country compete on national teams to determine the best team on the planet. It is the only authentic “World Series”. I saw my first World Cup while I was attending summer school classes at the National University of Mexico in Mexico City in 1966. I loved being part of a nationwide drama; watching one’s team compete, and then supporting a foreign favorite when your team is eliminated. In 1966, the Cup was decided in an epic match between England and Germany, with the British winning on a controversial overtime goal. Every four years, I get caught up in the excitement of the worldwide tournament and watch as many games as I can. At other times, I’m disinterested. My indifference has always confused Art. We were on the same soccer team in high school, and had played together for two years.

“Tony” he would exclaim, in surprise. “How can you not love the game? You were a two year letterman on the team that won the CIF Championship!” It was puzzling to him, and to me.
 

Albert Nocella was the first person to mention the idea.

“Tony” he began one day, as we took our seats in Father Salvador’s Religion class, sitting across the aisle from each other. “Wouldn’t you like to be a letterman, wearing one of those sweaters?” He nodded towards a tight group of 4 students, wearing thigh-length, thickly woven, white cotton sweaters with the bold school letter “B” emblazoned above the left pocket. They were crowded around Father Salvador’s desk, laughing and joking.

“Sure” I replied enviously, still believing in the mythology that lettermen always got the girls and popularity in high school, “but there’s no way. I dropped football after spring training, I’m not good enough at basketball or baseball, and I hate running – so cross country and track are out. There is no varsity sport I can letter in”. The bitterness of those last 9 words blackened my mood. In my sophomore year, I had forsaken the dream of playing a varsity sport and earning a varsity letter. I had fallen back on my Plan B – to win accolades and fame through scholarship. That year I made a concerted effort to earn the highest grades and be noticed by teachers and students for intelligence. For the first time, I received A’s in History, English, Spanish, and Religion, and B’s in P.E. and Math, and was invited to join the California Scholastic Federation (CSF). This was the Letterman’s Club of academics, where only the smartest students in the school were admitted. There I discovered that they were not all nerds and geeks. In fact many of these honor roll students played on “the thinking man’s sports” of cross-country and track. These were solitary, non-contact sports that allowed opportunities for reflection, thought, and individual achievement. I did not miss the irony of having gained entry into an elite scholastic organization, only to be surrounded by CSF students wearing letterman sweaters.

“No problem” continued Albert in a whisper, so Father Salvador wouldn’t notice, “I think I’ve found a sport we can letter in”.

“You’re cracked” I mutter in ventriloquist style, trying not to move my lips, as Father was telling us to open our books. “What sport can WE letter in?”

“Soccer” he hissed at me. “We try out for Father Amador’s soccer team”.

“Soccer!” I said, in a surprised loud voice. “I can’t play soccer!”

“Mr. Delgado”, interrupted Father Salvador, looking at me from over his lectern, “am I intruding on your discussion? Would you like me to wait until you’re finished?” he added sarcastically.

“Sorry, father” I replied, “I was asking Albert about his mother’s health. She has been ill, you know”.

“I did not know, but let’s not bother Mr. Nocella during a stressful time. Let me provide the solace and you pay attention”.

“Yes, father. Sorry, father”, I said opening my religion book and shielding my face.

“I’ll talk to you at lunch” came Albert’s whisper on my left.
 

Father Amador had been our foreign language teacher the year before. He was the shortest and most frail looking young priest in the Piarist Order at St. Bernard High School. It was his first year of teaching and he didn’t have a clue how to handle American high school boys. All of the priests of this Iberian religious order were either from Spain, or the province of Catalonia (Catalonia, they always explained, might be IN Spain, but it was not really part of it). St. Bernard was the first beachhead of their teaching mission in the United States – and their future looked tenuous. Of the nine priests who occupied the residential house on the school campus, only two or three of the most eccentric were successful at relating with American teenagers. The rest lived in an imaginary religious-cultural bubble, dependent on the fickle cooperation of their adolescent male students. Father Amador was the weakest teacher in the house. He struggled valiantly at gaining our respect, but rarely succeeded. Albert and I had been in his sophomore Spanish class. Spanish was my “easy A”; it was my first language and I spoke it fluently, but, I had never received formal instruction in reading and writing until then. My goal in class was to avoid antagonizing my teacher so he wouldn’t raise my performance criteria too much higher than my non-fluent companions. Albert, despite 4 years of Spanish by the time he graduated, never learned more than 4 or 5 stock phrases (“Hola, Paco, que tal”, and “Mis albondigas estan discompuestas” were his favorites). Albert’s expertise lay in his ability to seduce teachers into getting off the subject and talking about themselves, and their interests. Amador and Nocella were an ideal match; Father didn’t want to teach, and Albert didn’t want to learn. The rest of the class just sat back to watch and listen (occasionally volunteering a question or two if Albert hesitated or faltered). It was during one of these off-topic discussions that we discovered that Father Amador had been a soccer star in his “preparatoria” (high school) and seminary in Spain. He loved talking about a sport no one knew anything about, and his early struggles at coaching the first-year team at Bernard’s. Neither the team nor the sport registered a blip on the school’s athletic radar screen, until the yearbook came out in June. Soccer was given four pages of pictures (more than cross-country, swimming, and track), and two sophomores on the team had won varsity letters, John Mahler and Danny Burke.
 

I found Albert at the far end of the breezeway during lunch. He was already in an animated conversation with two other students in our homeroom, Rick Villasenor and Bill Dennis.

“You’re crazy, Nocella” I repeated in Catholic school fashion, addressing him by his last name only. “We’re juniors. It’s too late for us to make a varsity team in a sport we never played”.

“Hear him out, Delgado” interjected Villasenor. “He makes sense”.

“Yah” added Dennis, an intense, dirty-blonde haired student, who only spoke in short, choppy, sentences.

I knew both of these boys as fellow classmates and failed varsity athletes. We had played softball on opposing parish teams in grammar school, and we still enjoyed playing all the seasonal sports during P.E. and lunch. However, we had given up on football for various reasons (see Forever, Not for Better), and were not talented enough to play beyond the JV level in the other serious sport programs. Our dreams of playing a varsity sport were coming to an end in our junior year.

“Okay” I said, “I’m listening”.

“Tony, I’m telling you, it’s a wide open sport. I talked to Burke and Mahler, and the team is desperate for players. They said nobody knows how to play the game – everybody is a beginner. There is only ONE team, a varsity team, and everybody who tries out is on it. Do you know what that means?”

“We could earn a letter before the end of the year” I answered in a hushed voice, not believing the possibility. All four of us looked at each other, not needing further elaboration. We loved sports and loved to play them, but found ourselves shut out of an exclusive club called “Varsity”.

“I think we can learn how to play this game” finished Albert. “Come on, Tony” he urged. “What can it take? You can kick a stupid ball around, can’t you?”

“Let’s talk to Mahler” I countered, seeking more time to consider. Albert was convincing - temptingly so; but Albert wasn’t a jock. He had never played an organized sport outside of Little League baseball, least of all football. Villasenor and Dennis had played freshman or JV football; they knew the rigors of training and the difficulties of perfecting skills and techniques. The issue was whether soccer offered a real avenue to PLAY and therefore LETTER on a varsity team. We would learn this from John Mahler. He was a unique individual, a varsity football and soccer player with credibility with all the jocks and non-jocks on campus because of his sportsmanship, honesty, and lack of pretense. Everybody liked and trusted Mahler. We found him among a group of football lettermen, walking out of the food shack near the center walkway.

“Hi Mahler” said Albert, walking up to him. “Can we talk to you about the soccer team?”

“Sure” Mahler said, nodding to his friends to go on without him. “What do you need?”

“Albert is trying to talk us into going out for soccer” I said quickly. “None of us know anything about the game. I want to know if we have a real chance to make the team and play, so we can earn letters.”

“If that’s a question, the answer is yes” Mahler said simply. “We need players, lots of them. Every position is open. Last year’s team was filled with senior football players who didn’t know what they were doing. They played the game like rugby, and they drove Father Amador nuts. Me and Burke were the only guys who learned how to play the game. This year, we have a new coach, but only two returning letterman. If you show up and practice, you can play. If you play, you can letter. We want guys who’ll put in the time and effort”.

“Okay” I said, looking at the other boys to see if they had questions. “When are tryouts?”

“They start on Wednesday after school at Westchester Park, on Manchester Blvd. The football field will be available when football season ends. Until then we practice at the park”.

“Thanks, Mahler” added Villasenor, “See ya”.

That was how I decided to play soccer in the fall of 1964.
 

My first year of soccer was an exploratory venture into maturity. I took full responsibility for the logistical and procedural requirements of joining, practicing, and playing a new sport. My Mom and Dad provided the funds, resources, and support, but I made all the arrangements (although Albert was always eager to give me advice, and keep me company). The first issue was transportation. I was one of 2 or 3 students who had driver’s licenses in their junior year of high school, and I inherited the task of driving my twin siblings, Art and Stella to school. I realized immediately that Stella would have no choice but to wait for us after school, if BOTH Arthur and I were playing soccer. So, despite my reluctance over playing on the same team as my brother, I talked him into joining. Actually, he jumped at the chance. I had never bothered to explore Art’s yearning to play a high school sport and earn a varsity letter. He was a very good Little League baseball player, but didn’t have the weight to play football. I always assumed he had given up on sports to concentrate on art and his grades. I discovered that soccer offered him the same opportunity it offered me. Once my transportation problems were resolved, Albert mooched a regular ride home from practice. It was only then that I entertained the sneaking suspicion that his efforts at convincing me to try out had been motivated by his need for a ride. Once it was clear that all three of us were on the team, I drove to an athletic shoe store on Pico Boulevard, near Vermont. It was the first time I had driven into an unknown part of the city, with a car full of student players, to buy our own equipment. It was liberating.

Three years of playing Pop Warner football, and one failed season of spring training (see Forever, Not for Better), had given me an analytical perspective on organized athletics. I could examine the sport, and my play, in a surprisingly objective fashion. Like any sport, the basic skills of soccer were not difficult to learn. The rules were new and unusual, but the physical mechanics of kicking, stopping, passing, and controlling the ball were simple. It is only the fluid and thoughtless execution of these techniques that is hard. Physical conditioning and practice are the essentials of any sport, and the scrimmages and games are always the fun part – the reward. We had a few natural players on the team, children of immigrants who learned the game as infants. These native players, along with those gifted individuals who mastered the essential skills the quickest, made up the starting team: an offense composed of a five-man front line (two wingers at the ends, two forwards, and one center striker); and a three-tiered defense, composed of 3 half backs, 2 fullbacks, and a goalie. Mr. Cooper, a retired British, semi-pro soccer player, was our coach. He was excitable and emotional in his language, mannerisms, and moods, but he was an encouraging and understanding man who realized that he was dealing with a squad of novice adolescents. Once he had identified the obviously superior players for most of the positions on the first team, I detected that he was looking for players with “the proper attitude”- players who demonstrated more aggressiveness than technical mastery. When I came to the conclusion that I was average in my mechanics, but on par with everyone else, my first-born-son compulsion to overachieve kicked in. To win a starting spot at the only halfback position available, I decided to distinguish myself from the competition. I concentrated on performing two finesse skills that few players had mastered: headers (striking the ball with the top of one’s forehead to redirect or shoot the ball at the goal) and throw-in’s (throwing the ball back into play, in a rigid, straight-armed fashion, directly over your head, without bending the elbows). Both techniques were awkward, and few players could do them correctly. The week before our first game, with the starting lineup still in question, I put forth a burst of supercharged energy and aggression, and caught the coach’s attention with my willingness to head the ball at every opportunity, and throw it in as far as I could. The ball was rocketing off the top of my head and forehead, and I could reach Burke at his center position in front of the goal with a throw-in from the sidelines. I made the first team and started the next three games.
 

Mastering basic mechanics and winning a starting position did not mean I knew what I was doing, or what was going on around me. I did not. I was going through the motions without visualizing a strategy or outcome. All my thoughts and actions were directed at avoiding mistakes, and that never made for fluid and effortless play. With each game I became more uncomfortable and less certain of my position and play. I was envious of Albert, my brother Art, and the other rookies sitting on the bench. They were slowly improving their games at a natural pace, watching and studying the matches being played. I concluded that I overachieved myself into an untenable situation and needed to sit down and reassess it. I needed, therefore, to find a way for the coach to reach the same conclusion without actually telling him. Teenage-thinking was impossible to explain to an adult, especially a coach: “Oh, Mr. Cooper, even though you think I’m good enough to start, I disagree. So I’d like to bench myself for a spell, until I feel more confident about my level of play”. That scenario would not work. On the morning of the game against Pater Noster High School, I told my mother I felt ill and unable to attend the game. It fell on my brother to inform the coach that I wasn’t able to play. I reasoned that if my “aggressive attitude” had gained his attention, demonstrating a clear lack of it would achieve my desired goal. A senior halfback by the name of Bjelejac (bee-gel-jack) was promoted to my position and I never started another game that season. I welcomed the demotion. I had been performing way over my head, with no feel or understanding of the game. Sitting on the bench and evaluating the actions of other players, without any performance anxiety, was a huge relief. Practices became more enjoyable, and competing against the first team in scrimmages was a delight. I could try any maneuver I saw or learned – sliding tackles, scissor kicks, over-the-head and backward kicks, and shots on goal from the top of the penalty box. Albert and I were finally having fun with this new sport. Our only worry was the varsity letter. I reasoned that I had amassed enough playing time during the first three games to acquire one, but Nocella was worried. He needed to insure his letter by playing to his off-field strength - humorous interactions with teachers in class. He began steadily lobbying the Team Faculty Moderator (or Piarist Assistant Coach), before school, during class, and after school in practice. Father Salvador, our religion teacher, had taken the position after Father Amador left (disappeared, was more like it), and Albert engaged him relentlessly until he surrendered on the issue. There was no way Albert ever had more than 5 or 10 minutes of game time the entire season, but he provided an indispensible ingredient for a successful program: he radiated loyalty and commitment to the team, with a flair for fun and humor at practice and on the bench. The day after we received our letters for varsity soccer, Albert submitted his application to the Letterman’s Club and made arrangements for me to drive him, Villasenor, and Dennis to a tailor shop in Inglewood to order our sweaters. On the drive back, a remarkable transformation occurred – this group of selfish, self-serving, and mercenary juniors looked at ourselves and realized that we had become a TEAM in the course of the year.
 

I don’t recall who first thought of it, or how it grew in the re-telling, but of the original eleven juniors who went out for the team in November of 1964, seven of us developed the absurd notion that we could win the League and CIF Championship in our senior year. The ridiculousness of that idea astounds me even today. Arthur once admitted during HIS senior year in soccer that the new coaches who replaced Mr. Cooper and Father Salvador described the 1966 team as “a bunch of kickers who managed to score a goal once in awhile”. I was offended at the time, but eventually realized that they were right. We had no business dreaming of championships, we barely knew how to play the game; but the more we talked after our first season, the more we came to believe that we could do it, and the more we played.
 

