Stories of Lotería

The sun had gone down by the time we reached San Diego County. On our right, we passed the twin water-power structures (a pair of boobs is what they're generally referred as) that unofficially mark the entrance to San Diego. We couldn't see the ocean but knowing it was out there in the night made this part of the trip ominous, like we were traveling along the edge of the world. At least it would have if any of us was actually paying attention. But we weren't. If we had run out of gas our incessant chatter could have fueled the car. Our high-pitched laughter was outdone only by the blaring music straining the twelve-year old speakers. Let's see, it would have been stuff like the Smiths, Depeche Mode, some Usher and Next, and a little bit of Tupac - it was 1998 after all and we were L.A. girls. Marina borrowed her mom's four-door Honda so we could take this road trip to El Valle de Guadalupe ( a town outside of Ensenada, Mexico) where her grandparents' ranch was

Lucy heard the deep, warm tones of the cello coming from the dining room and quickly turned off her small transistor radio. Not much could tear her away from the seductive rhythms of Mary Wells, Marvin Gaye, The Supremes or her favorite, Smoky. But when her older brother practiced the cello she was transported to distant places that looked nothing like the confined, chipped-painted walls of their home. She didn't know much about classical instruments or any music besides motown and her parents rancheras, but for some reason those low melodic notes made her think of places she saw only on television. She imagined great concert halls bigger than her school auditorium even, where fancy ladies in the audience sparkle with jewels and the musicians wear expensive-looking suits. Her brother, Sal, played on, oblivious to the world around him. She was careful not to let him see her. In the last few months he had grown more irritable, snapping insults at anyone who interrupted his concentrat

Many stories about my grandparents impress me with their examples of strength and fortitude, but there is one in particular that literally clenches my heart and doesn't let go until I can find proper distraction. Every time I try to write it I feel I never do it justice so I'll share it here the only way I know how - the way it was told to me. In July of 1950 my grandmother, Elena, was traveling by train from Mexicali to Guadalajara. A very popular 48 hour trip in that time, as I understand it. While my grandfather stayed in Los Angeles to work, she planned to visit her family and had by her side her five children ranging in age from 10 years to 5 months. It was near impossible to keep 4 children behaved and entertained while looking after an infant, and the summer heat provoked irritability more than a sense of adventure. Well into the first night, Elena's youngest, Alfredo, developed a high fever. By the second night his fever had gone beyond 104 degrees. While struggling

The dozen or so crescent-moon shaped cantaloupe skins waded lazily in the neighbor’s otherwise pristine backyard swimming pool. The ruthless midday sun penetrated the heavily chlorinated water, inciting a lively concert of glistening and sparkle that only water and gemstones can orchestrate. Despite the intrusion of cantaloupe skins, the swimming pool flaunted its allure like an oasis in the desert, or to children specifically, like a rainbow-sprinkled-frosting-covered-cream-filled-something on any day of the week. If it wasn’t for the shared feeling of accomplishment, the three young girls would have acknowledged their envy of those discarded, half-eaten fruit peelings. *********************** By 10am the temperature had nearly reached 90 degrees. Arlene, Lorrie, and Christina, three cousins almost in their pre-teens, fended for themselves upon waking that Monday morning. All of the adults were at work and the designated babysitter was Arlene’s teenage sister who scarcely removed her

Emilia Medina enjoyed the lively play and laughter of her children as they walked home from the small theatre. As a single mother in the early years of Jalisco's twentieth century, she did not have many opportunities to take pleasure in her children’s amusement, let alone something as frivolous as a live stage production. The audience had dispersed quickly, leaving only the children, Emilia, and looming darkness on the long stretch of road. Amidst her daughter’s delighted high-pitched squeals, she thought she heard a man’s heavy footsteps behind her. Three times she looked back sure to find someone following her, but saw no sign of another person nearby. At home she put the children to bed and made herself comfortable for the night. Sleep was difficult to come by ever since her husband, Amado, had left them without much regard or resources. He had lost two of his fingers in an accident that involved firecrackers and it left him incapable of playing professional guitar - the only le

The occasional drive to my mom’s childhood home in the El Sereno hills was always a special treat. These jagged hills did not proudly display grand edifices purchased at high prices for their luxurious picture-window views. Recklessly strewn together, the neighborhood instead braised quick-tempered young citizens who were born into poverty and resided somwhere between American and Mexicano. After breakfasts at Nena’s Mexican Restaurant I’d beg my parents for the short detour that took us through narrow spiral roads and the retelling of countless adventures featuring hooligan rebellion. With eleven children and two adults packed into one small house, it is no surprise that the living energy behind its walls would push forth and conquer the surrounding hills. There was no shortage of stories my mom could tell. Each driving tour ignited a new memory. Here is one of my favorites… In 1976 my mom was 24 years old with 8 and 9 year old sons. While she worked night shifts at the post office, t

The gush of blood surprised him. It came as quickly and unexpectedly as had the rage. Eight seconds after the last blow, hand sent message to head that it was in pain. Nothing too bad - he had felt it a dozen times before. Deliberately, he released the tension in his right hand, regarding the white knuckles. His fist must have been tightly clenched because its color was just now returning. He considered the speed of his reflexes and began to feel grateful. His mind thought something and without having to be asked twice, his hand reacted. No explanation necessary. At 16 years old he was sick of explanations. Mom. Counselors. Judge. Girlfriend. They always wanted answers, justifications, tell me one good reason why I should . When nothing else went his way at least he knew he could count on his dependable hands. His mom used to tell him and his brothers that if they refused to go to school they’d be forced to work with their hands for the rest of their lives. Not a horrible alternati