The Dedalus Log

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman

Tiptoes to my room every night,

Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper

Go to sleep. Everything is all right.

I close my eyes, then I drift away

Into the magic night. I softly say

A silent prayer, like dreamers do.

Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.

In dreams I walk with you.

In dreams I talk to you.

In dreams you’re mine.

All of the time we’re together

In dreams, in dreams.

But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone.

I can’t help it; I can’t help it, if I cry.

I remember that you said goodbye.

It’s too bad that all these things,

Can only happen in my dreams;

Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.

(In Dreams, Roy Orbison: 1963)

Sometimes I mix up my earliest childhood memories with dreams. I can’t tell the dream-like pictures from actual events. The first scene I remember is of an infant being lifted in the air, in the strong arms of a man with black, curly hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Looking down at the face of the smiling man, the babe was filled with the excitement only supreme confidence can bring. He panned the surrounding landscape in a 180 degree swivel of his head and looked down to see a young woman with light wavy hair, wearing a white linen blouse, looking up at him. She held her arms up close to her chest as if ready to catch or snatch the infant from the arms of the man. There were a handful of scruffy-looking children surrounding her, dressed in loose-fitting dresses and tee shirts. They laughed and giggled at the sight, encouraging the man to toss the baby into the air. The babe, held high in the sky, smiled down at them.
 

The clearest dream I recall is with a silhouetted house on a hill. It was an old wooden house with a triangular framed porch façade. A cement pathway divided two patches of park-like, coarse grass that extended like a thick green carpet with a grey stripe running down the middle. There was a chubby-faced 5 year old boy, wearing an over-sized, faded checkered shirt and blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs. He held his sister’s hand. She was a little girl, one or two years younger than her brother, with a large, white bow in her light, brown hair. He pointed to the house with his free hand.

“That’s our house” he announced to another boy, the girl’s twin, standing next to him.

“Then why does it look different?” the sandy-haired boy challenged, shaking his head in doubt. The smaller boy was correct; the house was wrong - but the older brother couldn’t accept the anomaly. They followed what he believed would have been their father’s instructions. They had recognized  all the landmarks and familiar sights. So why did their house look and feel different?

“I don’t know” he confessed, “but everything else is right. Let’s go in”.

“Wait a minute, Tony” the girl interrupted, squeezing his hand tightly in alarm. “What if it’s somebody else’s house?”

“It’s not” Tony replied firmly. “I’m sure this is where we’ll find Mom and Dad. I’m sure this is home”.
 

They had traveled a long way. Starting from the towering Sears Building in Boyle Heights, they had followed the railroad tracks to Griffith Park, and then crossed the hills through Elysian Park. They fought back their rising panic by pointing and calling out names of the places and sights they had visited with their parents on previous occasions. The older brother couldn’t remember what had happened to their parents in the department store. One minute they were looking at ice boxes and the next they were gone. He told his twin siblings that this was a new game he wanted to play; but they were becoming suspicious and apprehensive. Thankfully, they were being assisted in their journey by some kind of miraculous spell. This magical power was not only sedating his fears and giving him the words to destract and reassure his younger siblings, but it was also speeding their progress. Although apparently walking, they seemed to appear at each locale, as if transported from spot to spot, and place to place, by a mystical force. But the enchantment had evaporated in front of this house, and the magic had stopped. He could feel the heavy stillness of this moment. Darkness began to spread over the sky; covering the sun as they slowly approached the beckoning house.

“Mommy, daddy!” the girl shouted, plaintively; starting to cry when no sounds emerged from the sullen house.

“Shhh” the older boy scolded, “Tita, be quiet!” He squelched back the same urge to call out for help, sensing that it would only provoke his own tears. “They can’t hear you. They probably went to sleep waiting for us to come home”.

“I’ll go see” the sandy-haired brother shouted as he bolted forward, running up the porch stairs and disappearing behind the slamming screen door.

“Tito!” they called out together, too late to grab or restrain him. The skinny boy was swallowed by the ominous, but strangely familiar house that wasn’t quite their home. The adrenaline rush from Tito’s rash actions unfroze their legs and the pair finally started moving forward again, hand in hand.

“Tito, Tito” he whispered, peeking his head into the mahogany tinted room as Tita held back the screen door. They glided into the living room as if on skates, and then coasted through a series of rooms. Suddenly Tito reappeared at their side.

“Tony, follow me” he said, motioning with his arm, “I found Gracie!” He led them quickly into a draped and darkened room, with old wallpaper of faded pink and yellow flowers. There was a tall, lacy bassinet in the middle of the floor. Looking into the cradle, they saw a small, blonde, curly-haired baby girl sleeping peacefully. Her gentle breathing only heightened the gloomy wrongness of the setting.

“Where’s mommy and daddy?” keened Tita, letting go of her brother’s hand and bringing them both up to her eyes to hold back the cascading tears.

“I don’t know” moaned Tony, finally giving up and letting his despair flow out through his tears. Slowly, Tito stepped between the weeping pair and took their hands, sealing the sibling circle around the bassinet. He closed his eyes, whispered five words,  and firmly squeezed the hands of his brother and sister.
 

 
Struggling to release the strangled wail that caught in my throat, I awoke from my first nightmare. Gasping for breath and touching my cheeks for evidence of the tears I had wept in my sleep, it took me a long time to calm down. I didn’t relax until I'd made a bed check to see that Tito, Tita, my mom and dad, and Gracie were all accounted for. Slipping back into my bed, I stayed awake until daybreak, afraid to go back to sleep.

This week I started a Dream Book. I never took the idea of a dream journal seriously. I recall Frosty, a school psychologist and Kathy’s friend from college, keeping one and telling me about its benefits many years ago; and my own therapist strongly recommended one during my three years of counseling. Although I respected their opinions, and understood the importance of dreaming, I never followed their advice. I thought dreams were naturally occurring phenomena and, if they were truly important, I would always remember them in the morning and throughout the day. Yet, when I took the time to reflect on them and analyze their content and images, it struck me that the dreams I tended to remember were in fact nightmares, and they were recurrent during certain periods of my life.

Nightmares like my old dream of being lost or abandoned in Sears as a child were the ones that haunted me for years. The themes of those disturbing dreams might change with age and my emotional stages of development, but they were definitely nightmares. I could track my dream life as the theatrical offerings of a long running season, showing abandonment dreams in childhood, war and conflict dreams in adolescence, and closing with witch and serpent dreams at puberty through young adulthood. The details of all other dreams (falling dreams, going to school undressed dreams, and anthropomorphic dreams, in which I changed into someone else while still, somehow, remaining myself) slowly dissipated upon waking, and dissolved by morning. These were the ordinary dreams that I shed daily, as effortlessly and thoughtlessly as skin.
 

Lately, I’d been dreaming – a lot. With my daughter’s upcoming marriage, looming retirement, and preparing to leave my office, school and career, I was experiencing a multitude of dreams. It seemed as if every evening or early morning, I would awaken for a moment, fully conscious of the dream I was having, and then go back to sleep; whereupon the remnants of that dream would transform themselves into another dream. However, by the time I actually arose from bed to write my Morning Pages, all clear details of those dreams had dissipated. I was beginning to feel a real loss from this evaporation. There was a whole world of fantastic and impossible images, scenes, faeries, elves, and monsters dancing in my mind in these early morning dreams and I was letting them fade away and disappear – like Brigadoon. This had never bothered me before, but suddenly it did.