In those days, there were very few club teams at the high school level, especially in soccer. Sports were divided into seasons, and seasons came to an end. Mahler and Burke, as the longest tenured members of the team, took the lead of translating our impossible dream into practice. A core group of juniors (and my brother, who was a sophomore) made a commitment to play (practice) every Saturday or Sunday, until the new season began in November of 1965. This habit would keep us in shape and allow us to perfect our mechanics. The coaches could not ask this of us, but we could demand it of ourselves. The key to this plan was the “annoying pestering” from key individuals – Burke, the co-captain and trainer, Villasenor, the catalyst and motivator, and Nocella, the cheerleader and “fixer” (if there was a problem, Albert could fix it). I’m sure many difficulties and inconveniences arose in the course of the spring and summer, but I only remember it as fun. It was as if the crew of a ship had hijacked the vessel and taken it for an adventure cruise; suddenly, we were in charge of our own team. We communicated at school and by phone. We had driver’s licenses, automobiles, and all the necessary equipment. All we needed was a grassy field to play on, and people to match up against. If we were short the minimum number of players, we recruited friends, family, and strangers. We signed up new team members over the summer, and discovered a freshman from Ireland. When we got together on Saturday or Sunday, we played 11 on 11, 8 on 8, or 4 on 4; whenever we had less than 6 players, we would shoot on goal (with each of us alternating at goalie). Necessity forced us to play every position, so our mechanics became more natural and spontaneous. More important than honing technique, every weekend gave us the time to talk and figure out this sport that we had started playing only 4 months earlier. There were no adults telling us what to do, or what we should work on; we were soon-to-be seniors diagnosing our own progress, and prescribing our own solutions. Swigging Cokes or Pepsi after a practice, we would kick back on the grass and compare ourselves to Salesian High School, the best team in the league. They were the team to beat. However, even though many considered them “the Brazilians” of our league, we found some weaknesses. They were short in stature, lacked weight and strength, and had a tendency to show off their finesse dribbling and over-passing. We were oafish and clumsy in comparison, but, we also had some advantage. We had the best goalie in the league (John Mahler); big and strong defensemen who were very comfortable blocking and tackling in the American style of football; and a maniac center striker (Dan Burke) who would never quit until he scored (or assisted in the goal). Our strategy, as it evolved over the summer, was simple, to force every team to play our American style of soccer-football; we were a defense-oriented team, with a counter-punching, forward pass offense.
 

When the coaches returned in November of 1965, they discovered a predominately senior team of players, who were well conditioned, confident playing their positions, and focused on one mission – to take league and win the CIF Championship. Our first game was against Salesian, so we would find out soon enough if there was merit to our summer long dreams. I had also won back my starting position at right halfback, playing next to Villasenor. Contrary to my first year, I knew I could play the position and believed I was the best available athlete. I never kidded myself as to the level of my ability. I played soccer the way I played football, methodically, skillfully, and dependably. I had been blooded and beaten in battles, and I knew my own measure against opponents. If I could put a body on my man, deny him the ball, and kick, head, and pass well enough to get the ball to my teammates, I could play this game.
 

We played Salesian on a grey and overcast Saturday morning on the soccer fields of Loyola University (it would not be called Loyola-Marymount until 1975). We had visualized this game all summer and fall. With the opening whistle to start the match, we played a tight man-to-man defense, marking our opponents, staying with them at all times, and denying them the ball. Our forward line would double up on these men as often as possible to steal the ball or force it loose. Our counter-attacks were a series of swift, outlet passes to our wingers, who would fast-break down the sidelines and then center the ball towards the middle. In the meantime, our forwards would streak down the center of the field, filling the lanes, and receive the centering pass and score. We knocked the Salesian players off the ball and off their game from the start, and their frustration and anger grew as the game progressed. They yelled at, and criticized each other, and complained of their lack of hustle. We just played our game and supported each other. We broke a 1 to 1 tie in the second half, and played intense defense for the remainder of the game. We never tired, and our resolve never waivered. When the ref blew his whistle to end the game I blinked in disbelief. We had done it; we had beaten the best in the league. We had imagined it, talked about it, and rehearsed it all summer. We were on our way to a magical season that ended on February 19, 1966, against San Gabriel Mission High School, for the CIF Championship. We played our same style of soccer and won 2 to 1.
 

Prisa, Eddie, and I arrived within 2 minutes of each other at my brother’s home. Arthur and five yapping mini-dogs greeted us at the door, and he then proceeded to guide us through the wonders of his favorite professional soccer team, Chivas USA. He loaded us with a cornucopia of booster paraphernalia and promotional gear from his season-ticket stash, and he gave a running commentary on the team, its strengths, weaknesses, and prospects for the year. He lived only a short freeway distance from the home stadium at the Home Depot Center, and we left quickly so he could show us around. The stadium still maintained its newly constructed look. He and his wife, Elia, were such well known boosters that we were ushered through the VIP entrance, and allowed access to the box-seat hospitality pavilion. His seats were everything he had promised, and I had heard about. They were slightly above ground level, and adjacent to the stadium tunnel where all the players, celebrities, and entertainers entered and exited the field. Arthur could lean over, shake hands, and chat with all the players, coaches, and trainers. He appeared to be on a first name basis with all of them.

“You really kept up your interest in the game, didn’t you?” I asked, rhetorically, looking around the stadium in wonderment.

“Yeah, I guess I did” he replied. “I’ve always liked the game, even though I didn’t play much after high school. The Galaxy has more recognized stars like Beckman and Landon Donovan, but Chivas has stronger Mexican and South American support. The Latino fans make the games more enjoyable to watch – they really get into it. What about you; why don’t you watch or go to games?”

“I’m not sure” I said “After high school I never played again. I enjoy watching every sport other than soccer. I suppose, soccer was just a means to an end. It let me play a varsity sport, be a letterman, and win a championship in high school – but I never loved the game”.

“How is that possible?” pressed Arthur. “Bernard’s never had another year like your senior year. The team was never the same after you guys graduated”.

“You know, Art” I realized. “I don’t remember ‘the good old days’ of high school with a lot of fondness, but I did enjoy playing on that team. We haven’t been together since our 20^th Reunion in 1986, and Frank Cuozzo and Terry Harwood never came back from Vietnam. Being together, dreaming together, and playing together, made that senior year special. Everything coalesced for us that year”.

“So soccer was fun” Art summarized.

“No” I corrected, “The team was fun; but it only lasted a season”.
 

We watched an exciting game that Chivas led 2-1 going into the last 2 minutes of play. It was during the added-on time, that Galaxy scored a desperation goal. The game ended in a tie.
 

I’ve written Valentine’s Day blogs to Kathleen Mavourneen for each of the last two years. One was inspired by an old diary I found in which I described two months in 1974, during our maturing romance (see Valentine’s Day ). The other was prompted by the lyrics to a song I heard the day after New Year’s at Catalina’s Bar and Grill (see On My Way to You ). This year I had no “bolt out of the clear blue sky” inspiration for an essay. The old year came to a close, and the New Year began. As Valentine’s Day approached, I simply felt the need to create something for my wife, the woman I love. What do I want to say? What scenes or memories come to mind? Where do I begin? I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning.

The convent on the corner of Manchester Blvd and Stanmoor Drive did not look like a religious cloister. Although it was across the street from a catholic church, there was nothing religious about the two-story, beige colored, stucco structure. It was a copy of the many nondescript apartment houses that abounded in that neighborhood of Westchester. I had driven by this building hundreds of times. Going to, and coming from, high school and work, I never suspected that it was the living quarters of five or six nuns (depending who was in residence) in the religious Community of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ’s). I discovered its secret identity when Sister Marilyn and Sister Carol invited me to the TGIF which they, and their sisters, hosted periodically. Although I don’t recall who actually asked me, I do remember that being invited was a distinct honor. These were special invitations which required the consensus of all the sisters in the house.

I knew most of the CSJ’s as fellow faculty and staff members in the same catholic high school in which we worked. They were the largest of the religious orders, and they represented every level of the school hierarchy. They had an assistant principal (Sister Nancy), a department chair (Sister Marilyn), a counselor (Sister Carol), and two teachers (Sisters Margaret and Mona). Given their numbers and influence in the administration and culture of the school, I saw how the more paranoid priests feared some kind of feminine conspiracy or take-over. However, I also noticed that none of these decriers ever sought or requested additional responsibilities beyond their immediate classroom duties. The nuns were always ready to respond constructively to school problems and challenges. Until my invitation, I had no social or personal interactions with women in religious orders. From grades 2 through 8, the sisters who taught me were strict, unsmiling, militaristic martinets. I feared them. This simplistic view of nuns continued in high school, where I was taught solely by priests and male lay instructors, and I believed every prejudice they expressed about the pushy women on the other side of the co-institutional school. I also assumed the nuns who taught the girls were as boring and colorless as the male religious who lectured us. This view changed when I was hired at St. Bernard High School to teach history in January of 1972. Working closely with, for, and among nuns for the first time, especially the CSJ’s, was a mind-expanding, and a stereotype-smashing experience. In my first semester, I found the sisters to be inspirational leaders, conscientious and caring counselors, and skilled teachers. Marilyn, as Social Studies department chair, mentored me through my difficult rookie year. Carol, the consummate counselor, helped keep my humor and spirits up, as I struggled to motivate teenagers who were only 6 years younger than I, and who showed little tolerance for inexperienced teachers. As I became more confident and relaxed in my second year, Marilyn and Carol welcomed me to their table in the Teacher’s Lounge for coffee, cigarettes, and food during recess and lunch. It was during these open-ended chats, discussions, and joke-telling sessions that I came to know them better. When I was invited to their house, I realized I had passed some informal probation period. The moment I walked into their apartment on a Friday night, I knew I was being given an insight into their lives that most Catholics never got. Our interactions became closer and more personal. I became a regular guest, and developed an authentic friendship with Marilyn and Carol.
 

One evening at the convent, after a hectic week at school, I was regaling the sisters with stories of living at home with mom and siblings, and my adventures with three high school buddies who lived in an apartment nearby. Holding her stomach in laughter, Marilyn gasped that they wanted to meet these bachelor friends, who provided me a haven for continuous juvenile pursuits. As I tried explaining the importance of frivolous recreation, Carol interrupted with an apparent change of subject.

“Tony, there is a girl we know who I think you should meet”.

“Oh, you mean Kathy” chimed in Marilyn, cutting short her laughter. “She’s wonderful and you both have a lot in common”.

The topic immediately sobered me and brought a frown to my face. Working in an environment of nuns, I had become very wary of their matchmaking abilities. I didn’t have much confidence in their judgment when it came to predicting social chemistry and sexual attraction. I’d seen and met many of their female friends and acquaintances who occasionally visited the school. None of them looked particularly attractive or interesting.

“No thanks, ladies”.  I said gently, not wanting to hurt their feelings.

“It’s not what you think, Tony” countered Carol. “This girl is different. We’ve known her for along time and we really think she’s wonderful”.

“I need you to stop this” I said firmly and impatiently. “I don’t want to be set-up. I appreciate your interest, but I’m fine – really”.

“We’re not talking about a blind date, Tony” Marilyn continued. “Kathy is just somebody we really like and we think you would too”.

“Again, thank you ladies, but I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’m dating someone right now”. I saw that none of my arguments were having any effect on my cloistered friends; but when I noticed that Carol was angling for another opportunity to weigh into the debate, I changed tack.

“Okay, look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll agree to meet this girl, but let me be the one to tell you when. Now is not a good time; but I promise to tell you when I’m ready”.

“You promise?” repeated Carol, warily, looking at Marilyn for support.

“I promise” I said, raising my right hand as if taking an oath. Unwillingly, Carol and Marilyn took me at my word and accepted the compromise. They dropped the subject and did not raise it again. I was very pleased with myself for having short circuited their plans. I had no intention of ever asking to meet this girl – but I couldn’t forget the promise I’d made to them.
 

Two months after this debate, my affair with a teacher at the school ended. The aftermath of this short-lived infatuation lingered far longer than the relationship itself. I entered a barren period in my life where a meaningful relationship with a woman became a ceaseless longing. I had the company of my family at home, my friends at school, and my three high school buddies, but they were no longer enough. After considerable inner turmoil and debate, I sought out Carol and Marilyn at the lunch table one day and sat next to them.

“Uh, do you remember that conversation we had a while back about the friend you wanted me to meet?” I asked, embarrassedly, as the two nuns looked at each other and then me.

“Yes” they replied in tandem, with secret smiles on their faces.

“Well, I’d like to meet her. Just remember, this is not a date. You are just inviting us to have dinner WITH YOU”.

“Okay” Carol said, “We’ll take care of it”.

The girl was already there when I arrived. She was stretched on the living room rug, leaning against the coffee table, in conversation with Sister Mona. Seeing and listening to her was something of a jolt. She was nothing I expected. I had visualized a medium sized, mousy-faced graduate student, who was polite, cautious, quiet, and shy. I assumed any friend of nuns had to have these demur qualities, never making the association that I was their friend, and did not share any of these traits. Kathy was exactly the opposite from the convent girl I imagined. She had sparkling, hazel eyes, and an enchanting, beaming smile. She was tall and slender, with shoulder-length, and sun streaked, dark blonde hair. She had long, flowing legs, arms, hands and fingers; and glowed with vitality as she exploded with humor and laughter. Kathy took over the room and captivated the guests with stories of her family and college experiences. I’ve since learned that the on-stage persona dominating the awkward moments of introductory conversation emerges out of nervousness, and the desire to put people at ease. At the time, Kathy made everyone laugh and feel comfortable, as she asked questions, elaborated on answers, and made jokes. I had always thought my family was weird and funny. I was born into a Mexican-American family of 4 boys, 2 girls, and a widowed mother who clung to nostalgic memories of her aristocratic, Mexican family who had been displaced and dispossessed by the Revolution. However, Kathy’s stories of her Irish-American family, of 2 brothers, 7 sisters, 2 in-laws, and surgeon father, made mine seem bland. She was a classic storyteller, who tickled your curiosity, built up suspense, and then surprised you with an unexpected twist or ironic ending. It was more of a performance, than a conversation, but I managed to join in as drinks were served.
 

