La Botella - The Bottle

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, the boys were left with her parents and younger siblings at the old house. There was a family with 2 daughters who lived up the street – we’ll call them the Lopez’s. There’s more than a few wild stories that involve this family but I’ll save those for another time. One of these Lopez daughters had a son who was also 9 years old and played often with my brothers. As kids do, a fight broke out between my older brother and the Lopez kid. His mother wasn’t around, I suppose, so he took his case to his aunt who, by all trustworthy accounts, was certifiably insane. Since calm mediation is not usually a priority of the certifiably insane, she opted instead to throw an empty beer bottle at my brother’s head. And all hell broke loose.

The bottle had just grazed his right temple and didn’t seem to require stitches, but it was enough to set off my uncles who tried in vain to threaten the Lopez’s with my mom’s inevitable wrath.

“What is your skinny sister going to do? We’re not afraid of her,” were reportedly the snide comments from Mama Lopez.

"You better watch out. My sister don't take shit form nobody," my uncles threatened.

Before work the next day, my mom dropped the boys off at the old house, and with sponge curlers still in her hair, she snatched one of her brothers’ belts (those 2 inch Mexican ones made of real cowhide leather), marched halfway up the hill to the Lopez house, and hollered for that crazy b!@#$ to come out. What a spectacle it must have been! My mom yelling things like, “You belong in a mental hospital. They oughtta lock you up and throw away the key” while flanked by her younger instigating brothers. Her mother pleaded with her to stop before she got arrested, while her aunt encouraged her to "defend your child like any real mother would". That 17-year-old bottle-thrower had nerve to meet my mom on the street but before she got a word or anything else in, she was wrestled to the ground by 100-pounds of maternal rage, flipped onto her stomach, and mercilessly whipped in front of the crowd like bad-behaved girls ought to be. At least, that's how my mom tells it.

While I’m usually labeled the spitting-image of my mom, I don’t lean towards her fiery temper and brazen kick-ass mentality. I can only hope that once my baby arrives, mom’s badassness tucked somewhere deep inside me will wake from its slumber, ready to star in an adventure of its own.