Perhaps it was the book I was reading – Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande, that finally pushed me into action. The author emphasized the need to harness one’s unconscious so that it would flow into the pictures and metaphors that writers use in their work. It struck me that I shouldn’t rely on the images and descriptions modeled by other authors and writers.  I had my own reservoir of scenes in dreams that were never recorded. I visited these wonderful places every night, but I never remembered the details. Until that moment, using a Dream Book only seemed an invitation to interrupt my sleep; something I especially hated doing during the work week. But I would soon no longer need that excuse. On June 30^th I would no longer have a job, career, or profession. With retirement, I could easily afford to spend 10 minutes jotting down dreams without worrying about falling immediately back to sleep. An equation came into my head:

To Retire (Jubilarse in Spanish, or “jubilation”) = Dreaming + Recording (or Writing).

What a wonderful formula for retirement! It almost sounded like a Dream Quest. Now came the hard part; how could I apply this theoretical equation and engineer something new? What would be the device to make this happen?
 

The answer came at work on Monday. I was packing and cleaning out my office when I discovered a brand new “Project Planner” notebook in my desk. This was the only type of notebook I used to record all my business interactions, phone calls, and professional encounters. I preferred this particular brand, as opposed to a stenographer’s notebook, because it provided a wide margin on the left-side of the page for summaries, generalizations, and reflective comments or drawings. It was the all-purpose, daily “work journal” that I’d kept faithfully for 17 years. I had just boxed an unbroken chain of notebooks dating back to my first assignment as principal of Fire Mountain Middle School in 1991, to my last in 2009. As I held this last, unused notebook in my hand, I wondered “What will become of this practice now?” I hated the idea of tossing away a brand new notebook, so I stuck it in my bag and took it home. When I fished it out that evening, the answer hit me. A Dream Book! I could transform my Project Planner into a dream book. It would be the rebirth, the renaissance of an old friend; my notebook would evolve from projects to dreams.

On Tuesday night, I set my new Dream Book on my nightstand, along with a pencil, next to the alarm clock. This would be a test. I would see if I could find a way to tap into my unconscious. I fell asleep reading Barack Obama’s autobiography, Dreams from My Father.  I awoke at 1 o’clock after a disturbing series of dreams and remembered to reach for my journal and write down as much as possible. It was difficult keeping my eyes open, and it required an effort to recall specific details and actions. They were disappearing like smoke rings being grasped by a child’s hand. I wrote what I could and then read myself back to sleep. That morning, while writing my Morning Pages, I described the first dream I recorded in my Dream Book.
 

It began nicely enough and then turned bizarre. I was standing next to President Barack Obama on the production set of a T.V. game show. The show involved overcoming three trials or challenges. These games were spread out and displayed at different locations on the set. We were being televised from an antique theatre with thick, velvety drapes and curtains, which were old and worn. I looked toward the crowd that was clapping and cheering for us, but I saw no one through the harsh lighting coming from the overhead scaffolding. A spotlight shone on a tall and hideously mascara-ed circus ringmaster who was tossing large, brightly colored disks onto the worn and warped stage floor. The round objects hit the wooden floor with a wet, sucking sound. The other two upcoming challenges were now hidden from view, pushed off to the side of the stage. Then the towering ringmaster, who looked like a garish Richard Dawson with a melon slice, Cheshire cat smile pasted on his face, started the game. The lighting switched, and the stage shifted from bright and colorful, to a dark and ominous set. The fluorescent disks slowly turned pale and mushy, like rotting flesh. They sprouted sharp, jagged teeth which began to grow and expand along the edges. Suddenly the flat, rounded disks bent inward and became independently snapping jaws, with shark-like teeth. They became menacing versions of the clacking teeth that were sold as toys in my youth – only these weren’t toys. They were voracious devourers of everything, swarming over the stage and filling the auditorium, like a wave of big jawed rats. They were everywhere, climbing the curtains, ropes, poles, and stage work. They snapped and clacked as they hopped along the floor, climbed up walls, and hung on the ceiling. The venue was covered with them. They bit and devoured everything they encountered: walls, bars, wood, steel scaffolding, and pipes. Suddenly the auditorium filled with dark, murky water. Instead of halting these grotesque clamping teeth, the water only fueled them, causing them to expand and increase in size and number. They developed deformed fish bodies with massively, over-sized, needle-sharp teeth. The auditorium also changed and was transformed into a beach and lake front. The large and slimy, piranha-like creatures were leaving the water and swarming the beach. They blanketed the bronzed and white skinned sunbathers and loungers in endless waves, biting and chewing off their flesh.
 

The two contestants, Obama and I, were watching these revolting scenes as if through a thick, bullet-proof glass. We saw what was happening, but were unable to do anything except stand and watch. I was secretly relieved at being isolated and safe, but confused that such an innocent game could turn into a horror movie reminiscent of Stephen King’s Langoliers.  Then the entire scene changed again. I was walking alone, along a long, dark corridor that was cave-like and claustrophobic. I was walking down the hallway of MASH Middle School, inspecting the fire and water damage from an act of school vandalism and arson. Smoke still hung in the air, and it clung to the cavernous walls and ceilings. I walked up to my office door and looked inside. I could hear the drip, drip, drip of water which sounded like the slow, chattering of teeth. Looking down I saw a slithering, silvery scaled fish on the ground. It was grinning at me, as it flopped about in its final death throes. That was the point I awoke from my dream.

Kathleen Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking,

The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.

The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,

Kathleen Mavourneen, what! Slumbering still?

Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?

Oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part?

It may be for years, and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?

It may be for years and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,

To think that from Erin and thee I must part!

It may be for years, and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?

It may be for years and it may be forever.

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

(Kathleen Mavourneen: Composed by Fredrick Crouch, with lyrics by Marion Crawford - 1837.) 
 

Mavourneen is a term of endearment

From the Irish-Gaelic mo mhuirnín,

Meaning, “My Beloved”.

The Merrian-Webster Dictionary defines an epiphany as “a sudden manifestation of perception of the essential nature or meaning of something; an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking; an illuminating discovery; a revealing scene or moment”. I never seriously considered this elaborate definition of the word until I read James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in college. Previously, epiphany was simply the Catholic Church’s celebration of the Feast of the Three Kings on January 6; the occasion when Jesus Christ was “revealed”, “manifested”, or “shown” as the Messiah to the Magi who traveled from the East. Joyce mixed the secular and religious aspects of the word into a series of spiritual revelations in the actions and thoughts of his protagonist, Stephen Dedalus. The novel is an odyssey of epiphanies, culminating in Stephen’s realization that he must flee Ireland to find freedom as an artist. We all experience these illuminating moments in our life; those instances of sudden clarity. However, it is rarely just ONE blinding gestalt moment; rather it is a Joycean sequence of small epiphanies leading to the final one. It’s something like the Telephone Game (see Telephone Game)  we played as children – only in reverse. In this game the first transmission is metaphorical and abstract; but with each successive exchange it becomes clearer and clearer, until, POW - we get the full message at the end. I experienced one of those epiphanies a few weeks ago, and it has inalterably changed my plans for retirement. It began on a holy day.
 