At the conclusion of dinner, a pretext arose to change gears, and prolong the evening in another venue. Sister Nancy needed to return to St. Bernard to recover a forgotten report in her office. Kathy and I volunteered to accompany her on the drive to the nearby high school. This opportunity gave me a chance to be alone with Kathy. I gave her a tour of the school I worked in, and spoke of my days there as a student. I told her of my teachers, the time I ditched during a day-long religious retreat (only to be caught returning to campus), and my days as a soccer player. I suppose I was trying to impress her as we walked to the football stadium, down the bleachers, and onto the track. There she challenged me to a foot race. I don’t remember who won, but I do recall her long strides, her flowing hair, and the out-of-breath laughter that ended the contest. Her lack of formal constraints and inhibitions enchanted me. I knew I needed to see her again. The problem was when to ask. To do so then, on the same evening we met, struck me as desperate; too pushy and overeager. I let the matter lie until we returned to the convent for coffee. When I asked Marilyn and Carol what they were planning that weekend, they said they were driving to Coachella Valley the following morning to join a United Farm Worker’s demonstration. They were long-time supporters of Cesar Chavez’s efforts to unionize farm workers, and wanted to help. Kathy was spending the night and going along. Here was the perfect excuse for a second meeting without betraying my interest in her. I explained my support of the Grape Strike and the UFW and asked Marilyn if I could join them. “Sure” she said, “but we’re leaving at 6 o’clock, so you’ll have to get up early”. When I left the convent, I shook Kathy’s hand, saying it was nice meeting her, and I told Marilyn and Carol that I would “try to join” them in the morning. The next day at 5:45 A.M., I was parked outside, waiting impatiently for 6 o’clock to knock on the convent door.
 

The drive to Coachella was a test of sorts. I wanted to see if the spell cast the previous evening would survive the harsh glare of day, and the rigors of a long car trip. If anything, Kathy looked different and better. In the clear light of the morning, with none of the evening glamour, Kathy looked relaxed and lovelier. She was dressed in faded Levis and a long-sleeve, creamy-green, collarless blouse that accentuated her shape and stature. She had tied her hair back into a long ponytail, so her cheekbones, nose, chin, and neck showed a sharper profile. On the road trip to the demonstration, she again controlled the tone and tenor of the conversation, keeping it lose and lively. She solicited information and opinions from all of the passengers, and then expressed her own views with a mixture of jokes, witty observations, commentary on schools, nuns, priests, and her family. I learned a lot about her family on that journey, although I wasn’t sure how much was hyperbole or fact. I tried to join in, but found I enjoyed just listening to her voice, her laughter, and the way she made other people laugh. One would think that a trip to a worker-owner confrontation, at a time of violent encounters, would have been memorable, but all I remember of the trip is riding in the car with Kathy. The imperative to see her again increased steadily all day; but I wanted to see her alone, without the annoying presence of other people. I wanted to be with her, speak only to her, and she only to me. As we were unloading the car on our return to the convent, I suddenly found myself standing alone with her for a moment. Realizing that this might be my only opportunity before leaving, I blurted out my mentally rehearsed question.

“Uhhh, Kathy, can I see you again?” An eternity passed before she answered.

“Sure, that would be great” she said with a bewitching smile. “I’d like that”.

The euphoria of hearing the words “sure”, “great”, and “like”, all in the same sentence, accompanied by a gorgeous smile, sent me into ecstasy. I said goodbye, gave Carol and Marilyn big hugs, and walked to my car in a haze of delight. It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized I had not asked for her phone number; but even that oversight did not alter my mood. I would correct it later.
 

36 years have passed since that blissful Saturday afternoon when Kathy said “Sure!” I am no longer the arrogant boy who did not trust two friends who knew me better than I knew myself. I am no longer the slender and impassioned young man who tried so hard to attract and impress a lovely young woman. I’ve grown old, fat, and lazy; but sometimes the magic happens, and I find myself in a romantic time warp. This year I asked Kathy to accompany me to my school’s Christmas Dinner. No matter how one approaches them, large faculty dinner parties are difficult and awkward events for principals. They are incompatible mixtures of formal business and social festivities. Principals are never “just a guest”; they are always “the boss”. The principal must meet, greet, introduce, and chat with employees, their spouses, loved ones, and guests. It is a lot of work, and I usually don’t ask Kathy to attend. For the last two years, I had gone alone. However, this year I wanted Kathy’s company. This is my last year at MASH Middle School and I wanted this last Christmas dinner to be memorable. Over the last two years, my leadership team of administrators, coordinators, and counselors had really come together. They are a great group to work with and be around; they work hard, support each other, and love to laugh and have fun. I had mentioned them often to Kathy and I especially wanted her to meet them – and they her. I also wanted to have fun, and Kathy’s presence, conversation, and humor would distract me from the more formal and annoying aspects of the party, and allow me to enjoy myself.

The evening began in the usual fashion. We came home from work, dressed, drove, arrived, and greeted the hostesses and early guests. Then, while standing in the bar line to buy drinks, I heard a familiar and enchanting voice, with a touch of Irish humor, describing the upcoming wedding of our daughter. I looked around to see my radiant wife surrounded by a bevy of youthful coordinators and assistant principals gazing up at her in wonder. They were listening to every word and laughing at her stories of the nuptial preparations and difficulties. By the time I returned and handed her a drink, the coordinators were asking her questions about her school, her job as principal, and our family. As they listened to her responses, they kept smiling at the two of us, standing side by side, holding hands.

As we drove home that evening, I leaned over and kissed Kathy on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming along this evening. You were wonderful”.

“You’re welcome, babe”, she replied with a smile.

I looked sideways at her, and smiled back as the words of my favorite Eric Clapton song came to mind. They seemed to fit my mood perfectly on that Friday night:
 

It’s late in the evening; she’s wondering what clothes to wear.

She puts on her makeup and brushes her long blonde hair.

And then she asks me, “Do I look all right?”

And I say, “Yes, you look wonderful tonight.”

We go to a party and everyone turns to see

This beautiful lady who’s walking around with me.

And then she asks me, “Do you feel all right?”

And I say, “Yes, I feel wonderful tonight.”

I feel wonderful because I see

The love light in your eyes.

And the wonder of it all

Is that you don’t realize how much I love you.

It’s time to go home now and I’ve got an aching head,

So I give her the car keys, and she helps me into bed.

And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,

“Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight”.

Some live by love they neighbor as thyself,

others by first do no harm or take no more

than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,

love that casts a widening pool of light,

love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

(Praise Song for the Day, Inaugural Poem by Elizabeth Alexander)

As Prisa looked around to select her finally spot, I took stock of her location. The metal scaffolding to our right supported enough lighting to allow a determined GW student to read a hardbound novel. The last of a series of five jumbo video screens hovered to our left; and straight ahead, bathed in sparkling illumination, rose the gleaming white National Capitol. Red, white, and blue bunting and banners festooned the multi-layered portico which faced the Mall. This was it – the best, free spot on the Mall, except for the fortunate few in the exclusive seated and standing areas surrounding the capitol dais.

“Okay, chula” I said. “I think this is as far as I can take you. You can see everything here. Are you good?”

“Yup” my daughter replied cheerily. “This is great. I’ll be fine, don’t worry”.

“I’ll try calling you when I reach the ticket entrance, and we can stay in touch before the swearing in”.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit down here and wait”.

The people around us had already started spreading blankets, chairs, and tarps on the ground, settling in for the long wait ahead. An enterprising quartet of friends seeking more warmth had confiscated a trash receptacle and transformed it into a waist-high, circular, cardboard barricade. Another settler behind her had spread a large white cardboard mat on the ground as insulation for his red blanket. The flannel rug stood out like a crimson postage stamp on a square white envelope.

“Okay then, Prisa” I said guiltily. “I think I’ll take off. Hopefully, the sooner I’m in line, the better my chances at a good spot in the center of the mall”.

“All right, Dad. I’ll be fine – really. Don’t worry”.

Unfortunately, I was worried. I was second guessing my decision to leave Prisa behind and proceed to another site on the Mall.
 

I kept thinking of the wide silver card I was carrying protectively in a plastic souvenir bag. The ticket was an exclusive invitation from Congressman Howard Berman to enter a special area between 4^th and 3^rd Streets, just ahead of Prisa’s location. Yesterday, we had queued up at 10:00 A.M. in front of the Rayburn Congressional office building on Independence Avenue to receive the silver ticket, and plead for an extra one for my daughter. That hope was soon dashed when the congressional assistant told us that we would have to return after 5 o’clock to see if anyone had failed to pick up their ticket. I was convinced that the chances for success were bleak, and not worth the rigors and travel difficulties of returning in six hours. My guilt over this decision was somewhat alleviated when, upon surveying the map and the actual viewing areas in front of the Capitol, we saw that we would be relatively close to each other on the Mall. I would be on one side of 4^th Street and Prisa on the other. This sense of proximity gave us renewed courage, and we began sketching our game plan for Inauguration Morning as we walked around the Capitol and Mall. Beginning at 4:00 A.M., we would catch the first bus on Wisconsin Ave in Glover Park, and take it to the limits of the No-vehicle Zone at Washington Circle, near the Foggy Bottom Metro. From there we’d walk down 23^rd Street to the Mall and then dash across it for 4^th Street. Once settled, I would leave Prisa in place and make my way to the Silver Entrance at 3^rd Street and Independence and get in line to wait until the gates opened at 8:30 A.M. So far, the only hitch to this plan was the failure of the bus to appear at 4 o’clock. We had waited forlornly at the bus stop for over 30 minutes in the freezing cold. After watching countless empty taxi cabs drive past, we decided that a warm car was worth the added expenditure. The speedy taxi ride proved even more fortuitous, because the driver was able to travel beyond our original drop-off point and deliver us on Constitution Ave at the edge of the Mall. Warmed and optimistic from the fast and comfortable journey, we joined the bands of early spectators who were making their way down the Mall. My 28 year old daughter had been my constant companion throughout our three days of travel, exploration, and planning. Now, in this semi-lit, cold, and barren place, I was at the point of leaving her alone.

“Okay” I repeated, trying to reassure myself that the time and difficulties spent in procuring my ticket demanded that it be used. Prisa had urged me to do so yesterday, and nothing had changed to prevent it. I gave her a wide, encompassing, bear-hug and a kiss on the cheek, and said, “I’ll see you when we have a new president. I love you, and thanks for coming with me”.

“I love you too, Dad. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I’m fine”.
 

I strode quickly away, refusing to look back. I kept telling myself that Prisa was a mature adult, a veteran high school teacher, and a coach. She was not the little girl of 8 who I once left for 2 hours, with her 10 year old brother, to wait for me at the Northridge Mall in Los Angeles while I went into a bookstore. That had been a scary misadventure. I brushed those memories aside and concentrated on the plan and the mental map I had drawn up showing the streets I needed to reach. I assumed that this second half of our game plan would go as well as the first. I made my way to the corner of our enclosed section, hoping to find a quick exit to 4^th Street, so I could take it south one block to Independence Ave. There I would turn left toward 3^rd and my entrance gate. However, I couldn’t get out. There was a security guard blocking my way at the nearest break in the fence.

“You can’t exit from here” the rotund guard said, as I approached. “You need to go back and find another exit”.

“All right” I replied, not worried about the redirection; in fact, I had expected them earlier. I had read about extensive road closures, and closed access routes; but none had materialized until now. I walked quickly away, along the dimly lit gravel pathway that paralleled the grassy mall, but did not receive much light. It was a cold but quiet walk, with no one other travelers going my way. Looking to my right, I could see clusters of people in all ages, sizes, and groupings streaming steadily along the illuminated mall. The walking warmed me, and I grew more confident of my actions. Suddenly a broad street opened to my left. Approaching another barred fence with more security guards, I saw a sea of faces and torsos pressed behind it. A sigh of dread escaped me when I saw no clear way out. Worse, I could see nothing to indicate that there were any lines or movement of people along Independence Ave, beyond the massed bodies behind the perimeter. I could only see wave after wave of people behind the barrier, staring at me and wondering how I was on the other side of the blockade that prevented them from entering the mall.
 

I walked up to a friendly looking guard and asked, “Is there an exit to Independence from here?”

“No sir” he replied, courteously, in a mild southern accent. “You can’t get out from here. We’ve been holding these people back for about an hour. We’ll be letting them in soon. You don’t want to be around when we let them go”.

Those well meaning words unleashed a series of apocalyptic vignettes in my head. I imagined myself the Flying Dutchman of the Mall, doomed to sail on an endless quest to circumvent these barriers and find a passage out. I saw a tidal wave of bodies cresting the wire mesh levies and inundating the vast expanse of the mall behind me, putting an incalculable mass of humanity and distance between Prisa and me. I saw myself being overwhelmed and overcome by a relentless current of people flowing in the opposite direction that I needed to travel. I had not foreseen this situation, or discussed it with Prisa. I turned my back on Independence Ave and decided that I would rather find safe harbor with Prisa, than venture further into the frigid, early morning waters of these unchartered seas. I walked past the gravel path to the Mall, and quickly began retracing my original route back to Prisa’s location. Speed was now essential. I theorized that Prisa and I must have found an accidental breach in the Mall security that allowed us earlier access to the Mall than our brethren on the south side of the capitol. This advantage would soon disappear, and with hordes of additional people entering the mall from the south, the harder it would be to find Prisa among the thousand bundled and huddled spectators. It would help if she was alerted to my change of plans, and looking for me as well. I pulled off my mittens, pulled out my cell phone, and pushed the speed dial number, praying that the signal would get through. The phone rang and rang, until an automated voice said that the contact was not available.

“Hi Pris, this is Dad” I said into the speaker. “I can’t find an access route to Independence and all the streets on the south side are jammed with people that will be flooding onto the mall. I have no clue how to get to Independence, so I’m heading back to your location. I hope you get this message so you can be on the lookout for me”. I tried to sound confident and matter-of-fact, but I was scared. I wasn’t sure if I could find the exact spot I had left her.

“Details, details; what were the details of that area?” I questioned myself, as I lengthened my stride. I mentally checked off the objects I remembered: strobe light, video screen, spotlight tower, and cardboard fencing and mats. I saw the strobe light in the distance, and re-positioned my returning glide path to the middle of the mall. I passed more and more people filling in previously open spaces as I descended toward the gleaming Capitol building. Praying that Prisa had not moved from her original location, I slowed down and triangulated with the strobe lighting and video screen on my left and the beacon tower on my right. With a sigh of relief I saw the cardboard fence around the quartet of friends in front of me, and quickly started searching for a familiar face and profile. I took three more steps and, looking down, I saw a bright blue knit cap, atop a huddled bundle on the grass. Prisa was sitting exactly where I had left her standing 20 minutes before.

“Hi Prisa”, I said with soulful relief. “I couldn’t get out; so I decided to come back”. I sat down next to her, huddled close for warmth, and explained what had happened.

“I’m glad your back” she said. “It was lonely without you”.

“I’m glad to be back. It would have been a sad morning without you”. Instead of feeling irritated or annoyed at the obstacles that had thwarted me, I was filled with a sense of peace. One thought kept going through my head, “Thank God I couldn’t get out”. I reached over, gave Prisa a one-armed hug, and settled down to our long, cold, morning watch together.
 

To be continued…..

How does it feel?

How does it feel?

To be on your own,

With no direction home,

Like a complete unknown.

