A Chicano Moves to the Suburbs--I like this column

Column No. 1482
HISPANIC LINK
March 26, 1989
A CHICANO MOVES TO THE SUBURBS
By William O. Medina
I grew up in the barrio, where most of my neighbors ate tamales for Christmas and went to a Catholic church. Spanish drowned out English at the local market, and no one was ashamed to hang wet clothing form the family laundry line. I viewed my World form the perspective of a lifer, someone who would spend his entire earthly existence in the barrio.
Then last year I moved to the white suburbs of Southern California’s Riverside County. Friends and relatives congratulated me on doing the right thing. Home-ownership is something they considered a wise investment.
But a home is more than an investment, and for someone like me who doesn’t understand the logia of Homeowner Association rules that prohibit leaving your garage door open, the suburbs remain strange.
My new neighborhood is replete with block parties that spew the aroma of barbecued steaks and spare ribs. I always decline invitations to attend — for valid reasons. My precinct is overwhelmingly Republican; I’ve marched on picket lines boycotting grapes and protested against Ronald Reagan’s cuts to education health and other critical social programs.
I’m afraid my feelings may be construed by my neighbors as anti-American. It would be suburban suicide for me to engage in any backyard small talk.
My new neighbors work hard during the week and view weekends as mini-vacations. Come Friday, laden with boats, jet skis and motorcycles, they pilot their campers toward the nearest blue-collar playgrounds. Skimming lake waters at frightening speeds, climbing Suicide Hill and sleeping on hard dirt helps them forget about their 40-hour weeks.
I can’t relate to that. Like my homeboys back in the barrio, I still work most weekends and don’t have such toys of escape. Barrio residents can’t afford the cost of fleeing from their monotony or anxieties. When I was growing up, we went to the city park during summer vacation or stayed at home inventing simplistic games using a water hose. While we placed, our parents sat Ander a tree and watched.
Among my new neighbors, a recurring question is: “What do you do for a living?” Obviously, if you can afford payments on a new home in Southern California, you must have a job. In the barrio, such inquiries are taboo. The jobs have lees dignity and status; layoffs are not uncommon. It often takes tow menial jobs to make ends meet. Asking about a person’s job can cause embarrassment. We shun people who boast about how important or rich they are.
My suburban neighbors deny that their yards compete, but they do. For a while, I became involved in the tacit competition. I wanted the greenest and cleanest yard. A magazine article told me that sprinklers were harsh on infant grass, so I spent untold hours catering my first lawn by hand, hurrying outside each morning to welcome virgin blades of grass that had emerged during the night.
As I stood watching my green carpet grow, one neighbor would visit me and share the secrets that were going to make him fabulously wealthy. He had figured it out, down to the minute, how much Money he earned.
In the barrio, we had concerns that took precedence over luxuries and the health of our plants. There was the constant whining noise of Butcher Boys, a burrito factory across the street that made sitting outdoors unbearable. Enjoying our flower and vegetable gardens at night became increasingly hazardous with the proliferation of gang violence.
In my new neighborhood, we complain about uninvited dogs in the garden. In my old, the concern was uninvited bullets.
In the barrio, we never fretted over commuter traffic. Here in suburban Moreno Valley, the freeways are like parking lots every morning and evening, thousands of vehicles strung bumper to bumper. I sometimes sense that my roots, once deep in barrio clay, are inching into my vitamin-fed lawn and large monthly house payment. I fear that some future summer I might weaken and join a neighbor’s backyard barbecue party.
But I am a transplant and must remain a product of my past. In a mad, nostalgic moment, I may yet defy my neighbors and leave my garage door open all day long. I can never move completely out of the barrio.
(William O. Medina manages a family restaurant in Riverside, California.)
Copyright 1989, Hispanic Link News Service.

Then I see Piolín

I move clandestine with my camera through the vast crowd, click, click, click. I get on the media risers — click. I make my way down and look for interesting angles and people… click. Drums, chanting, praying, the anthem Sí se puede, and a tint of humidity in the air, I’m sweating now. The images are colorful and alive. I’m on my knees, up high, down low and all over — yup, this is another shooting assignment, but with my emotions attached to every click.
This is personal. I’m a immigrant covering immigration. I somehow manage to keep it together— until I see Piolín.
For those who don’t know who he is, he is a syndicated radio host. At the rally, he was the last speaker...

…But back home Piolín is also the one my father and I would listen to every morning.

When he came down from the stage, I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was a fan I turned off my camera. “Piolín, can you send a shout-out to my father? He listens to you every morning from Phoenix.” He did.
I ran home, called my dad and played the greeting to him. I could tell from his voice he was exited.
On my day at the rally, I can still be a fan

Link to pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2475028&id=3436036&l=c3f225fd70

The Fragments that got me here

Phoenix—November 27, 2009 my life is about to take an unexpected turn. It’s a Friday morning; my brothers and cousin are watching Star Trek. I’m sitting in the sofa putting the last touches on my letter of intent and resume. I had gotten the edits from Lisa a day or two earlier, now I had the old and too familiar feeling of a deadline breathing down my neck.

I read line by line, making sure “there” isn’t “their” and “whether” isn’t “weather.”

I pace around the living room, go upstairs come down stairs, grab a snack, pacing, back and forth—“Is it ready?” “Do I have a shot?”

Send

Half-hour later my nerves ease up a bit. I realize I’m back to being me again. My phone goes off….

“202….”

--Hello this is Charlie Ericksen…

(Holy crap)

“…We would like to schedule an interview with you later today…”

The interview came and went.

24 hours later I’m coming home from Sahuaro Park dreading the rain because it cancelled a soccer game—one that took two trips to get to with no game ever taking place.

I’m driving back looking at the cloudy horizon on the 101 North. What a sight.

My phone rings…

“202…”

--We just got done checking your sources…you are the type of person we want to be working for us this spring…

My life hasn’t been this good,

What would have happened if I played soccer? Perfection perhaps.