When I arrived at Mass on May 24th, I was surprised to discover that it was the Feast of the Ascension. Traditionally, this “religious holiday” occurred 40 days after Easter Sunday and always fell on a Thursday. When I mentioned this to my wife Kathy, she explained that because the observance had declined so much, the Bishop used the option of moving it to Sunday. As I sat reviewing the scripture selections (Acts 1: 1-11; Ephesians 4: 1-7, 11-17; and Mark 16: 15-20), I read that on this day Jesus commissioned the apostles to go and “proclaim the Good News to every creature”, and promised that they would soon receive the power of the Holy Spirit. Christ had spent the previous 40 days “speaking about the Kingdom of God”, which the disciples still confused with the restoration of the kingdom of Israel.
 

The sermon was a disappointment. Instead of exploring the heightened tensions and anxieties of this crossroads point of separation between Christ and his apostles, the priest went on a meandering monologue about the evangelical mission of the Church to convert other people. I lost interest and my gaze wandered from the faces and movements of the altar servers to the men and women sitting in the side pews. As I watched two restless brothers struggling over their mother’s sunglasses, I heard the priest say,

“Now some people say that the Kingdom of God is here…”

He kept talking, but I was caught in that moment on that one line. The throwaway sentence shook loose memories of an audio tape on which another priest described the Kingdom of God during a spiritual retreat. Father Anthony De Mello, SJ,  believed that “the good news” (the gospel) which Christ proclaimed was the revelation that the Kingdom of God WAS HERE, RIGHT NOW!
“Wake up, wake up!” De Mello imagined Jesus saying. “Open your eyes and ears to the wonder of God’s Kingdom before you. You are in it, if you have the eyes to see and the ears to hear”.
This might have been what Jesus had spent 40 days telling and showing his disciples – but they weren’t getting it. They still thought of the Kingdom as an empire, or a government, like Israel at the time of King David or King Solomon. Suddenly today’s readings made more sense. Christ was not leaving his disciples to test them, or to await reinforcements in the shape of the Holy Spirit; he was leaving because he had to. If he did not leave, they would never learn to SEE the Kingdom of God with their own eyes, and experience it for themselves. They had to grow up, experience enlightenment through the Holy Spirit, and see that the Kingdom of God was already here, in them and among them. More important, the gospel was asking us to identify with the disciples of the story. We were the ones who needed to wake up and see the spiritual Kingdom of God around us, and choose to live and be a part of it.
 

This epiphany was the kind of insight I experienced when I was struggling out of a long depression many years ago. In those dark days, I sought awareness and peace by jogging, exercising, attending mass, meditating, and journaling. Lately, I’d stopped many of these healthy practices. For the past five months I’d been plunged into an emotional maelstrom - obsessing, and then avoiding thoughts of the end of school, my retirement, my daughter’s wedding, and my trip to Morelia for my “sabbatical-retirement” (see Retirement Sabbatical). This gospel was like a wakeup call to open my eyes, pay attention, search for what was really important, and do something about it. Even though my retirement was fast approaching, the reality was still unreal. I’d invented the idea of a “retirement- sabbatical” three years ago as a target to aim for when retirement was an illusionary concept. It was no longer hazy, it was very real, and it was a WALL. My familiar and predictable world would suddenly end on June 30^th. As the priest concluded his sermon, I felt a greater affinity with the disciples who faced a more dramatic and catastrophic end to their world with the loss of the Messiah. Just as they would begin asking themselves, “What will we do? How can we go on without Him?” I was asking myself, what will I do after June 30^th? What will I do to replace the career and profession that has filled 35 years of my life? What new purpose or mission will direct my new life? The mission Christ gave his disciples was to spread the good news that the Kingdom of God Was Here. Could I share in this mission by learning how to see and participate in this spiritual kingdom? These questions were confusing me. Instead of tying myself up in mental knots over them, I decided to make a practical leap to some constructive actions.

As the priest prepared the altar for The Sacrifice of the Eucharist, I began to mentally plan my days after June 30, 2009. I slowly constructed a list of daily and weekly activities that would address mind, body, and spirit, and, hopefully, make me cognizant of the Kingdom of God:

1. Awaken at 6:45 A.M. to write Morning Pages
2. Go to 8:00 or 8:15 Mass at OLV or St. Bernadine’s.
3. Meditate after mass for 30 minutes.
4. Eat breakfast at home or coffee shop.
5. Write; Visit Ken or friends; house chores; adventures and explorations.
6. Read, read, read.
7. Jog, cycle, or walk.
8. Water the lawn.
9. Regular movie and discussion dates with retired friends.

I halted my “To Do” list as we rose for the Lord’s Prayer. I felt smugly confident that I had been receptive to the “epiphany moment” and molded it into practical applications. For the time being I was satisfied with my healthy Action Plan, and I shifted my attention to the remainder of mass. It wasn’t until evening that I experienced the real epiphany.
 

Instead of going to a movie that day, Kathy and I decided to use the Movies On Demand option of our cable service. We had previously tried to do this on Valentine’s Day. However, the cable company had been overwhelmed that day by the popular response to their $1.99 promotion. The movie we selected that day froze on the screen and we gave up the effort. As we reviewed the available cinema selections anew, I noticed that the movie was still listed.

“Hey” I exclaimed, “there’s Nights in Rodanthe! Why don’t we try that one again?”

“Are you sure?” Kathy asked back. “It’s a pretty sappy movie”.

“I won’t mind” I responded. “I expected a love story when we picked it on Valentine’s Day. I like the acting of Richard Gere and Diane Lane, and I’m curious to finally see what it’s about”.
 

We began watching the movie. As anticipated, it was an emotionally contrived love story between a tortured, widowed plastic surgeon, who was estranged from his son, and a beautiful mother of two children, separated from a husband who left her for another woman. Yet, despite its predictability (he’s the only patron at a seaside bed and breakfast which she is managing as a favor for a friend, just as a storm is about to strike and isolate them), the story had some powerful situations and emotional scenes. I even teared up a few times. However, once Gere and Lane fell in love, he left for South America to repair the relationship with his son, who was also a doctor. A string of letters maintained the lover’s connection, spliced with scenes of Lane ironing out her family difficulties and confessing to her best friend that this new love was the real thing. Even as the movie, accompanied by romantic music, built up to the climactic reunion between the two lovers, I detected the foreshadowing hints.

“Something bad is going to happen” I said to myself, making an effort not to blurt it out to Kathy, sitting nearby. I found myself willing the movie to end happily, and not try any realistic or tragic twists. Despite this mental effort, the dreaded scene occurred, and I silently shook my head thinking:

“Why would a man risk the vagaries of life and leave the woman he loves to seek answers to ephemeral questions about love, forgiveness, and redemption? Couldn’t these questions be answered at home?”
That's when I had my final epiphany.
 