Like a rolling stone?

(Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan: 1965)

Today, Venice Boulevard is an expansive, four-lane, double highway that runs from Figueroa Street in Los Angeles to Pacific Avenue in Venice. I first traveled this road in 1959 when my father drove the entire family to see his new work place, and the house we hoped to buy in Culver City. At that time, the boulevard was a narrow, two-lane street, separated by a wide expanse of abandoned railroad track running in between. My father reanimated those tracks with stories about how he and his two younger brothers rode the trolleys of the Pacific Electric Railway to the beach. He called it the Red Car, and it was part of the legendary electric train system that operated in Southern California during the first half of the 20^th Century. The line started in South Los Angeles and ended in the city of Venice (which was later incorporated into Los Angeles), with its famous promenade, beach, pier, and huge, indoor, saltwater swimming pool. In between these terminal points, the route traveled through the communities of Culver City, Palms, and Mar Vista. Culver City was the most prominent stop.
 

Home of three major studios, Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM), Hal Roach, and Radio-Keith-Orpheum (RKO); Culver City was the mecca of the Hollywood film, movie, and television industry from the early 1900’s to the 70’s. While MGM, with its impressive, overhead billboard of a roaring lion, was certainly the largest studio, RKO was the most storied. The studio produced such movie classics as King Kong and Citizen Kane, and it had a series of notorious and memorable owners. Joseph Kennedy, Howard Hughes, and David O. Selznick, owned and operated this studio. In 1957, RKO was purchased by Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez (stars of I Love Lucy), and renamed Desilu Studios. It was finally sold to Paramount Television Studios in 1967. Until our move to the Westside, I assumed that movies and television shows were produced only in Hollywood. I couldn’t believe that I would soon be living so close to this magical industry and the stars that worked there. As time went on, despite my pretended indifference to the celebrity star system, I never lost the habit of rubber-necking whenever I drove by the studios in Culver City. I was convinced that all the stars who worked there, also walked to work, strolled along the streets, and frequented the shops, restaurants, and churches of that city. Unfortunately, despite all my years of looking, I think I only saw the back of David McCallum’s head (He was the co-star of the popular 60’s television series, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.).
 

My knowledge of this street really started at my father’s workplace. He was a photographer at Mauri-Bardovi Photography, a commercial studio on Venice Blvd, just south of Cattaraugus Ave (I remember the street because I mispronounced it “cataracts”, ignoring the sound of the fourth vowel in favor of an ocular disease that rolled off my tongue). He worked there for nine years, eventually becoming the manager after the death of the owner and founder. His first duties were general photography and detailing (or “opaquing”) negatives. This intricate, doctoring of negatives, allowed only the non-opaque parts of a negative to develop and print. I still remember walking through that building on my first visit. The brand new, state-of-the-art studio seemed to be an unwinding honeycomb of workstations, darkrooms, printing labs, drying rooms, and large, open spaces. These open areas were cluttered with lights, stands, partitions, cables, tripods, and cameras. To an eleven year old novice, the studio was a disorienting maze of darkness and light as I walked from room to room, and lab to lab. It was scary and wondrous at the same time.

When I accompanied him as a helper, my father would disappear into a dark room with rolls of encased camera film and, guided by eerie red illumination, reappear in minutes with dripping spirals of unwound negatives. The unspooled rolls were then hung up like long, narrow socks on clothes lines in a walk-in cabinet. Once dry, the next step of the process was the most elaborate and creative. My father took the dry negatives into a wet lab to “print” and develop the photos. In those black and white days, images were projected and “imprinted” through light onto chemically treated photographic paper. By hand, these prints were then passed along and submerged in a series of flat chemical tubs until the pictorial images materialized and were locked in place. Until my initiation into this process, I thought photography consisted of posing or staging the subjects you wished to record, and snapping the shutter. I believed that the creative use of light and shadow was at the beginning of the photographic sequence, never imagining that the true masters of this artistic medium also manipulated them at the end. My father’s real skill as a photographer was demonstrated after the rolls of negative film were dry. He would use them to produce quick “contact proofs”. He studied these temporary prints to find the best negatives and determine the timing and lighting needed to produce the right picture. It was my job (as his eldest born helper) to dry the prints. So I would carefully lay the chemically treated photos onto a wide canvas conveyor belt that moved around a huge warming drum. They emerged, crisp and glossy at the other end of the conveyor, ready to be stacked and boxed. When I wasn’t bored or sleepy, I marveled at the simplicity of a black and white palette and the fine photos my father could produce by his attention to detail.
 

Just down the street from my father’s studio, heading west on Venice, near National Blvd, was another famous locale. My siblings and I recognized it immediately when we first drove past. We had already been branded by its distinctive Olympic trademark label and trucks. The Helms Bakery, and its fleet of open-cabbed bakery trucks, with their distinctive nautical whistles, was the pastry pied-piper of our time. To children in the late 50’s and early 60’s, the cookies, cakes, and doughnuts of the Helmsman made him the equal to the Good Humor Ice Cream Man. Mothers also appreciated this service because the Helmsman provided convenient staples that every kitchen needed. It was a rare confluence of interest which did not survive the increasing number of family automobiles and the swelling expansion of large, neighborhood supermarkets. Helms was already reducing its fleet and collapsing routes when we moved into Venice. Soon after, the trucks stopped rolling and the bakery closed. For years the last remaining symbols of the company were the bronze statue of The Helmsman at the Wheel, which was across the street from the Helms Olympic Foundation, and the original trademark Helms Olympic chevron sign atop the old bakery on Venice Blvd. The sign and foundation are still there, but the sculpture was moved to Chace Park in the Marina del Rey. The original bakery was converted into a huge furniture warehouse and showroom, and another section was turned into a jazz club called The Jazz Bakery which still operates.
 

Down from Helms Bakery is the intersection of Venice and Sepulveda Blvd. Sepulveda is the longest street in the city and county of Los Angeles. It runs an impressive 42.8 miles from Rinaldi Ave in the northern end of the San Fernando Valley to the city limits of Hermosa Beach. For the purposes of this story, it marked the boundary between Culver City and Palms, and led to the house we never bought. I don’t remember much of the house, other than it being yellow and immediately opposite the freeway. I do recall that it was located near Tito’s Tacos, a small, walk-up Mexican restaurant, on the corner of Washington Place and Sepulveda. Whenever I passed this taco stand, I saw long, serpentine lines of men and women waiting to purchase their simple fare of tacos, tostadas, burritos, tortilla chips and salsa. The only comparable sight was Tommy’s Original World Famous Hamburger stand, on Beverly Blvd in Los Angeles. The long lines at Tito’s Tacos continue to this day, and despite this visual testimony to its popularity, I never ate there. I probably would have, if we had moved nearby. However, when the bank determined that our house’s location was too close to an expanding freeway, the sale fell through. Soon after, my parents found a new house in Venice, and we bought it.

I always considered the 405 Interstate the border line of “The Westside”. Every thing west of the San Diego Freeway was the official “Westside”, and all the communities to the East were not (despite their proximity to the freeway). I’m sure citizen of Culver City, Palms, Cheviot Hills, Westwood, Fox Hills, and Inglewood would challenge this assertion, but they’d be wrong. The east-west divide occurs at the 405. Everything changes when you cross the freeway, traveling toward the beach – the weather, the residences, the people, and the traffic. Just as you can feel and see the thermometer change when you drive through the Sepulveda Pass from the San Fernando Valley into West Los Angeles at Mulholland Drive; you experience the same sensation when crossing the 405. The cold, wet, marine layer overcast, which is a common feature of beach life, rarely extends past the San Diego Freeway, and people dress, act, and look different on the eastside. I’ve also noticed that first-time visitors to these beaches exclaimed that they could smell the ocean after they crossed the 405.

As I traveled westward on Venice Boulevard, every street I passed, from Sawtelle Blvd to Walgrove Ave, was a virtual portal to memories of the past. Each road led to stories, people, and experiences that affected me and shaped my life. McLaughlin Ave was the route I took to UCLA when I commuted by motor scooter as an undergrad, and on bicycle as a graduate student. I would drive the family car when it was available, but with 3 and then 4 siblings attending the same college at different hours of the day, and with different courses, it was never convenient. We depended on personal means of transportation. The Santa Monica “Big Blue Bus” was the best option, but it took a long and circuitous course to the university. I preferred a solitary method because I could set my own schedules and explore new neighborhoods and routes whenever the notion struck me. When I took my scooter or bike, I always chose the flattest route to Westwood. I avoided the “Sawtelle Hill” by riding around it on Palms Blvd, then connecting with Sawtelle, and taking that street all the way to Ohio Ave in Brentwood. Ohio Ave was the southern border of the Federal property that contained the Veterans Administration complex, the Medical Center, the Federal Building, and the National Cemetery. Ohio took me to Veterans Ave in Westwood; and that street led me to Westwood Village and UCLA. Most days, I enjoyed the long commute in the fresh clean air, because it cleared my mind and gave me time to think about things. I also became familiar with the local sights, neighborhoods, and communities of the Westside: the Nisei (second generation Japanese-American) community along Sawtelle in Palms, the used book stores on Santa Monica Blvd, and the variety of theatres, shops, and restaurants in the Village. Centinela Avenue in Mar Vista was another such portal.

Whenever I cross Centinela on Venice Blvd, I always look toward the southeast corner of the intersection to see the remnants of Bruno’s Ristorante, the Italian restaurant that stood there from 1969 to 2000. The original building still stands, along with its HUGE billboard sign; but it now houses a Christian enterprise called The Vineyard Christian Fellowship. Bruno’s was the first “real” restaurant we dined at as a family of eight (6 children and 2 adults). Prior to that occasion, we only visited “family diners” such as Norm’s or Denney’s. These were convenient places, but I couldn’t shake the idea that they weren’t very classy, and one shouldn’t take a serious girl friend to dinner there. Bruno’s, on the other hand, presented a readable and moderately priced menu, with the upscale décor of a welcoming Venetian palazzo. I always felt comfortable and secure there, and took girls I liked and wanted to impress on dates. It was one of the first restaurants I took my wife Kathy when we began dating. Centinela also served as our backdoor route to Santa Monica. If we wanted to avoid the traffic and congestion of Lincoln Blvd when driving to that city, Centinela was the better path to take. The most graphic memory I have of that route is when I drove my father to the Santa Monica Airport to recover the studio car. This was the day his boss died in a helicopter accident. He had been scouting aerial sites for a photo shoot when the engine failed. Miraculously, the pilot avoided hitting any pedestrians, cars, or spectators, when the helicopter lost power and crashed. The pilot and my Dad’s friend and boss died on a street in Palms. Once my father answered my questions about the crash, he remained silent for the remainder of the trip to the airport.
 

Mar Vista was an apartment haven for young people and college students in the 1960’s and 70’s. It’s affordable, single and double room residences attracted large numbers of UCLA, Mount Saint Mary’s, and Santa Monica College students, who couldn’t afford the higher rents of Santa Monica, Brentwood, and Westwood. Despite my geographical proximity to Mar Vista, I actually spent more time with friends in the South Bay area, and the cities of Manhattan, Hermosa, and Redondo Beach. The South Bay tended to attract students from Loyola, Marymount University, and El Camino College. My high school friends (see Tres Amigos) lived in Hermosa Beach. A friend’s apartment offered the perfect counter-balance to college, home, and life (especially if one still lived at home with his family, like I did). Once or twice a week, I would drop by Jim, Greg, and Wayne’s, or John’s apartment to talk, play cards, listen to music, and share the problems of school and home. The addition of beer, wine, and food would escalate these innocuous visits to a higher level. Given the right circumstances and motivations, these spontaneous visits could generate viral invitations to more friends and soon an all-night party ensued. Those youthful days seemed endless. As time passed, and prices rose, however, many of these apartments on the Westside and South Bay were eventually converted into condominiums and sold off to older, permanent residents. If I took Wade Street at Venice and traveled south for a mile or so, I would arrive at Mitchell Ave. My brother Eddie had his first apartment on that street, and when he bought a nearby condo, my youngest brother Alex joined him as a roommate for awhile. My sister Gracie even rented an apartment nearby, before she moved to San Francisco. A little further south from Wade on Venice Blvd, I arrived at the jewel of the boulevard, Venice High School.

The permanent image I have of Venice High School is of manor-like grounds, with lush, green grass, beautiful gardens, and towering, gleaming white, Art Deco buildings. The focal point of this picture was a dramatically posed sculpture of a woman, pointing skyward. The scantily clad statue rose above two crouching figures and was positioned in the middle of a rose garden, between a double walkway, that traveled from the sidewalk to the Main Building. It was a captivating sight, which raised my opinion of the design and planning that went into the school construction of that age. I later learned that the sculpture was of Myrna Loy, a famous motion picture star of the 30’s and 40’s, who attended Venice High in the 1920’s. The school was first established in 1911. In those days it was called Venice Union Polytechnic High School. The original buildings were severely damaged in the Long Beach earthquake of 1933. The Art Deco style was used in the reconstructed school that we see today.

I never attended Venice High School, but I became intimately familiar with its grounds, athletic fields, and football stadium. For three seasons, from 1960 to 1962, I played Pop Warner Football at Venice High School. We practiced three to five days a week on the small eastside playing field, and we played on Saturdays in the football stadium. It was the site of my training and initiation into a ritual sport that I grew to love, play, and leave behind. When I went out for football, I knew absolutely nothing about it. I was aware that my father played football in junior college, because I’d found an old photograph of him in pads and uniform. We also watched some of the early NFL games on television; but that was all. I’d learned the rudiments of baseball by playing on the streets and playgrounds of Los Angeles. By the time I joined a Little League baseball team in Venice, I was 12 years old, with unrefined skills, and many bad fielding habits. However, when I signed up for Pop Warner football, I committed to learning a sport from the ground up, under the tutelage of knowledgeable and dedicated teachers and coaches. The Venice Athletic Association, the sponsoring organization, was a mature version of Little League. Players were made responsible for equipment, playbooks, and practices, and they addressed all adults as “Sir” and coaches as “Mr.” or “Coach” (we had been on a first name basis in Little League). My football coaches were the first teachers to illustrate the principle that football skills such as blocking, tackling, catching, passing, and scrimmaging had to be learned correctly. Skills could only be mastered by meticulous discipline, attention to detail, and practice; practice, practice, practice. Games were the easy part; they were the reward after 5 grueling days of exercise, drills, and scrimmages. I discovered that playing the game well was not about individual talent; it was about practice and working as a team. The benefit of playing on the same team, with the same players, and consistent coaching for 3 years was physical, intellectual, and technical improvement that I could witness and experience. The first time I was sent into a game for a series of plays was a blur of lights, bodies, huddles, and collisions. Players spoke in garbled words that I could not comprehend, and everything moved too fast, except me. I was stuck in quicksand with a filmy bag over my head. After my first series of downs I returned to the safety and calmness of the bench, and stayed there when the offensive unit returned to the field. I did not realize that I was supposed to stay in the game until THE COACH took me out. Three years later, as co-captain of the defensive unit, each down was a slow, elongated interval between actions which allowed me time to analyze and reflect. Each play flowed as if it was in slow motion, giving me time to think, react, and recover.