Life is a risky and unpredictable existence; sad things happen all the time (See Beacons of Light)  Yet I was blissfully planning to travel and live away from Kathy, Prisa, Toñito, and the people I love, for three to four months in Morelia, Mexico (see Retirement Sabbatical)?  What was I thinking? I had once traveled this road before. In 1973, the year I first met Kathleen, my friend Greg and I traveled to Mexico City to attend Summer School classes at the National University of Mexico (Universidad Nacional de Mexico) for two months. It was the most miserable time of my life. I’ve reread my letters to Kathy during that period. None of the trials and tribulations I experienced in my life came close to the utter barrenness of my time away from the woman I fell in love with. At that time, I believed I was committed to a course of action that could not be side tracked because of an infatuation with a beautiful college graduate student I’d just met 3 months before. But now I was thinking of moving away from the center of my heart, the partner of our family, and the muse of my soul. I must have been crazy! Yeah, I think I was; it was a good crazy THREE YEARS AGO, but perhaps, not such a good idea NOW. The Meaning of Life, the Kingdom of God, or the Answer to Retirement was not to be found in Morelia. Seeking it there would be like imitating the travels of Larry Darrell, the hero in W. Somerset Maugham’s novel, The Razor’s Edge (“The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard” – The Katha-Upanishad). Darrell traveled the world seeking the “meaning of life”, only to find it temporarily in his love and caring for Sophie, an emotionally crippled and broken widow. The meaning of life is not found SOMEWHERE ELSE; one needs only but to turn around and open their eyes, because it is all around us. It finally occurred to me that these last three years must have been torture for Kathy, silently wondering and worrying if I was actually going through with my plan to live and study in Mexico for a semester. Yet she never argued, never nagged, and never whined about the foolishness of such a plan. She never challenged my dream or questioned the underlying logic to such a move: “Who or what was I fleeing from?” I know she prayed, and I think she believed me when I told her:

“Kathy, relax; a lot can happen in three years. Perhaps I’ll change my mind, or some other event will change it for me”.

She was as silent and prayerful as the original Kathleen Mavourneen of song. The Irish lass who was willing to allow her lover to emigrate to America in the 1800’s to find a better life. I decided Kathy’s prayers were answered on Ascension Sunday, with this epiphany a month before my retirement.
 

I told Kathy of this revelation the following day. I had toyed with the idea of waiting until our anniversary on August 2 to announce this change of plans; but despite the patience from 34 years of marriage and two children - I couldn’t keep back the good news. I don’t think I explained it to her as clinically and logically as I described it here. I doubt I mentioned Joyce or De Mello at all. I think I emphasized my bewilderment at having reached such a ridiculous decision against all the instincts of my heart. They finally won through.
 

Go deep, go deep,

Go deep inside and down.

Go visual and see

What images abound,

And pictures can be found.

Seeing in pictures,

Thinking in scenes, and

Living in images.

What would life be like

If it were made up

Of comic book scenes?

My life as a comic book;

A series of visual frames

Moving through time.

I will be a character

In my own graphic novel,

Living a storyboard life.

Living in pictures calls for

Speaking in song.

My life will be

A Broadway musical!

Breaking into song

At the sight of mountains,

I’d sing “Santa Lucia”

To the boys in the back seat

And make up the words

As we drove along.

Scenes and song is

Flor y canto.

Well, almost; but not exactly.

But it captures the spirit

Of retirement – jubilee!

Flor is flower and beauty;

Seeing in pictures and scenes.

Canto is song, music, poetry,

Words, voice, and hearing.

What strange words to materialize

While sitting in the Beverly Garland

During the very last meeting

Of this  professional career.

Surrounded by people

I soon won’t be.

There’s one principal I know,

And there are 45 more.

Glassy eyed zombies

In suits and ties,

Lost watching a PowerPoint desert

Of endless sand and dunes

Of graphs and script

They don’t hear the song

Or see the images

Of Flor y Canto.

Who is the man who led us at our schools?

Who is the man who can keep his cool?

Who is the man who’ll shave his head for you?

He’s Tony Delgado…. that is who!

Tony Delgado, Tony Delgado

He just might break a rule or two.

Tony Delgado, Tony Delgado

He might just put on a dress for you.

Tony is a man with lots of skills,

He’s a man who may not follow the drill.

He’ll get on stage and dance for you.

He’s Tony Delgado… that is who!

(Tony Delgado… That is Who! Written by Blue & Marty: 2009)

“No one can set sail and expect to forget the wind.

First you stand in the open air,

feel the wind touch your face,

and take note of its direction and force.

Then you set your sail to carry your boat toward your goal.

And you continue to recheck the wind

because it is ever changing.

We might wish we could nail down our achievements

when we finally reach them, stop the march of time,

or keep our loved ones safe where they are.

Just when we think we have everything together,

something changes.

Like a sailor, we must continuously fine-tune our life bearings.

Whether a change is welcome or not, we must respond.

Our main choice is not what will change,

but how we respond.

If we hold too tightly to willful thinking,

we are not attuned.

But if we make peace with change, we grow.

We will be transformed into more than we can ever imagine”.

(Quote from “Tony’s Retirement Blog” - May 30, 2009: Sue)

I attended my “Retirement Celebration” on Saturday, May 30, 2009. It was the culmination of 4 months of work by a dedicated and tireless committee that first met at the Odyssey Restaurant on February 5^th to plan and organize the event. The program was a perfect match of music, art, fine dining, and personal reflections by invited speakers; all guided by Marty, a friend and counselor at Shangri-la Middle School. After listening to a mixture of stories, memories, and anecdotes of my 32 years in the school district by friends and colleagues (David, a district director, Neal, principal of Hubble Middle School, Sue, retired assistant principal of Shangri-la Middle School, and Blue, a counselor at MASH Middle School), I spoke. Below is the speech I gave on that day:

“First of all, I want to thank the band. Nothing sets the tone and mood of a celebration better than live music from a great band, and Shades of Blue was excellent. Marty introduced me to the blues in 1995, and that’s the music that got me through the rough times that followed – especially with a beer or two.

I especially want to thank Kandy and the Retirement Committee for all their work and efforts – Kandy, Marty, Bluestone, Connie, Kevin, Blanca, Maria, Piedad, Leticia, and Jeannine.

I also want to thank my family for braving the rituals and ceremonies of a District retirement luncheon. These are “civilians” who are not prepared for the eccentricities and humor of educational personnel. They are my wife and children, Kathy, Tony, and Teresa, and their fiancés, Jonaya and Joe. My sisters Estela and Gracie. My Uncle Charlie, and his daughter Karla. My brother-in-law Doctor Greg . My sisters-in-law Beth, Tere, Meg, and her husband, Doctor Luis, Patti, and her husband Dick, and Dierdre (Tootie), and her husband John, and their daughter Maria.

I need to confess that I’ve come to despise making speeches. When speaking as THE principal, THE father, or THE eldest brother of the family, there is an assumption that I have something wise to say - I really don’t. As I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered that the less said the better. So, why am I speaking today? What is the purpose of this speech? Is it to thank, to reflect, to inform, to confess, or to ask forgiveness? I suppose I’d really like to tell you two stories:

I was drafted right after graduation from UCLA in 1970. I wasn’t really surprised – the Vietnam War was escalating at that time, and my lottery number wasn’t high enough to keep me out - once my college deferment expired. Suddenly my life froze in time, with few options open for me. The Peace Corp wouldn’t defer my induction; I didn’t want to get married or file as a Conscientious Objector; and I wasn’t interested in fleeing the country. I could go ahead with my induction for 2 years or I could enlist for 4. While standing naked in a long, uneven line of boys and young men at the Army Induction Center waiting for a rectal examination, I made up my mind to enlist. The chill of frigid, tile floors, the depressingly sterile walls, and the barking orders from army sergeants in campaign hats, convinced me that the infantry was not for me, and I joined the United States Air Force. A recently discharged veteran whom I worked with told me that basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, was simply a longer and louder version of high school football. He was right. The training and physical exercises weren’t hard; what proved difficult was the disorientation of a new locale, strange people, different rules, and loneliness. Most of the young airmen I met were just out of high school, and this was the first time they were away from home for an extended period of time. Six weeks in Texas seemed like an eternity in Purgatory. The situation became worse for me when I was chosen Flight Leader.
 

I was housed with a “flight” of 50 airmen from two states, California and Michigan. Our ages ranged from 17 to 23. I was a college grad and the oldest man in the company. I’m sure that was the reason our Training Instructor, a burly, African-American Tech sergeant, called me into his office during the first week of Basic to tell me that he wanted me to be Flight Leader. The promotion made me the ranking airman-in-charge. I would get a badge, lead marches, give orders, eat and sleep in segregated areas of the mess hall and barracks, and be responsible for 49 young men. At the time, I was young, arrogant, and convinced that as a college grad I could do anything. I was wrong. I knew I was in trouble when airman after airman came to me complaining, arguing, and asking for advice; and I couldn’t help. I felt as lost, unhappy, and homesick as they did, but I wore a badge that said I was in charge. I struggled through two weeks in this isolated position of leadership, becoming lonelier and lonelier. My only companions were other Flight Leaders who sat together in the Mess Hall, complaining of their men. They were all graduates of some type of JROTC (Junior Reserved Officer Training Course) programs in high school or college, and were pleased with their rank. I was miserable. After two weeks, I returned to the Tech Sergeant’s office and resigned. He accepted it without berating me, and I floated out of his office, unshackled by the chains of isolation, authority and responsibility. The final three weeks of Basic were dramatically different than the first. Other airmen suddenly talked with me, joked with me, and explored the mysteries of military life with me. I learned their stories, their fears, and their worries; and, remarkably, I was able to help. I helped them master the routines of barrack life; how to fold clothes, make beds, and study for tests. I was finally a member of the special brotherhood of soldiers who shared a unique military experience.
 

My father died later that year and I was discharged in December of 1971. My first civilian job was replacing a U.S. History teacher at St. Bernard High School who was going on maternity leave. Even though I had never taught before, I wasn’t intimidated at the prospect. I had experienced so many incredibly boring teachers in high school, that I was convinced I could do a better job. Also, being a teacher seemed more “professional” than returning to my college-years occupation as a silent burglar alarm technician. Working in a Catholic high school, with young, intelligent, and idealistic colleagues, felt safe and comfortable. I liked being a teacher and I enjoyed U.S. History. I stayed one or two chapters ahead of my students and never had a serious confrontation until covering the Stock Market Crash of 1929. I had one student in class, Paul Marchessini, who said very little, except for a caustic remark here and there that teetered between sarcasm and rudeness. While struggling one day with a student’s question about the stock market, Paul loudly proclaimed that my answer was wrong. There was instant silence in the classroom, as all heads turned to watch my reaction. It was a pivotal moment because Paul was challenging my knowledge in front of everyone, and only I knew that he was correct. Instead of admitting my inability to answer the question, I had guessed. I don’t know what guided me at that moment, but instead of feeling threatened or insulted by this teenager, I asked him, “Can you explain it?”

“Yes” he replied smugly, sitting back in his desk.

“Then come up here and explain it for us” I urged, offering him the chalk in my hand. He looked around for a moment, and then sheepishly came up to the front of the class. Paul took the proffered chalk, and did a great job. He clarified stocks, margins, and brokers, and their interconnectedness better than I ever could. That moment was illuminating for me on three levels: First, by giving Paul a chance to speak, he found his voice and became an active and constructive participant in all future class discussions; Second, it was foolish to bluff when I didn’t know the answer to a student’s question; and Third, there are always smarter and more experienced people, so it is better to have them working with me than against me.
 

Since graduating from college, I’ve been a teacher for 35 years, an administrator for 24 years, and a principal for 18 years. I’m struck by the irony of how I fled leadership as a young airman in Texas, but embraced it as a teacher and administrator in Los Angeles. Those years have been filled with moments of great happiness, high drama, and deep sorrows. The only constant joys have been the people I’ve worked with and grown to love in different schools and offices: the students, teachers, administrators, advisors, counselors, coordinators, deans, psychologists, clerks, custodians, cafeteria workers, aides, and assistants (yes, even some parents). I like to believe that I have learned many things from these people along the way, beginning with my Tech sergeant and Paul Marchessini. The most recent lesson was from the farewell mass of Father Alden Sison, when he left Our Lady of the Valley Church last year. He had been the pastor of our parish for 11 years and his last homily was very powerful and insightful. It occurred to me, as I listened to him, that WHO I BELIEVE I AM as a person, a father, a teacher, and a principal, is not always WHAT I DO in these roles. That despite my best intentions and highest hopes, WHAT I SAY, WHAT I DO, or WHAT I FAIL TO DO OR SAY, can have very negative effects on the lives and relations of the people I work with, and am responsible for. I promised myself that if I ever had the chance, I would practice what Father Alden modeled that evening. Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to ASK THREE THINGS OF YOU.
 

1. For the actions I’ve taken, and the decisions I’ve made in my career, which frustrated, hurt, or disappointed you, I ask your forgiveness.
2. For things I’ve said, and the words I’ve chosen, when explaining, directing, and speaking, which angered, offended, or embarrassed you, I ask your forgiveness.
3. For not listening, not understanding, or not seeing correctly, and failing to act or speak when I should have, I ask your forgiveness.

GOODBYE:

So let me conclude with the question I asked at the beginning. Why am I speaking today? Honestly, it is to thank you: THANK YOU for coming today; THANK YOU for putting up with me through the years, and THANK YOU for being a part of a family and a school community that has supported one another through joys, trials, and emergencies. YOU were the job I had, and YOU made it work WITH ME. I am humbled and appreciative for your presence here today. Thank you and goodbye.
 

I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone.

I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone.

At night I could hear the blood in my veins;

Black and whispering as the rain.

On the streets of Philadelphia.

Ain’t no angel gonna greet me;

It’s just you and I my friend.

My clothes don’t fit me no more.

I walked a thousand miles

Just to slip this skin.

The night has fallen, and I’m lying awake.

I can feel myself fading away.

So receive me brother with your faithless kiss,

Or will we leave each other alone like this

On the streets of Philadelphia.

(Streets of Philadelphia, Bruce Springsteen: 1993)

Captain Jean Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise was just about to lash out at the time-traveling Q of the Continuum for causing the death of his crew when the phone rang. I ignored the annoying chimes until Kathy called out from the kitchen.

“Tony, can you get that please. My hands are wet”.

I shot a glance across the sofa at Toñito totally engrossed, watching the Star Trek: the Next Generation episode titled “All Good Things…”, and reconsidered passing the telephone buck to him.

“All right” I said, grudgingly, “I’ll get it.” I walked angrily into the study and picked up the receiver on the desk, next to the computer. “Hello?” I said, trying not to sound irritated at this interruption of the final episode of the series.

“Hello” said an unfamiliar male voice. “May I speak with Tony, the hospice volunteer, please?”

“This is Tony, speaking” I replied. “How can I help you?” I was mystified by the call. My only hospice contact was Jan, the program coordinator. No one else in the program ever called me, and few people knew of my involvement.

“Hi Tony” the stranger said. “You may not remember me. My name is Robert and I’m a friend of Sam and Ruth. I met you once when I visited Sam in the hospice. Ruth asked me to call you”.