The corner of Venice Blvd and Walgrove Avenue was my final milestone. It marked the northwest boundary of Venice High School, and signaled a change of direction from my westerly migration. I turned right and headed north on Walgrove. This would be my first visit to Mark Twain Junior High in over 45 years. I’d passed it countless times in my youth. This was a familiar path because I had taken it many times when a football practice or scrimmage was held at Penmar Playground, in North Venice. On those occasions, the players who weren’t driven by their parents, would meet at the high school and then ride their bikes up Walgrove Ave to Lake St. Along the way, we’d pass Mark Twain, with its distinctive mural entrance. It was the school all my Pop Warner teammates attended before they matriculated to their respective high schools as 10^th graders. Playing football for three years with public school students had been an educational experience for me. These boys took courses and talked about subjects that didn’t exist in my school. They dressed for P.E., showered in locker rooms, and took shop classes. They also used more colorful and expressive words when cursing and swearing. I don’t recall any racial or pejorative name calling and put-downs, but I do remember anger, with some pushing and shoving. We were experiencing many new feelings and emotions in those days. Playing on the same team for three years had taught us to deal with anger, successes, and failure. The contact nature of football, with its strict rules, transcending folklore, and rigid penalties, allowed a fair and physical means of resolving disputes, and expressing joy and despair. We would practice during the week, play a game on Saturday, and then, win or lose, get on with the rest of our lives at school, home, or play. Football was a sport that was sensible, balanced, and enjoyable, and the coaches and boosters of the Pop Warner program emphasized and practiced those values.

I drove past the front of Mark Twain Middle School on Walgrove and turned right on Victoria Ave. The street took me to the P.E. field on the north side of campus, and the parking that had been reserved for member of the visiting organization. I was curious to see what the school actually looked like from the inside. As I walked through the hallways and along the outdoor arcades, I though of my old teammates and the game we played. I was struck by a thought about endings. My playing days ended with Pop Warner football on the fields of Venice High, while most of my teammates continued playing at their respective schools. Our lives divided, like intersecting highways, and I never saw them again.

By sweat of brow

Shall you earn your food,

Until you return to the ground

From which you came.

Remember, thou art dust,

And to dust thou shall return.

(Genesis 3:19)

As I walked down the extended, brick archway, to the church entrance, I noticed a narrow table pushed against the wall. It was piled high with posters and brochures, and festooned with bright yellow signs.  “Yes on 8: Protect Marriage” the placards read, in giant blue letters. Speeding past this gaudy altar, and ignoring the 2 men passing out flyers, I sensed that this Sunday’s liturgy was going to be difficult. Once seated, I tried centering my thoughts, and ignored the disturbing political presence at the door. The choir was settling into place and awaiting the choral master to lead them in the processional song. It was a lyrical litany of saints, followed by the melodic refrain “Pray for us”. On and on, the roll call sounded, chased by our plea for intercession: “Saint Lucy – pray for us; Saint Catherine – pray for us; Saint Francis - pray for us; Saint Joseph – pray for us; Saint Jude – pray for us; Saint Sebastian – pray for us…” Keeping rhythm with the tune, I scanned the Old and New Testament readings as the priest and altar servers marched in and began the service. When the first lector took the podium, I made a special effort to concentrate and listen to the words. Some of them were particularly reassuring.
 

The first reading was from the Old Testament: “Those who trust in him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with him in love” (Wisdom 3: 1-9). The second reading was from the epistle of St. Paul: “Brothers and sisters: hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured into our hearts” (Romans 5: 5-11).  The final reading was from the Gospel according to St. John: “Jesus said to the crowds: ‘… For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life, and I shall raise him on the last day’” (John 6: 37-40). The readings were comforting, and I hoped the priest would use them in his homily. Unfortunately, it was not the message of love, forgiveness, and eternal life that I heard pronounced from the pulpit that morning. Instead I heard a clear command to do my duty as a Catholic and support the sanctity of marriage by voting Yes on Proposition 8. This was the controversial amendment that sought to circumvent the 2008 California Supreme Court ruling which declared a previous same-sex marriage ban (Proposition 22) as unconstitutional. I was insulted and disappointed, but I struggled to suppress my anger. The clearest thought I had, sitting in the pew, was relief that my children and their fiancés were not present to hear this disheartening, political directive. This was the Catholic Church at its doctrinaire worst, stepping across the line between faith and politics, and wandering away from the spiritual Kingdom of God and the Good News that Jesus proclaimed. I had already decided to support the ruling of the courts by voting No on Proposition 8 and avoiding the religious controversy surrounding the debate. Now the Catholic Church was thrusting the issue back in my face and telling me how to vote from the pulpit. I had come to church with very different expectations. My plan had been to attend mass and then participate in the community celebration of Dia de los Muertos. I knew of this Mexican tradition, with the art work, foods, and activities which took place every year on this day, but I had never participated. I was hoping to go and watch, free from rancorous moral or political arguments. With an effort, I closed my mind to the priest’s exhortations and suppressed my emotions for the remainder of the service. This Sunday was All Soul’s Day, the Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos. It was the final leg of the 3-day series of secular and religious rites that started with Halloween and ended on November 2. As a child, I remembered this autumnal triduum beginning with the magical words “Trick or Treat!”

Trick or treat! That declaration, or question, was the “open sesame” to the wonder and excitement of Halloween. My earliest memory of that day was dressing up in a skeleton costume and going, along with my brother and two sisters, to Abuelita’s House in Lincoln Heights. There, embraced by the family’s blend of English-and-Spanish, we were handed over to our youngest aunts and uncle, Espie, Lisa, and Charlie (see Nacimiento Stories), who instructed us in the rules and etiquette of this uniquely American tradition. Our parents and older relatives stayed at home to distribute candy, or left for adult parties, while we took to the sidewalks. It was so cool; and so simple! Halloween consisted of children banding together for courage and convenience, and calling on houses in the neighborhood to solicit candy. A child’s ease with night-time activities requires structure, and Charlie was a master at Halloween. To insure safety and profitability, he explained, five rules needed to be followed: 1) always go in a group, keeping an eye on your younger brothers and sisters, because if you lose one, you might as well never come home; 2) only visit houses with well-lit porches, because luminosity meant trick-or-treaters were safe; 3) keep the smallest and cutest children at the forefront of the group when saying “Trick ó treat!”, because adults loved being charmed before giving the finer treats; 4) never enter the homes you visit, because some adults were not to be trusted; and, finally, 5) all the collected booty had to be pooled. The length of our “trick-or-treating” depended on a variety of factors: the weather (cold was a problem, but rain was a killer); the willingness and cooperation of the little ones (the longer they held out, the richer the haul); and the game plan – to concentrate on the opulent homes, and hop-scotch along the street, or go door-to-door, visiting each house, one by one. Every year was different, because the ages and make up of our groups varied each season. However we never had a bad outing because rewards were guaranteed.

The key to a successful Halloween in a Mexican family was the rendezvous at the end of the evening, and the merging of loot in an elaborate ceremony. Once the “trick ó treating” was over, and all the children were back at home (the oldest kids were always the last to return, carrying the largest bags), we would huddle together with mugs of steaming chocolate, the little ones already in pajamas, to combine, and reorganize our candy. One by one, each child stepped forward, youngest to oldest, to empty their Halloween bags on the kitchen (or dining room) table. We would “ooohhh” at the bulk and shape of each sack that was raised, and “aaahhhh” as the gum, suckers, candy, and chocolate bars spilled out. Each candy was a house-memory, and the big bars of chocolate were mythic. Tales were shared and exaggerated upon for the adults who gathered around us. They would hear of the evening’s travels and adventures, of the people we met, the jokes we heard, and the odd behaviors we noticed. If time allowed, we would then adjourn to the family room to watch scary movies on television before leaving for home, or going to bed. Vampira was the fright-night diva in the mid 50’s, and her slinky, clinging, low-cut black gown, and her eastern European (Transylvanian?) accent, was the perfect nightcap to Halloween. However, before we got too excited or comfortable, or fell asleep, our mother would hustle us home or to bed. Tomorrow, she reminded us, was a holy day of obligation, and we had to go to mass.

One of the few “perks” of being a Catholic school student was having a school holiday on the day after Halloween, All Saints’ Day. However, it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the magic of Halloween was heightened by the blissful knowledge that there was no school the following day. On the other, there is nothing worse than being dragged out of a warm and comfortable bed, sleepy, exhausted, and grumpy at 8 o’clock on a cold or rainy morning. The fact that we were obligated, under pain of mortal sin, to attend mass on November 1, made it very clear that this was the central religious feast day of this triduum. However, for a child, the reasons weren’t obvious, although I knew the answer lay in its title. This day commemorated all the dead martyrs and saints of the Church who did not have specific feast days. Okay and why was that important to me as a second grader at St. Teresa of Avila School in Silver Lake? Why did saints need my prayers? I loved October 31, the Eve of All Saints’ Day, because it was a gaudy, folk-celebration filled with costumes, excitement, and repressed fears of death, ghosts, and demons. I also saw the value for November 2, as a day to remember dead relatives and friends. But the keystone to this triad, All Saints’ Day, was pointless; people simply went to mass and prayed for the saints. It seemed more of a hassle than a celebration. I didn’t “get it” until after my father died on November 1, 1971.

I never saw my father on the day he died. I was stationed at Norton Air Force Base, in San Bernardino at the time of his death. When I finally arrived home, his body had been removed to the mortuary. Even though he had experienced 3 previous heart attacks, and was unable to work or exert himself for over two years, his death was a shock. No one expected a husband and father of 6 children to die so suddenly. I was 23 years old at the time, and a first year soldier in the Air Force; my baby brother Alex was 4. There was something very wrong with a man dying that way. Death was for OLD people, abuelos (grandparents), bisabuelos (great-grandparents), and the ancient and infirm; my dad was only 50 years old. His disappearance made my previously ordered and predictable life seem uncertain and precarious. I saw my father on a weekend leave, and then he was gone forever. These feelings of impermanence lasted for a long time. A consequence of this unease was a series of crazy sightings I had for many years after the funeral. They would occur when driving on the freeway, and I glimpsed the familiar back of a man’s head, or a recognizable profile in the car beside me. I was convinced my father was in those cars. I tried speeding up, or re-positioning my car to confirm my impulse, but never managed to close the distance. My logic would intrude and shame me into doubting the possibility of such an encounter. I had seen my father in his casket, and knew he was buried – the dead did not rise. It was then that I began searching for confirmation of an ordered and loving universe, and the existence of people who knew the path from life to death, and could explain the detours that occurred along the way. These Beacons of Light would have to be rare individuals who had broken through the membrane of our earthly plain and achieved spiritual and metaphysical enlightenment. They knew the way, and could help others find it. These were the saints, the mystics, and the buddhas - the spiritual pathfinders of the Catholic Church, and other religions. The Church has always venerated these holy and mystical people as models, guides, and patrons who help others in their search for meaning, compassion, and the Kingdom of God. In the early church tradition, parents named their boys and girls in honor of saints, so as to bind them as spiritual co-parents to these children. In many European countries, Catholic children still celebrate two anniversaries: their birth-days (cumpleaños), AND their saint-days (dia de santos).Towns and cities were also named for saints (or dedicated to them) with the expectation that in return the municipalities would receive blessings and protection from their namesakes. Over time, although the customs continued to be practiced, the rationale for this close connection to the saints faded. In Latin America, when Spanish and Portuguese priests and monks began converting Native Americans to Catholicism, their notion of a huge body of saints (the Communion of Saints) fit perfectly with the Indian pantheon of gods, goddesses, and spirits. Indians, eager to satisfy the demands of the priests, while still maintaining their cultural identity (and in some cases their religious practices), chose Christian saint names, or adopted patron saints for towns and villages, whose feast days coincided with their pagan gods and goddess. Therefore saints, in the Catholic tradition, were a repository of wisdom and guidance, and a vital spiritual resource which had to be recognized and respected. It seemed to me, that All Saint’s Day, on November 1, was a form of spiritual insurance, a catch-all holy day for every saint who did not have their own particular feast day. The concept would make a lot of sense to the Catholic Church who did not want to slight or offend ANY saint and martyr. Six years after my father’s death, at the birth of my son, the sightings ceased. I had come to accept my father as one of the saints which the Church honored on his death day. My life changed dramatically when he died, and it seemed as if all my subsequent actions and experiences were guided by his presence and benevolent spirit. From being offered a teaching job at my high school alma mater, meeting my future bride on a blind date, to the births of my children (Toñito named after St. Anthony of Padua, and Prisa, named after St. Teresa of Avila), blessings and good fortune befell my father’s family, his children and grandchildren. However, my private canonization of my father was a personal matter, not recognized by the Church. The Church offered its own version of a day for the dead on November 2.

At the end of the “Yes on Proposition 8”mass, I escaped through a side exit, and evaded the pamphleteers who were handing out flyers to the predominately Hispanic parishioners. Once away from the pressing crowds and congestion, I took a deep breath of fresh air and continued on my way. All Soul’s Day has always been the most sensible and practical day of the triduum. It is simply the Day of the Dead. I was never really satisfied with the official Church explanation of who was a saint, who was a soul, and how Purgatory factored into this equation - so I ignored it. On the other hand, the Mexican folk customs and traditions for Dia de los Muertos fascinated me. I was intrigued by the artistic craftwork, the papier-mâché sculptures, the paintings, the candy, pastry and the elaborate decoration of family altars commemorating the dead. The celebration of Dia de los Muertos in Canoga Park, centers on a street fair along Sherman Way. It begins at the conclusion of the 9:30 Mass at the parish church, and ends with a parade back to the church for the 6 o’clock service. After mass, I parked my car near the old public library. This was a quiet and shady location, one block away from the hub of activity. I could hear and feel the thumping bass coming from distant loudspeakers as I geared up, standing next to my trunk. I took my coat, 2 cameras, a carrying case, cell phone, wallet, and notebook. This was more stuff than I needed, could use, or adequately carry; but I wanted to cover every contingency. In this over-dressed and overburdened fashion, I labored along the uneven, tree-lined sidewalk, and pushed the last vestiges of the morning’s sermon out of my head. Keeping pace with the quickening rhythms in the air, it struck me that I had no plan; I had no expectations of today’s adventure. Suddenly, I was out of the shade and into the bright sunlight of the main street. Hip-hop Latino music bounced off the one-story buildings and stores that bordered the street. A flood of men, women, teenagers, and children swirled around me and the white-topped booths in the center of the street. The island-like pavilions anchored the hundreds of craftsmen, vendors, and concessionaires who were working, cooking, or selling their wares. I was swept up in the surging multitude of walking, talking, standing, pointing, buying, and eating spectators. A riptide of flowing bodies, colors, and sounds, pushed me farther and faster than I wanted to go along the street. I came to a momentary stop when I bumped into a shaved-headed, thickly biceped, tattooed man, standing in front of a booth. There I found myself staring at a wedding cake arrangement of skulls, bones, and crucifixes. The highest layers contained finely appareled Madonna skeletons and elegant figurines of gowned and bonneted “catrina” skeletons of various sizes. I was drowning in a sea of plaster, ceramic, and papier-mâché artwork of the ghoulish and the dead. I stepped away from my cholo friend, and took hold of myself. This was going too fast, and there was too much to see, hear, and remember. I needed a plan and a perspective from which to view and appreciate these objects and experiences. I was determined to start over, concentrating on every moment. I would approach this celebration, its art, and its meaning, as a first time viewer, a fascinated student and a thoughtful photographer. I would take in all that I saw and observed. Walking back, against the pedestrian current, I slowly made my way to the intersection where I had entered, and found an empty store alcove to stop and take my bearings. I looked around.
 