“Okay” I said, still puzzled about the nature of this call, and how he had managed to reach me.

“We called Jan at Kaiser and she gave us your number. She said it would be alright to reach you at home. I hope I’m not calling you at a bad time, but Ruth insisted. She wanted to thank you for your kindness in visiting Sam these last five months. She saw you there yesterday, and she wanted you to know that Sam died this afternoon”.

“Oh” I said, stunned into silence. Robert matched my numbed response with a longer pause. I finally broke the stalemate by saying “I’m sorry to hear that”.

“Ruth told us how much your visits meant to her and Sam. She wanted you to know as soon as possible”.

“Thank you, it was nothing” I replied dumbly, realizing too late how stupid it sounded. “It was kind of you to call” I added quickly, rattling my head side-to-side to become more lucid and alert. “How is Ruth doing?”

“As well as can be expected; she was with him at the end, and he went peacefully”.

“I never suspected it was so close” I muttered, remembering how peacefully Sam was resting in bed during my visit. He had reached out to take hold of my hand as I adjusted his blanket, and I held him that way until Ruth entered the room to relieve me. I’d been embarrassed at first by her discovery of this physical contact, but she only smiled at me and told me she could take it from here. There had been no hint that he would die so quickly. There was nothing more to say, so I didn’t try. I simply waited for Robert to speak again.

“Well, Tony, I just want to add how much I admire the work you’re doing. Thank you”.

“You’re welcome” I said, stumbling to recall his name. “Thank you for calling”. I remained seated in the desk chair for uncounted moments after I replaced the receiver, not sure what I was feeling after this news. I finally stood up and returned to my place on the sofa. A commercial was on the screen and Toñito was looking at a magazine. “So Toñito” I said, desperately wishing I knew what to do or feel, “what did I miss?”
 

It all started on another evening in front of the television set. We were watching the 66^th Academy Awards Ceremony on March 21, 1994. Participation in the Oscars was a family ritual in those days when Toñito was a sophmore and an aspiring high school actor, and Prisa was a mercurial 8^th grader who, while disdaining Toñito’s involvement in drama, was nevertheless a passionate movie and television fan. Kathy and I tried catching as many of the nominated films as possible, and we enjoyed handicapping their chances of winning. 1993-94 was a mixed bag for movies, with popular contenders alongside heralded independents. That year we all had different favorites. I’d been deeply moved by the movie, Philadelphia, and listening to Bruce Springsteen performing the nominated song during the ceremonies confirmed my choice. I held my breath as the list of nominees for Best Actor was read. They were Liam Neeson for Schindler’s List, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, Laurence Fishburne in What’s Love Got to Do with It, Daniel Day Lewis for In the Name of the Father, and Anthony Hopkins in The Remains of the Day. I whooped and cheered when Tom Hanks’ name was announced as the winner. He bounded up the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion to receive his award. What he said next stunned me. I’d expected the traditional litany of thanks to cast and crew, sprinkled with some humorous anecdotes. I was not prepared to hear a testimonial to teachers and friends, a requiem on AIDS and its devastation, and an appeal for tolerance and compassion (Tom Hanks’ Acceptance Speech at the 66^st Academy Awards Ceremony).  Hanks thanked two people who inspired him in high school, his drama teacher and a friend, who were both gay. He also looked to a time when we could openly acknowledge people for what they do, and not their sexuality. His speech acted as an off-shore drilling rig in my mind, diving through the past years of my life and then boring into the hard crust of my memory. His words finally struck a hidden reservoir of shame. The movie, the song, and Tom Hanks’ speech unleashed a series of images in my head. I thought of the faces of gay colleagues, teachers and counselors who had died of AIDS, and I thought of Wayne, a dear high school and college friend, with whom I’d lost contact after my marriage in 1975.
 

Until the 1990’s the teaching profession maintained a polite code regarding homosexuality. It wasn’t as simplistic as the military’s “Don’t ask; don’t tell” policy. Teachers held to a more “civilized” and genteel standard that found expression in the Seinfeld remark, “I’m not gay; not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Educators maintained the polite illusion that our profession was solidly heterosexual, but sprinkled with a few “confirmed bachelors” and “single working women”. The onset of a mysterious sexually transmitted disease (at least at first) in the late 80’s ripped the cover off that fanciful myth. Friends and colleagues, who I worked with, suffered and celebrated with, were dying. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS) was the insidious scourge of the decade because it killed secretly and silently. Friends and colleagues would become weak, ill and then disappear from offices, schools, and life. Eventually I would ask a mutual friend, “I haven’t seen Vern in a long time! Where is he working now?” I would receive an awkward reply after a long pause, “Oh, didn’t you know, he died.., of pneumonia, I believe.” It seemed that impaired immune systems were most susceptible to pneumonia. Hearing Tom Hanks’ words, made me think of AIDS patients as “los desaparecidos”, the “vanished ones” who developed AIDS and disappeared from jobs, schools, and offices. I had allowed too many of my friends to pass away without DOING ANYTHING. I never recognized them as gay, I never visited them, and I never attended their funerals. Thinking of so many vanished teachers and counselors brought slow tears of sadness and regret. Then I thought of Wayne.
 

Wayne was my crossroads friend in high school and college. Before meeting Wayne, friendships were seasonal. The “best friends” I had in 8^th grade were different from my best friends in each successive grade. That changed with Wayne. He became a soul-mate who refined friendship into an honest and expanding relationship. Wayne and I first met in our sophomore year as political outcasts on the school’s running track taking laps for Barry Goldwater. We were the only students foolish enough to raise our hands in support of the conservative Republican nominee for president in 1963. Our youthful libertarianism and self-inflated intellects united us, and we maintained a casual acquaintance until our senior year. That year Wayne asked me to join him as editor of the school newspaper, The Viking. The time we spent writing, editing, and publishing the school newspaper in the Viking Office was the beginning of a six-year collaboration.

That year, our fellowship grew to include two additional classmates, Jim, Greg, and eventually John, Jim’s younger sibling (See Sons of Pioneertown). It was a brotherhood forged at a crucial time. All four of us were leaving high school and we were scared and uncertain. Wayne, however, seemed more self-assured, with a clearer sense of direction. Wayne was the pathfinder of the group, with a plan for college and life. He would go to Loyola University, live away from home, and join a fraternity. We, on the other hand, struggled to get by. I lived at home and went to UCLA; Jim and Greg attended Santa Monica College. Wayne was also the troubadour who ignited our wanderlust for freedom and adventure by convincing us that as young, independent college men, all we needed was a map, a Volkswagen bus, and sleeping bags. During our college years we traveled through central California, exploring Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Big Sur and Monterey. Independence was a necessity for Wayne. After one year in the dorms, he and a frat brother moved into an apartment near school, but he eventually settled in a bachelor pad in Hermosa Beach in his junior year. He had girl friends in high school and dated often, but he became mysterious about his emotional involvements in college. He finally admitted to living with a girl for a short time, but I never met her. Ultimately, John (who had returned from two tours in Vietnam) took over the single flat, and Wayne, Jim, and Greg all moved into a nearby apartment on Monterey Boulevard.
 