The entire sidewalk corner was covered with a series of 4, hunched-over, technically engrossed, chalk artists, and an audience watching them work. How could I have missed this? I marveled at the care with which the artists treated the concrete surface, and their gentleness in creating something new. I’d always thought of chalk painters as sketchers, caricaturists, or street hustlers who turned a quick-trick on the ground for a few extra dollars. These were authentic artists, teachers, and philosophers, who used the earth as their medium, and the street as their studio.The artists only painted images of macabre, iconic, or historical significance. The first sidewalk fresco was an anatomically detailed skeleton (esqueleto), bordered in a field of black; the next was a giant portrait of Frida Kahlo, the Mexican artist, feminist, and political activist of the 1930’s and 40’s; the third was a stylized depiction of a dancing, Mexican esqueleto, wearing a wide-brimmed mariachi sombrero; and the last was a painting of Emiliano Zapata, the legendary Mexican revolutionary of the 1910’s. I could see mothers and fathers pointing out these figures to their children. It was reminiscent of the first time I saw the historical murals of Siqueiros and Orozco in Mexico City and heard elderly grandparents using them as illustrations of the national struggles of Mexico for their grandchildren. Sadly, these sidewalk murals would not last the week. By Tuesday or Wednesday, pedestrians, skateboarders, joggers and cyclists would no longer avoid defacing the works by walking around them. Indifferent wheels, shoes, and sneakers would soon rub away and erase the momentary images that existed on the sidewalk. This was one of the over-arching themes that ran through the day and the festival – death and impermanence; nothing lasts forever, and everything dies. This theme was manifested in every artistic medium in the festival. I was surrounded by art. It was in the air, on the ground, and in each stall; creation and decay, innovation and destruction, beginnings and endings. I spent 3 hours exploring the street fair on Dia de los Muertos. I visited every booth, inspected all the paintings and artwork, explored the roof and balcony floors of the Madrid Theatre, watched the Aztec dancers, and listened to the mariachi bands. The preponderance of skulls (calaveras), skeletons (esqueletos), and stylized crucifixes were a constant reminder of death, and yet, life and renewal was everywhere.
 

Halloween is not celebrated in Mexico. There are no festivities on the EVE of All Saints’ Day; the holiday occurs the next day. Dia de los Muertos is a blossoming of a transplanted European religious practice. I saw this immediately in a recurring image that was visible in every booth and exhibit I passed. The repetition of esqueletos and calaveras in paintings, drawings, figurines, candy and bread, makes those images appear uniquely Mexican. The most recognized Mexican figures are the paintings and drawings of a string or quintet of musical skeletons dancing, strutting, or playing instruments. In fact, this common motif is a lineal descendent of the late medieval engravings and woodcuts of The Danse Macabre (The Dance of Death). The 1400’s were dark and dangerous times in Europe. This was the period when the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse (Death, Famine, Pestilence, and War) terrorized the countryside, cities, and towns. These were the Dark Ages; the times of witchcraft and the Black Plague which left such an indelible impression on the hearts, minds, and imaginations of Europeans, and gave birth to the images of the Danse Macabre. The original depiction showed Death leading a row of dancing figures from all walks of life to the grave. The “dance” was an allegory of the equality and inevitability of death – no matter our wealth, station, or age, everyone will die. It was a reminder of the Christian concept of the fragility of life, and the hollowness of the vanities of wealth, youth, and beauty. It was also a reminder of the statement in Genesis that we are dust, and to dust we will return. The only escape from this short and brutish life was eternal happiness in Heaven. However, only the Catholic Church held the keys to this Kingdom; it held the power to forgive sins and erase the impediments to heaven. Therefore, All Souls’ Day was the European feast day that concentrated the efforts of the living on praying and offering masses and indulgences for the dead (this would later be corrupted into the practice of paying for masses and indulgences - which prompted Martin Luther into starting the Protestant Reformation). This was the religious iconography and traditions that the Catholic Church brought to Mexico and the Americas in the 1500’s. However, instead of surrendering to them, the Indians changed them. Just as a Mexican representation of the Danse Macabre transposed a frightful line of awkwardly moving skeletons, into a merry and raucous band of mariachi esqueletos, so it took a morbid feast day for the dead, and transformed it into a festive celebration of the living.

The rhythmic rattles and steady beat of the Indian drums alerted me to the main attraction at the center of the street fair. There, at the foot of the main stage, a troop of eight plumed and costumed performers moved and swayed to the flute and percussion arrangement of a pre-Cortesian dance. The complexity of the choreography belied the simplicity of the beat. The music was easy to follow and it attracted larger and larger audiences. Standing at the outer limits of the crowd, and searching for a line of sight that would allow photographs of the dancers, I was struck by the irony of this sight. What was being memorialized here, Mexico’s pagan past or the liberating new religion? This indigenous pageant pointed out one of Mexico’s central mysteries – whose religion actually won out after the “conquest”?

By 1550, Spain and Portugal occupied all of Mexico, Central and South America, and were inadvertently melding the two peoples and cultures into one. The possibility of mixing the religions would have been anathema. However, in converting Indians to Catholicism, enlightened missionaries first learned the indigenous languages, the cultures, and the religions of the vanquished people. Then they taught their own doctrine by pointing out the differences, similarities, and superior benefits of the Catholic faith. Sophisticated Indian religions were violent and bloody, with human sacrifices and cannibalism a common feature at the highest levels of observance. Aztec, Inca, and Mayan ceremonies included pulsating hearts being ripped out of heaving chests, and walls of skulls decorating pyramid topping temples. The pastoral religion of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus Christ was certainly an improvement over this, even with its morbid medieval iconography of suffering, torture, and death. Showing similarities was meant to comfort and reassure the Indians that converting to Christianity was the smart thing to do. To emphasize the inevitability of submission, the Spaniards even built their churches and cathedrals atop the rubble of destroyed pyramid temples and shrines. The victors never expected the Indians to fuse or unify the Christian beliefs and forms with Indian practices and observances. Priests and friars began suspecting this syncretistic practice only when they discovered pagan idols and statuettes behind church altars, or buried on church grounds and in cemeteries. Dia de los Muertos, became one of these syncretistic observances.

Standing on the balcony of the Madrid Theatre, I saw the full sweep of the day’s events. The Aztec dancers had moved to a courtyard setting, the juvenile mariachi bands were mobilizing near the outdoor stage, and wave after wave of people flowed in and around the tables, booths and exhibits on the street. Until today, I had never seen a Dia de los Muertos celebration. My visits and vacations to Mexico never coincided with this fall holiday, and the customs were not observed in my family. While my mother was strict in observing the religious aspects of the feast days, we never took part in any of the Dia de los Muertos activities. I was only academically familiar with the history, artwork, iconography, and practices of this day through stories, books and pictures. It took a discovery by Kathy’s parents, Mary and the doctor (see On My Way to You), to pique my ethnic curiosity and revitalize my own interest in the central aspects of this Mexican holiday.

After the death of their daughter Debbie (see The Pleiades), Mary and the doctor became regular visitors to the San Fernando Mission Cemetery. It was there, surrounded by the graves of many Mexican and Mexican-American families that they observed a curious phenomenon. Throughout the year, Mexican families would descend on the graves of loved ones and stand, sit, gossip, or picnic. These were not drive-by occasions, but full half-day excursions. The families would bring gardening equipment, blankets, chairs and tables, and they would tend, decorate, and deposit gifts, food, beer, and pictures at the site. They would also bring, and set up miniature Christmas trees, televisions, Valentine’s Day bouquets, and Easter eggs baskets. It seemed as if these families were continuing to include their departed sister, brother, mother, or father in the cyclical celebrations of life that occupied the living. While these practices at first shocked my in-laws, they also gave them license to maintain their own level of intense communion with their deceased daughter. Mary was especially fascinated with the Dia de los Muertos custom of setting up private altars by the headstones, and there placing the favorite foods, beverages, photos, and memorabilia of the departed. When she asked me about it, I explained that many rural and provincial Mexicans held the folk belief that during Day of the Dead, it was easier for souls of the departed to visit the living. Therefore, families went to cemeteries not only to REMEMBER the dead, but to coax and encourage them to VISIT and STAY with them for a while. The altars were meant as spiritual inducements to the dead. Small shrines were placed at the gravesites, but larger, more elaborate altars were constructed at home. These were the multi-tiered altars flowing with countless candles, food, cakes, candies, crosses, statues, images of the saints and the Virgen de Guadalupe, and photographs of deceased relatives and friends.

At the conclusion of my day, walking past a car with a “Yes on Proposition 8” bumper sticker, I felt oddly reassured. I had spent the day witnessing how a people and a culture can affect the Church by simply ignoring a dreary, solemn practice, and changing it into a joyful observance. All Souls’ Day (Day of the Dead) was never part of Christ’s message to humanity; it was an observance of the Church, meant to point us in the right direction (the finger pointing at the moon). Mexico translated and modified this day into something very different. Dia de los Muertos, with all its images and pictures of skulls and skeletons, is not about remembering the dead, and the inevitability of our own death. Paradoxically, the day is a celebration of this brief and wonderful life.  The calaveras are decorated and transformed into sugared candies and curious figurines for the living. Esqueletos are not presented as frightful reminders of decay and decomposition, but as slender, well-dressed mariachi musicians, or curvaceous and elegantly gowned women who are here to entertain and seduce. This is the day when the dead can remember being alive, and perhaps leave us, the living, with a message: “Life may be short, harsh, and unfair, but it is such a blessing – so treasure every moment”.
 

Orthotic: Taken from Latin
meaning artificial support, or brace;

and Greek, meaning to straighten.

The science that deals

with the use of custom-built

devices, such as molded insoles,

which fit in a shoe to make foot

motion more efficient, to reduce

the risk of foot injury, or to

correct anatomical imbalances

that may lead to pain in the

back, hips, knees, and feet.

 
Gliding on cement-smooth paths,

My lungs fill with air

That the heart converts

Into energy, and

Propels my driving pistons.

Bubbly, bouncy, buoyant

Freedom

Pulses through my veins,

And oxygenates the cells

In my head.

Cascading images in

Orange and black, of

Pumpkins and chimneys,

Fill my head with

Aching memories

Of agony and dread.

In midstride,

Teetering

Between past and present,

A file cabinet drawer rolls open,

And I think:

Where were you last Thursday?

Those roadrunner mornings,

Were rudely awakened,

With bloody, stiletto pikes.

Stepping through those wispy dreams,

I still feel the naked sting,

Of metallic frozen streets.

Tender petals of baby skin,

Leave a spotted trail

That only I can feel

On the moon lit rug.

Will it ever end?

Trails never to be seen,

Nor inspirations grasped.

This would bring a halt

To the mysterious gestalt

Of mindful running.

All those nightmare fears,

Quelled by a jello mold

That frees the wind

And shakes the earth.

Thank you,

Dr. Liebeskind!

It is time I stepped aside

for a less experienced

and less able man.

(Scott Elledge, author and English professor)

At the end of my first year at Shangri-la, the faculty, in a burst of euphoric optimism, voted to join the LEARN (Los Angeles Alliance for Restructuring Now) Initiative, a consortium of District schools united in a reform effort to improve schools and student achievement by empowering teachers, administrators, and parents. It involved four weeks of summer training in Palms Springs that was hot, tedious and boring. However, the experience had 2 side benefits; it allowed me to build a long-term, trusting relationship with Dorothy, the teacher union rep, and introduced me to 2 “trainers” (instructional advisors) who were more interested in personal wisdom and improving human relationships than studying data and management systems. I liked one in particular, who, at the end of our last week, told me of two books that had changed her views on careers and education. She recommended The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron, and Management of the Absurd: Paradoxes in Leadership, by Richard Farson. Cameron’s book offered a radically new approach to self-awareness and jobs. In her work with “blocked” painters and writers, Cameron helped them overcome their creative paralysis with Morning Pages - the simple practice of producing 3 pages of spontaneous, reflective writing every morning. I never thought of myself as artistic, or creative, but the practice helped me to survive my second year at Shangri-la.
 

My daily entries of Morning Pages stretch from September 22, 1996 to April 17, 1997 (when they suddenly stopped for 8 months). They chronicled my solitary struggles and the steady deterioration of my physical and psychological health as I battled the insubordination, defiance, and undermining efforts of three staff members. The conflict began as a tropical depression at the start of the year, gained intensity through the winter, and reached hurricane proportions in the spring. Principals are easy targets if one wishes to relentlessly criticize and attack them, because they are responsible for EVERY aspect of a school, and for EVERY action, error, oversight, and mistake by the people they supervise. Principals sin by commission (what they actually do), and omission (what they didn’t do); and they are only as successful as their clients (teachers, parents, and students) believe them to be. If principals become hesitant and fearful, they run the risk of pandering to their opponents, and judging themselves through the eyes of their critics. In doing so, they lose all confidence, becoming more and more isolated and suspicious of everyone; finally despairing, completely – as I did. At first, I arrogantly thought I could handle the growing problems by myself; refusing to believe that two or three unhappy, and determined, staff members could effect my removal from a school. I was confident that if I acted intelligently, professionally, and ethically, I was safe and secure. I never expected the opposite behaviors by my opponents: unauthorized and unsigned letters with outrageous lies about me, assistant principals, and teachers, being placed in faculty mailboxes; formal petitions with unverified parent signatures being mailed to District administrators and board members demanding my immediate removal for lack of leadership; and visits to elected officials and community leaders by spokesmen of a parent organization secretly directed by my disaffected coordinators to make unsubstantiated allegations of supervisory incompetence, intimidation, and racial discrimination. It was a gradual campaign of slander and innuendo, which grew and grew because the accusations were so outrageous and so incredible, that reasonable parents, teachers, and administrators began wondering if there weren’t SOME grounds for suspicion. In December I was ready to ask for help from the LEARN trainers and my administrative team (composed of assistant principals, trusted coordinators, the teacher’s union rep, my administrative assistant, and a counselor). I didn’t want them to assume my burden, but I realized that I desperately needed their help to generate ideas, implement strategies, and win others to our cause. The LEARN trainers recommended a battle plan of transparency, full disclosure, and Fabian battle tactics; which translated into systematically exposing the sneaky, underhanded, and unethical maneuvers employed by our opponents, and pouncing on their errors and misjudgments. In doing this we built leadership capacity and awareness in the faculty and among parents, and I documented every unethical and unprofessional misstep they took; following it up with a witnessed meeting and a conference memo. It was a smart strategy, but it took time, a long, long time of ceaseless conflict and guerrilla warfare - and I did not feel I was winning.
 