A migration of sorts occurred after Wayne and I graduated from college in 1970. John and Greg moved to Long Beach, Jim to Cerritos, and Wayne to Venice. We occasionally got together for card games and trips, but I felt that a major realignment in grouping and affections was taking place. Wayne never joined us for Saturday morning games of football, basketball, and baseball, and it became harder and harder to schedule and include him in other activities. We could not account for his growing indifference to “hanging out”. We decided that he must have gotten involved with drugs, and the three of us organized an intervention to confront him. Throughout dinner that night he listened patiently to our observations, and smiled benignly at our conclusions. When we finished our testimony he told us not to worry, because he was not addicted to anything. In fact, he announced, he was free of the sexual repressions that had plagued him. He told us that he was gay. I pretended to take this revelation in stride, but I was secretly shocked and dismayed. I didn’t know what “being gay” meant, and I didn’t feel capable of discussing it with Wayne, or my friends. I did mention it to my father; but he turned my question around and asked what could I do about it? I wanted to believe that Wayne was on another temporary trailblazing course. Just as he was the first to leave home and live alone, travel around the state, and co-habit with a girl, I saw homosexuality as another “first”. Being gay carried an avant-garde mystique; it was hip, cool, “in”- and Wayne was always trying to be all three. Ultimately, I did nothing. In the months that followed our needless intervention, the separation from Wayne grew wider. I enlisted in the Air Force, Greg moved to Riverside to finish college, and Jim and John left school to work full time for a burglar alarm company. We lost track of Wayne until Greg rediscovered him in the spring of 1975 operating an antique shop on Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, California.

Our reaction to finding Wayne was like recovering the Prodigal Son, we rejoiced and celebrated. He looked strong, healthy and tanned. He had been living in San Francisco but decided it was time for him and his partner to come home. He seemed especially eager to learn what we had been doing. Greg was teaching at a Catholic elementary school, and John was a paramedic for the Los Angeles Fire Department. Jim had stayed at the burglar alarm company and was now a supervisor and I had finished my graduate work at UCLA and was getting married in August. Wayne took the initiative in arranging a reunion dinner at his home behind the store. There we met his partner Kevin, a slim, sandy-haired young man who seemed smart, practical, and very handy at plumbing and construction. I believed that I had come to terms with Wayne’s homosexuality and was accepting of Kevin. The moment of truth came when Kathy and I were addressing wedding invitations and she asked me, “Should I write ‘Wayne and guest’; or just Wayne on the envelope?”

“Are you kidding” I exclaimed indignantly. “Why should we invite Kevin to our wedding? He’s Wayne’s friend not mine.”

Kathy looked at me oddly and remarked, “You don’t think it’s strange that all your high school friends are in the wedding party, but you’re not inviting Wayne’s partner?”

“No” I lied. In those early days, I was still immune to my wife’s reasoning and intuition. Her question annoyed me exactly because I did not want to consider that I was wrong.

“Alright” Kathy said in resignation, “he’s your friend, so it’s your decision; but it’s wrong”.

Wayne did not attend my wedding, and soon after his antique shop had a new name and owner. I never saw him again.
 

On Oscar night I cried when Tom Hanks spoke. I cried for the thousands and thousands of men and women who had died in this plague, and for the sufferings they sustained in loneliness and isolation. I especially thought of Wayne and the teachers and counselors I knew who had simply disappeared during this time. At that moment I knew I had to DO SOMETHING. If it was too late to reach out and help those who were gone, I needed to do something for the living. I needed to help people, not mourn the vanished and the dead. That was my first step to the Hospice Program.

I parked around the corner from Saticoy Convalescence, a nursing and rehabilitation center. Locking the car, I was feeling strong and optimistic. I had spent 3 months completing the hospice training with Jan and a group of eleven volunteers. The sessions had not been particularly difficult, and they were a great distraction from my work as a principal. I silently reviewed the lessons and Jan’s advice: "be friendly and open, but most of all be honest". I attached my Hospice clip-on badge, with its photo ID, and walked through the door. “Hi” I said confidently, to the short, dark complexioned nurse at the desk. “I’m a hospice volunteer to see Sam Goldberg. Can you help me find him?”

“Oh hello” she responded, looking at my badge and then my face. “Happy to meet you; Sam is one of our nicest patients. He just had lunch. I’ll take you to his room.”

We walked into the semi-lit room to find a little man sitting in a chair by the window.

“Sam” the nurse said, walking to the bed and straightening the covers. “You have a guest”.

“Hello, Sam” I said, extending my hand as I walked toward him. “My name is Tony, and I’m a volunteer in the Kaiser Hospice program. I was asked to come by and see if it was all right for me to visit you?”

Sam jumped out of the chair and shook my hand energetically. He was a small man, frail and skinny, with wispy grey hair combed neatly to the side. The bathrobe he wore seemed to swallow him up in it folds, but he stood ramrod straight as he spoke.

“I’m pleased to meet ya” he said, in a mild New York accent, with a touch of cockney. “My name is Samuel Goldberg. Would you like to hear my story?”

“Why yes” I replied, surprised at the sudden invitation. I’d expected more polite preliminaries before asking questions, but Sam was getting right to business. “I’d be happy to hear your story”.

Sam pointed to a chair and I sat down, looking in wonder at this little man who loomed above me. He stood at rigid attention, as if preparing to salute before giving a report to his commanding officer. Keeping his head straight and eyes forward, Sam cleared his throat and began speaking:

“I was born in Liverpool in 1921. My parents emigrated there from Poland. My father worked as a tailor and my mother was a seamstress. I was an average student, but as soon as I was old enough I left home and went to sea. My parents wanted me to stay in school and become a teacher or a rabbi, but I wanted to get out and see the world. I wanted to explore the cities I’d read about in books. It wasn’t easy being Jewish in the British Merchant Marine in those days, but I was a tough sailor and not afraid to use my fists. I never told my father about those fights. He believed that Great Britain was a great country and all its citizens sweet and accepting. They were certainly better than the Poles and Russian he knew as a child, but they weren’t perfect. He never had a high opinion of the Merchant Marine. He called us sea gypsies until the war started, and then we became heroes. It was at the start of the war that I met Ruth and fell in love”.
 

I sat transfixed. Jan had told us how many hospice patients felt compelled to “tell their story”, but I hadn’t expected such a sudden and deliberate recitation. With glazed eyes looking over my head, Sam went on as if I weren’t there. I learned how Ruth, the shy and lovely rabbis daughter was attracted to the humorous and cocky seaman, who told exciting stories of the North Atlantic. They married and he insisted that she move in with relatives in the country whenever he was at sea. They survived the war only to discover that most of their relatives in Poland died in the concentration camps. Ruth’s father was able to assist their move to America after the war, and he helped Sam find a position with a commercial shipper in New York. Sam said he was sick of the Old World, with its deep-seated prejudices and hate, and wanted a new life. America seemed to offer true opportunities. They continued heading West, finally making their way to California. He worked in San Francisco and Los Angeles, until retiring seven years before. They never had children, but maintained many friends, acquaintances, and a few relatives who had immigrated to Beverly Hills. He still loved the sea, and they took yearly cruises to old and new ports-of-call. After a trip to Cancun, he was diagnosed with a terminal case of prostate cancer. He said he was happy with his life and not afraid to die. His only regret was leaving Ruth alone. They had been married 54 years.

“I’m feeling a little tired now” he concluded. “I think I’ll get into bed”.

“Uhhh, would you like me to leave?” I asked.

“No, no”, he replied, “don’t go yet. Stay and visit”.
 