In April, I was dreading going to school. Every day promised a new catastrophe, a new crisis, or another emotional scene of defiance and confrontation with one of the opposing staff members or their minions. I could only compare my feelings to the “battle fatigue” that bomber crews experienced during World War II after countless missions over flak infested skies where they were sitting ducks for enemy fighter pilots and anti-aircraft guns. Yet, even at that point, I hadn’t hit the depth of my despair. It was not until the first Friday of the month that I realized how broken I was. I was driving home when the aftermath of the week caught up with me. The week was the same as many others that year, with the usual emotional incidents: the same group of parents going (for the fourth time) to the Office of the Deputy Superintendent to demand my removal; the coordinator and her community rep again scheduling a meeting with the Cluster Leader to report my unfair treatment of them; and the parent officers of the advisory council demanding my presence at a special budget meeting to answer their questions. These highlights flashed through my mind, and when I arrived home, I just sat in the car, without moving, for about 30 minutes. I felt shell-shocked and depressed. I was comatose – just sitting there, gulping deep breaths, closing my eyes, and then opening them to stare off, vacantly, into space. I’d spent the day dealing with emotional personnel and angry administrative interactions that had drained me. I was paralyzed and unable to think or make decisions. I felt helpless and overwhelmed by these never-ending problems and the constant realization that they were being taken “over my head” and delivered directly to my superiors. Feelings of failure and inadequacy welled up like a giant, black wave, and then came crashing down over me. I only had one wish – I wanted to feel competent again. I wished I could once again act with confidence instead of reacting with doubts, fears, and uncertainty. That evening Kathy finally stepped in and, by telling me what she was observing in my actions and behaviors, put a mirror to my face and let me see for myself what I had become in the course of the year. I wasn’t sleeping through the night, awakening daily at 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. and not being able to return; I was experiencing gripping aches and pains in my back, neck and chest which were recurrent; I was coming down with constant colds and coughs; I had stopped jogging and exercising, replacing a healthy routine with daily cocktails at 6 o’clock, and drinking wine with dinner; I had developed an uncontrollable and annoying twitch in my upper eyelid; my handwriting had deteriorated so badly that my secretary (who had worked with me for 4 years) could no longer decipher it; and I was always so sad, that not even Prisa’s animated talk after a basketball game could cheer me. Kathy told me that she loved me, and would do anything to help, but if I could not recognize the symptoms for myself there was no hope. I was stunned, but not blind. I called Employee Assistance the next day, and scheduled a psychiatric assessment the following week. The psychiatrist confirmed what Kathy already knew and I suspected; I was clinically depressed, and had been for a long time. What surprised me most was my quick consent in accepting medication and therapy; a lifetime of stoic bravado, machismo, and hubris melted in seconds before my desire to be ME again – the intrepid, curious, and humorous assistant principal who found his job interesting and wanted to learn how to be a principal.
 

By May, the conflict had boiled to the point of direct confrontation. A handful of parents had finally gone to the School Cluster Leader demanding that I meet with them to answer their complaints, allegations, and demands. Suspecting an ambush, or, worse, an inquisition followed by public burning at the stake, I had dodged this frontal assault for weeks - believing myself vulnerable and defenseless. The Cluster Leader, however, sided with the parents and she directed me to appear at their meeting. That weekend, feeling alone, cornered, and defeated, it finally dawned on me that there might be people willing to help me, if I were humble enough to ask and let them. Nothing (except my pride) prevented me from inviting other school “stakeholders” (students, teachers, parents, and community members) from joining this meeting. On Sunday night, I called Dorothy and asked for her help. She gave me her unqualified support and, between the two of us, we divided up a telephone tree composed of team leaders, department chairs, staff members, and administrators; asking them to join us on the night of the “tribunal”. That evening, the original, hand-picked audience of 10 denouncing parents was outnumbered and outmatched by a crowd of 30 open-minded and supportive teachers, staff members, and parents. Every outrageous slander and lie directed at me, or my staff, was challenged, countered, and contradicted with the truth by other parents, teachers, and counselors. What had started as a trial for my job, ended as a vindication of my leadership. The tide had finally turned, and within weeks of this Armageddon encounter, the three staff members would resign, and eventually be released from their positions for the following year. There would still be some emotional skirmishes at parent meetings, and an embarrassing parent demonstration in front of school that was covered by television and newspapers, but the opposition was tiny, exposed, and irrelevant and it faded away over the course of the next two years.
 

Looking back at my 10 years at Shangri-la MS (See Telephone Game), I would call them the most satisfying and successful professional period of my life. I fell in love with the school, and learned how to be a principal. I did not learn it from books on school management, from administrative training programs, or from a master principal – I finally learned from the people I worked with; by allowing them to help me and to influence me: assistant principals, teachers, clerks, deans, counselors (therapists), and students. They all gave me challenges, insights, and behaviors that I incorporated into my own attitudes and actions. The most important lesson was realizing that the job of principal was ABSURDLY IMPOSSIBLE. There was simply no way ONE person could assume and perform the overwhelming number of duties and responsibilities heaped upon them by parents, teachers, boards of education, superintendents, universities, state legislatures, governors, or presidents. There is no way ONE human being can do it all. Trying only leads to frustration, disillusion, or depression. The more a principal acts in the belief that they alone can perform this role in a controlling, linear fashion (“getting all their ducks in a row”), the more they will experience paradoxical consequences and unintended outcomes. I found that the more I tried to CONTROL people, choices, and events – the opposite results would occur. I became curious of this phenomenon at Fire Mountain, but it finally made sense after reading Farson’s book in Shangri-la. There I discovered that once I accepted the notion that the job was overwhelming and impossible, I was liberated to ask for help and advice, and to act in the best interest of children. I let go of the illusion of the all-controlling and all-responsible principal and focused on my IMMEDIATE (momentary) interactions with people. I concentrated on doing the RIGHT thing (being fair, honest, and caring), or not doing anything. CONTROL requires clear choices and decisive actions – even when the alternatives are bad (picking the best of the bad choices). FREEDOM from this illusion allows one the option of doing NOTHING, and letting other people, or other forces come into play. It recognizes that something, or someone greater is in control. This was illustrated for me when I stumbled into a prayer group at school. Even after my Night of Armageddon, I was never certain of the outcome of the conflict until the day I hurriedly unlocked the closed door to the Dean’s Office and discovered Magda, Antonia, Maricela, and Beatrice, four classified employees, sitting quietly in a circle. I was surprised and embarrassed. Magda just smiled and put me at ease by saying “we were praying”. I mumbled an apology for intruding, turned around, and closed the door behind me. As I paused outside, I was embraced by a sensation of such comfort and warmth, that I imagined myself being carried to bed, in the arms of my father, while pretending to be asleep in the car after a long ride home. Without another word of explanation, I KNEW what Magda and the other women were praying for; they were asking God to resolve the conflict and bring peace to Shangri-la. She knew and loved all the parties involved in this crisis and she was not picking sides; she was picking God, and beseeching him to take control. For the first time that year, I knew everything would work out fine. God was in charge, and I knew He would answer the prayers of these women. All I needed to do was concentrate on the essential interactions of my job and leave the grand strategy and future to God. Years later at a principal’s meeting, John McLaughlin (principal of Romer Middle School) reworded my description into two words: “Benign Neglect”. The job of a principal was to know what to ignore, delegate, and perform; because to do everything was impossible.
 

I even learned things from Caesar, one of the mutinous staff members. He had the bizarre habit of addressing each student as “SIR” or “MISS” and shaking their hands before transacting his business with them. The students thought it an odd and eccentric behavior, but I was intrigued. I had always toyed with the idea of trying to learn the names of every student in the school, but had been intimidated by the vast enrollment at Fire Mountain MS (over 2,000 students). Shangri-la was smaller in comparison, and its enrollment of 1100 offered me the possibility of getting close to this impossible dream. All I needed was a means to practice and the willingness to make mistakes and appear “silly” to middle school children. Slight adjustments to Caesar’s quirky habit gave me the perfect vehicle to greet, meet, and interact with students on a daily basis, AND learn their names. I could do it before school, during Nutrition and Lunch, and after school. The practice allowed me to look into their faces, and acknowledge each student I encountered every day. When I could not recall their names (and saw the fading of their smiles), I simply went to Plan B: asking them to help me remember by giving me a clue – the first letter of their name. I would usually guess the correct name after one or two tries; or finally give up and ask them to tell me. By that time the student would be laughing and appear to believe me when I would exclaim, “Of course! I knew that; now I remember!” This simple ritual calibrated my perspective each morning as I stood in front of school shaking hands and reciting names, by reminding me who was important and who made my job enjoyable. It also had unexpected, and beneficial side effects. Parents and neighbors called, or sent unsolicited emails and letters, saying how much they appreciated and were comforted by the sight of a principal, standing in front of school, shaking hands, and greeting every child by name every morning and afternoon. Students, parents, and teachers came to believe that I had mastered an IMPOSSIBLE task and memorized the names of every child at Shangri-la M.S. I had made the impossible seem possible.
 

In 2005, I was informed by my District Director that the Superintendent wished to assign me to Mash M.S., a school that was recovering from a State intervention, and a District take-over and reconstitution. The school was coming off of a four-year, transformational effort to revive its program of instruction and insure consistent student achievement. The Superintendent was now looking for a veteran principal to replace the “transforming” principal, stabilize the school, and assure that the more mundane District policies, guidelines, and practices were also in place. My first response was “What if I don’t accept?”

She gave me a bemused smile and replied “Would you rather take over Sherman High School?”

Suddenly, a nightmarish vision of trying to direct that large, comprehensive high school, which was caught in the throws of violent ethnic confrontation and conflict between Hispanic and Middle-eastern students, made Mash MS a much more appealing alternative. I gathered from my options that I did not really have a choice; so after an upbeat conversation with the exiting principal hearing the reasons why I should accept, and discussing the offer with Kathy, I called my director and said “yes”.
 

In my third year at Mash MS, I finally awoke one day, looking into the faces of the children I continued to greet, shake their hands, and learn their names, and realized that they were all mine. I recognized every one (or felt I did), but more importantly they all recognized me. I’d spent the first two years of my assignment being very objective, very aloof, and very professional. That was easy, because I was now “an old hand” at my job, and the teachers, staff, and students at this school were strangers. I’d finally become “the old man” assigned to a refitted Man-ó-War, on one last voyage; the grizzled old sea captain who had made the hazardous trip “around the horn” so often, he could do it in his sleep. Piloting a school was no longer difficult, because I’d learned not to provoke personal animosities, and to see that every problem has a finite number of steps towards a resolution. The consequences of my actions might be unpleasant, but the decisions were obvious, if one has faced the same situations semester after semester for 14 years. Mash MS was FILLED with dilemmas (see tag, MASH); but I didn’t panic or despair, because I was secure in my abilities to handle any issue, conflict, or controversy “by the numbers”, without investing feelings or emotions. This emotional detachment was heightened by my anger and resentment over my assignment to Mash M.S. I grieved the loss of Shangri-la; the friends I’d made, the people I’d worked with, the teachers I had hired, and the students I had left behind. I had not allowed one person at Mash into that private place of trust and confidence which had been occupied by so many people at Shangri-la. I refused to find them worthy – until Bluestone walked into my office one day in May, and slapped me out of my stupor by announcing “Tony, I’m here to help you; and I have the solution to your problems!”
 

Bluestone was a retired counselor who had worked at Mash MS all of her educational career in Los Angeles. I first met her in 1989, when I was assigned there as an Assistant Principal. She was an amazingly energetic, loving and passionate mother-sister-aunt-friend, and counselor, who could look right through a person and know if they were fake or authentic. She was devoted to the students at the school (especially the most at-risk and hardest to love), and acted as their personal advisor and advocate. However, she won my admiration and respect because she balanced her compassion with maturity, professionalism, and a hard-nose grasp of the realities of life. She knew what the future held in store for these kids if they did not make better choices, and she offered them faith and opportunities to succeed.  She remained at Mash long after I left, and we would reconnect by chance or when one of her kids needed assistance, and I could help. Our friendship intertwined again when I discovered that Marty, my friend and counselor at Shangri-la (see Last Graduation at Shangri-la) was also her good friend from their days as IMPACT coordinators. That is when I learned of the similarities they shared: they were musicians and artists, they loved their respective schools and students (especially the outcasts and misfits); and they were practical counselors who deserved support. Now that Bluestone had recovered from a long illness, she looked strong and healthy again. I couldn’t help but smile at her well-meaning intentions as she explained that Marty had told her that I was looking for people who really loved the school and its kids, the way he and Kandy loved the students at Shangri-la. So, she had come to offer her services as a counselor, coordinator, and change agent. I was on the verge of turning her down, after pretending to listen, and dismissing her with the platitude “Well, thanks for sharing Blue, I’ll get back to you on this”; when I stopped. What was I doing? My sense of the absurd, which had lain dormant these two years, flared up. I sensed that this offer, while crazy, was a nexus point, a crossroad of choices that had far-reaching ramifications. I could choose the safe and conventional route, dismiss Blue and continue leading Mash M.S. as I was, in a haze of bitterness and detachment, or I could take a leap of faith with a person who truly loved these students and this school. That is when I woke up and realized that they had become my kids too. There was really only one road to choose; the “wrong” one, because it would paradoxically achieve the “right” goal. I hired Bluestone on the spot, not worrying about the rationale, the obstacles, or the contractual difficulties that would follow. The very next week, POSITIVE things started to happen. An elemental force had been unleashed at Mash MS, an energy the school had lacked for 5 years was alive – and it came in the color blue.
 

 
 My third year at Mash MS was an eye-popping and joyous experience, and it finally allowed me the chance to witness people coalescing and creating a rebirth of enthusiasm, accountability, and effort. My administrative team gelled with the addition of two new assistant principals from high schools. The Special Education Office became a hub of friendly and constructive interactions between the psychologist, coordinators, and A.P.’s The Dean’s and Counseling Offices started collaborating in their work, and student referrals, suspensions, and transfers dropped. Most importantly, the teachers, who had been stunned by the abysmal student scores on the California Standards Test and the school’s Academic Performance Index (see API Blues), were able to re-focus their instructional efforts and take advantage of the Class Size Reduction program which called for a 25-to-1, student-to-teacher ratio in academic classrooms. Not only did the teachers grasp the urgency for improvement, but they insisted on closer accountability for student progress and lobbied for subject matter testing by academic classes. I could not account for this wave of positive feelings and attitude, and found myself “knocking on wood” whenever I blurted out what a sweet year we were having. This is not to say that there weren’t emergencies, problems, and headaches (we had a rash of Child Abuse allegations, a student rape, and the trauma of reconfiguring the students, teachers, and staff into a traditional, single track format, after 17 years on a year-round schedule) – but none of them paralyzed the school. It was a great year, and I let myself savor and enjoy it, right up to the last handshake of the last student at graduation.

Before our summer vacation, Kathy and I went to our first STRS (State Teacher’s Retirement System) counseling session in June. Prior to that meeting we had tipped-toed around the topic of my retirement; not really certain if it was financially feasible. Although more and more of my generation of principals and A.P.’s were retiring – I’d always suspected they were economically better prepared than I for that inevitability. So I was glad that Kathy came along to evaluate the information we received together. To our surprise, the calculations for retirement at 61 years of age, with 32 years of service (increasing to 33 with illness days added) were optimal. Kathy was with me when we realized that I could retire on June 30, 2009. If I chose, this would be my farewell tour, my last year as principal. All I needed to do was pull the trigger.

I felt the first real loosening of the ties that bound me to my career as I looked out on the playing fields of Pierpont Elementary, and the sea beyond it, from the second story window of our beach house in Ventura. There was no envy, but some curiosity about its principals remained. I no longer cared about the facilities; they were just quaint buildings in a scenic vacation town. I did still wonder how the principals who had worked there described their jobs. Was it challenging for them, stressful, satisfying, or fun? My career odyssey had never been fun. For me, being a principal had been WORK – and work is hard. Work is painful to learn, painful to perfect, and painful to appreciate. My satisfaction came from knowing that I could finally perform the work well. I enjoyed it most, when I shared the experience with teachers, counselors, coordinators, deans, and co-administrators who seemed to have FUN doing what they loved. They are the artists I love to watch and appreciate. I experienced some of my greatest joys at Shangri-la, but I could now see the wisdom of my transfer. Over 10 years, my relationships with many teachers, administrators, and staff members had subtly shifted in their favor (or against them), so that my objectivity became difficult. They were friends as well as employees, and that emotional connection tended to prejudice my actions. My assignment to Mash MS freed me from that professional conflict and allowed me to be totally and completely on their side. I also felt good about my work at Mash. I enjoyed working with the A.P.’s, coordinators, psychologist, counselors, and teachers as we tackled serious problems and solved silly dilemmas. However, gazing out at the glistening sea and its far horizon, I couldn’t help feeling that there was something MORE out there. I had plotted a career route towards being a good principal, and I think that destination was reached at Shangri-la and Mash Middle Schools. Now it was time for something NEW – and possibly, something DIFFERENT. I guess that was when I decided to retire and move on; to find out what it is.

Sisters, sisters
There were never such devoted sisters;
Never had to have a chaperone, no sir,
I’m there to keep my eye on her.
Caring, sharing
Every little thing that we are wearing;
When a certain gentleman arrives from Rome,
She wore the dress, and I stayed home.
All kinds of weather, we stick together,
The same in the rain and sun;
Two different faces, but in tight places,
We think and act as one.
Those who’ve seen us
Know that not a thing could come between us;
Many men have tried to split us up, but no one can.
Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister,
And Lord help the sister, who comes between me and my man.
(Sisters, sisters: words & lyrics by Irving Berlin. Recorded by Rosemary
Clooney and Vera Ellen in movie, White Christmas: 1954)

 “Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister?”
(Alice Walker)

 This essay is really about nothing. It is not a newsworthy story, nor does it relate information of any significant importance. No philosophical theme or political treatise is presented; and no allegory or metaphor is imbedded in the tale. It’s just a story of seven sisters who came together for a day and a half at a beach house in July. In fact, everything that happened during the event conspired to keep it ordinary. There were no fights, arguments, or conflicts; and even the photographic record was remarkably innocent, as if censored by some benevolent, angelic guardian. The evening photos I took during the giggly, hot tub session were blurry, unfocused, and poorly lit, allowing no clear identification of face, body, or bathing suit. The only pictures that came out were bright and luminous portraits of women sitting, laughing, and posing for the camera. One would think that when seven ladies, between the ages of 46 and 64, came together to talk for 36 hours, something scandalous would occur. However, there was no material here for an Edward Albee play, like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It seemed as though the one to two hour drive to Ventura from various locations in Los Angeles had allowed each of these experienced women to leave their jobs, husbands, children, and worries behind, and become open, carefree, and frivolous girls again. For two days, these 7 ladies would be only one thing – sisters.

 A Sisters’ Reunion is a regular feature of the relationships that exist among the female siblings in Kathy’s family. For over 20 years, the girls would make an effort to meet at least 4 or 5 times a year (not counting official family parties, such as Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter). These meeting took on extra significance after the death of Debbie, the second sibling, and Mary, their mother. The loss of these two central female figures in their lives, really illustrated the need for connection and communication between family members, and birthdays provided the best excuses to get together. A restaurant would be selected nearest the person, or persons, celebrating the event, and as many sisters as possible tried to attend. These occasions were usually single sex affairs, although a man (Greg or their father) would sometimes make a sneak appearance. Because of the all-girl nature of these parties, I’ve always been curious about what they did and the topics they discussed. Granted, I’d been present, and a participant, at many after-dinner, and after-party, discussions with Kathy’s siblings (see Over the Hill), but never at one of these official Sisters’ Reunions. They held a forbidden allure for me. So when Kathy asked me if I would mind if she invited her six sisters to the beach house we were renting in Ventura during our summer vacation, I said the idea sounded fine – as long as I was able to stay and help. She agreed to my conditions and the planning of the event began in earnest.

As I listened to Kathy and watched her logistical machinations, I gathered that three factors were driving the concept of hosting a party for Beth, the eighth of 10 siblings in her family.  First, Mary Ellen (M.E.), the eldest sister, would be in town at the end of July, visiting their father. Her presence would serendipitously unite all 7 of the surviving sisters together at the same time, something that is difficult to do with M.E. living in Washington D.C. Second, Beth was turning 50 on July 31, and Kathy wanted to do something special for the occasion. A half century, five decades, is a significant benchmark that calls for a special celebration. However, Beth was in the middle of a hundred things in the month of July: teaching summer school at a Jesuit high school, finishing her Master’s research paper, organizing visits to and from her college, and post-college aged children who live throughout the state, and preparing for the start of the new school year in August. Kathy felt that a 50th birthday called for a unique location and a different agenda.  A beach house would present an attractive destination, especially for sisters who spent their childhood summers on the beach in Capistrano. Lastly, the girls had never participated in an adult, over-night sleep-over that would allow them to be together, without the annoying distractions of time, travel, and other family obligations. An extended period of time together, would give them the chance to really explore and discuss issues, questions, and concerns that would not be mentioned in a restaurant. These were the three talking points that Kathy used when calling her sisters to gauge their interest, and then convincing them that this opportunity was simply too good to pass up. I couldn’t imagine how any of her sisters would turn her down - and they didn’t. Within a month’s time of the first phone call in May, all of the sisters were on board and committed to coming on July 29 for a day at the beach, dinner, and a slumber party.

 Beth and Mary Ellen arrived just before noon, and joined us for lunch as they described their father’s health and driving habits at 89 years old. Then, as if in a rhythmically choreographed routine, one by one, the other “little girls” arrived: Tootie, then Meg, and finally Tere, the youngest. Soon after, Patty called to say that she was in route and not to wait on her account. When the sisters realized that, other than food and refreshments, there was no planned agenda or program to guide their actions for the day, they immediately reverted to “Capistrano Beach mode” and began differentiating their activities. Meg decided to go jogging, M.E. and Kathy wanted to sit by the ocean, and the rest went walking to the pier.  My role was simple. I was the cook, photographer, and cabana boy for the event. In return for these efforts, I would be permitted to observe, listen, and, to some degree, record the activities of the next 36 hours. It was actually a lot of fun. I’ve watched these young women (M.E., Kathy, and Patty), and girls when I first met them (Meg, Beth, Tootie, and Tere), mature and grow up over the last 35 years. They are fun to be around. They all share many of the same qualities that cause me to BE in love with Kathy. Their intelligence, cleverness, empathy, and humor make for great company and a terrific band of sisters.

 Eventually, everyone found themselves by the ocean, sitting on beach chairs, towels, or benches. People were reading, talking, or just staring off to sea. Slowly, singly or in pair, they made their way back to the beach house where cocktails and hors d’houvres awaited them on the patio. Over the course of the evening and the following morning, these seven sisters would talk, laugh, drink, eat, and talk some more. It wasn’t quite a marathon gab-fest, but it was close. I just listened, and occasionally took pictures. Listening to these sisters’ talk and laugh is like hearing an impromptu jazz performance by a seasoned septet, who had reunited for a special benefit show. They played the standard pieces about their father, mother, and brothers, and then they did some improvisation on their own. Each sister would take a solo riff and tell a short or long story, or reveal a long hidden insight. These were variations on old themes that now came from a new perspective, but they sounded different; a new twist, a new sound, a new detail. My being there was superfluous, but Prisa’s presence opened up talk about her upcoming wedding and reflections on their own ceremonies and marriages.

 I’d considered writing a blog about the occasion, but wasn’t sure what it would be about. I could not come up with a unifying theme or incident that would give it meaning. I did not want to write an expose of some outrageous comment or revelation that was mentioned in the course of the reunion. I was there as a trusted brother-in-law, an uncle to their children, and a caring friend; I did not want to violate that confidence. Actually I couldn’t even if I wanted to – I wasn’t really paying attention to the facts and every detail being said. I was just sitting back and enjoying the whole experience. Yet one question haunted me during and after the celebration was over. How would I describe these ladies, whom I have seen going “from crayons to perfume?”  Photos could easily provide an image of their physical appearance, but I wondered if an accurate characterization of these girls, now women, was really possible – or even advisable. These women are always evolving, and what they say at sibling reunions and get-togethers is always colored by a unique family filter that allows for large fluctuations of sentiment and emotion. These ladies use talk and confessions as a form of beneficial therapy (something like the “talking cure” that Freud described in his early writings). Verbalizing ones fears, insecurities, and embarrassments (real and imagined) liberates them, and gives them the opportunity to reflect about themselves and be empathetic to others. What they say, however, is not necessarily what they do, or who they are. Yet a silly idea did occur to me as I was making up titles for an imaginary blog about this reunion, and I googled the name Seven Sisters.

 The popular use of the term Seven Sisters was first coined in 1927, as the name given to the 7 prestigious women’s colleges, Barnard, Smith, Mount Holyoke, Vassar, Bryn Mawr, Wellesley, and Radcliffe. These are the “sister” schools to the elite Ivy League men’s colleges. However, the name was originally a reference to the Greek myth of the Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas, the titan, and the sea-nymph Pleione. The daughters were collectively referred to as the Seven Sisters. The myth recounts the tale that one day the great hunter Orion saw the Pleiades as they were walking through the countryside and was smitten by their grace and beauty. He became so crazed with desire that he relentlessly pursued them for seven years, until Zeus finally intervened. Granting the prayers and petitions of the desperate siblings, he transformed them into 7 doves and placed them in the heavens – becoming the star cluster called The Pleiades in the constellation of Taurus. Later, when Orion was killed, Zeus also placed him in the night sky, but behind the Pleiades, thereby immortalizing (or mocking) his futile pursuit of them. The names of The Pleiades, or The Seven Sisters, were Maia, Electra, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Asterope, and Merope.

 I was especially surprised when my google search also identified the Seven AND Eight Virtues in this category. The existence of an eighth virtue intrigued me because it allowed me to resolve a problem I had in drawing parallels with the Pleiades of myth and Kathy’s sisters. You see, there should have been eight sisters at this party to make it complete. If the indifferent hand of fate had not intervened 5 years ago, the missing place at the table would have been occupied by another sister. I wondered then, if perhaps, in the myriad of Greek and Roman myths, an alternate story of the daughters of Atlas and Pleione might not exist; one in which there was an eighth sister called Deborah. This daughter became lost one night when she foolishly wandered into the Labyrinth of Minos, and was not present when Orion came along and chased the other seven sisters into the heavens. In the world of mythology, this would explain why there are 8 Virtues, but only 7 Pleiades.

 At the conclusion of the party, once the gaiety and celebration was over, and the sisters had taken their leave and departed the beach house, I took the liberty of matching Kathy’s sisters with their corresponding Pleiades name and its meaning. I then added the Virtue that might fit that particular sister, followed by my own italicized character trait for each one:

 1. Mary Ellen (M.E.) – Maia: “grandmother, mother, nurse, the great one”. Kindness/Peace, Intelligence
* (Debbie – Deborah:“bee, or prophetess”, the lost Pleiades of mythology. Liberality/Generosity, Grace/Charm).
2. Kathy – Electra: “amber, shining, bright, to flow, running, as a liquid”. Humility/Modesty, Charisma
3. Patty – Taygete: “long-necked”. Chastity/Purity, Compassion
4. Meg – Alcyone or Halcyone: “queen who wards off evil (storms)”. Patience/Forbearance, Humor.
5. Beth – Celaeno: “swarthy”. Diligence/Effort, Persistence.
6. Tootie – Asterope or Sterope: “lightning, twinkling, sun-face, stubborn-face, star, stellar”. Temperance/Restraint, Independence.
7. Tere – Merope: “eloquent, bee-eater, mortal”. Justice/Righteousness, Competitiveness.

 As I explained at the beginning of the essay, there is really nothing extraordinary about a reunion of siblings. In the early days of our youth, we simply had to state the wish to meet, and it would happen; we lived together, played together, and suffered together. Yet with the advancement of years, marriage, children and families, opportunities to do so became scarcer and scarcer, and we became more and more alienated from the unity we once experienced. Big family get-togethers at weddings, Christmas, or Easter don’t really allow sufficient time to question, talk, and bond; and we always seem too busy to arrange other occasions. Kathy’s party for Beth gave these seven sisters a chance to cohere for a moment, and to call forth that wondrous time of childhood, when siblings could imagine and make up how things SHOULD be. Watching them talk, laugh, and play reminded me of my own 5 siblings, whom I don’t see often enough, outside of Christmas Eve and special occasions. Perhaps the constancy of the Pleiades in the night sky is a reminder to us that sisters and brothers are always there, but we have to look up to see them.