That was how I met Sam. Over a period of 5 months, from December to April, I visited him twice a week, for 10 to 30 minutes at a time. I would sit, talk, or read. I kept him company until Ruth or another friend came to take my place. A few days after his death, I received a phone call from Ruth. She apologized for not informing me of the funeral, but said that Sam had wanted a private service. However, she insisted that I accept her invitation for dinner. She politely dismissed all my excuses, saying it was important for her that I come. I finally relented. On the evening of the dinner, I took my son and daughter for companionship and security. I was very nervous because I had never attended a Jewish “Shiva”, a meal and gathering during the seven-day mourning period after burial. Robert was there with his wife, along with another couple. Ruth was delighted that my children had come, and she spent much of the time quizzing them about school and their outside interests. I had expected to witness some ritual or ceremony, but the evening consisted of talk, memories of Sam, laughter, and lots of food. The guests were especially curious of the Hospice Volunteer Program, and peppered me with questions about it. Later, as we prepared to leave, Ruth made a point of taking me aside for a private conversation. She explained that the Jewish funerary tradition consisted of nine stages; beginning with Mitzvot of Bikur Cholim, the “mitzvah” (act of kindness) of visiting the sick, and ending with Shiva and Yahrzeit, the “mitzvot” (acts) of comforting the mourners and remembering the dead. She said I had been a special and unexpected gift in their lives. I was the stranger who had chosen to visit Sam out of kindness, and became the comforting friend who honored his memory after death. She kissed me and thanked me.
 

“My son, you are here with me always;

Everything I have is yours.

But now we must celebrate and rejoice,

Because your brother was dead

And has come to life again;

He was lost and has been found”.

(Parable of the Prodigal Son: Luke 15: 31-32)

“Stel, who’s that buff guy wearing the blue shirt?” I asked my sister, Estela, nodding toward the back of the dining room.

“I’m not sure” she said, following my glance to observe a tall, strongly built man in a bright blue shirt and white Bermuda shorts. There was something oddly familiar about him, but I couldn’t tell what it was, or who he was. He had arrived with many loud greetings from some of my younger cousins and their spouses.

“Is he someone’s husband?” I pressed, hoping to jar her memory.

“I don’t have a clue” she concluded, with a hint of irritation at my persistence. I gave up for the moment, certain that the identity of the mystery man would be revealed in the course of the luncheon.
 

My sisters, Stela and Gracie, and I were at the Almansor Country Club to bid farewell to our youngest aunt Espee (Esperanza) and her husband Larry. They were a retired couple who had finally sold their home in Huntington Beach and were moving to Tennessee to be near their daughter and her family. Actually, Espee’s original idea was to have the farewell party at her house; but the venue had been changed to accommodate her older siblings (my aunts and uncles) who lived closer to the San Gabriel Valley. The occasion had also been hijacked to celebrate the 66^th birthday of my uncle Charlie. This mixing of intentions momentarily refracted the reason for the party, but it soon refocused on a single theme – reunion. The sparks generated by the joyous surprise of seeing long absent cousins, aunts, and uncles lit up the dining hall; and the pounding energy of Mexican-style saludos y abrazos (hugs and greetings) filled the room with raucous gaiety. I was struck by how much I’d missed these long lost relatives.

Over the last 25 years I had grown more and more estranged from my father’s Mexican-American family. I was out of town for the funeral of my uncle Tarsicio in 2007 (see Weddings and Funerals); and the last time I attended a large scale family gathering was an “official” reunion picnic in 2001. The death of my father in 1971 was the first tear in the family fabric that bound me to my grandparents and their offspring (my aunts and uncles). By the time abuelito and abuelita died in the 1980’s, only the narrowest threads of communication still linked us. In the early days of our marriage, Kathy would ask me if I wished to include my uncles, aunts, and cousins to birthdays and seasonal celebrations. She would give me a look of incomprehension when I mumbled that it was too much trouble to call and track them down. I suspected that my ambivalence bewildered her, since she did not have any extended family living nearby. Her father was an only child with no siblings, and her mother’s family all lived in Connecticut. She finally gave up asking me. Privately, I sometimes wondered what became of the uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom I was so tightly bound at one time.
 

During the first hour of our arrival at Almansor, I circumnavigated the elongated dining room twice; greeting, reminiscing, and photographing my aunts, uncles, and a few of the most familiar cousins. Except for Victor, who was ill, all nine of my father’s surviving siblings were present that day. Gracie, Stela, and I sat at a table with our cradle cousin, Tessie (Teresa, the oldest daughter of Fausto and Jovita), and her husband, Danny. Once the salads were served at the table, the blue shirted stranger reappeared and pointed at an empty seat next to me.

“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked.

“No” we replied in unison.

“Great” he said, “I’ll be right back”.

“Who is that guy?” I asked in loud exasperation. This time I looked toward Tessie for assistance.

“That’s Raul!” she said, in shocked surprise at my ignorance.

“You mean Tooteez!” I cried, pronouncing his childhood nickname (2T’s).

“Yes” she repeated. “That’s Lupe’s son, Raul”.

At that moment he returned holding a salad plate and silverware in one hand, and a glass of tea in the other. Next to him came an attractive, blonde haired, lady in a suit skirt and blouse.

“Jan” he said, nodding towards us with his chin, “these are my oldest cousins”. We each quickly volunteered our names, thereby avoiding the embarrassing pauses which sometimes occur when introducing people you haven’t seen in a long time. He directed Jan to the empty seat at my left, and made himself a new place at the table. As he searched for an extra chair, I spoke with her.

“I’m Tony, the oldest of Raul’s cousins. My father was the eldest son of the family”.

“Don’t believe anything he says, Jan” Raul interrupted, returning to the table. “We called him Toñito, and he completely ignored me as a child. He’d have nothing to do with me whenever he came to the house to visit”.

I was going to protest, moving in synch with the playful banter that Raul was establishing, but stopped myself. There was much truth in what he was saying. Was he making a point, or just fooling around?

“Yeah, I have to admit, that’s true” I said, deciding to be candid. “You were the last cousin of our generational group; but you were the baby. I preferred hanging out with the older cousins, Tessie, Louie, and Stevie, and with Espee and Charlie”.

“Yeah, but Tooteez was everyone’s favorite”, chimed in Tessie, “especially Papi Chucho’s. He would take him everywhere!”

“Yeah” sighed Raul; “I remember that. Papi Chucho would spend so much time with me. I have lots of fond memories of him; going on walks, playing with him, and listening to his stories. He really loved me”.

Stela, Gracie, and I looked at each other across the table in shocked amazement at this news. Was Tooteez describing the same grouchy and irritable grandfather we knew as children?

“The only memories I have of Abuelito are of his yelling at me to get out of his study or workroom” I said. “I was afraid of him”.

“Yeah, me too” muttered Stela. “He was never very nice to us”.

“I can’t believe that” Raul said, shaking his head. “He was always gentle and kind”.

“With me too” added Tessie.

“Well, obviously we all have different memories about some people” I said, deciding to change the subject to more relevant matters. “I will admit another thing, though. I was always envious of you because you played the piano and you left home to go to college.”

“You’re kidding, you were envious of me?” Raul said, pausing from his salad to sit back and study me.

“Yeah I was. You had talent that I didn’t. Charlie never taught me to play the piano, but he taught you. You also left home to go to college; that was unheard of in our family. Sure, my brothers and sisters and I all went to UCLA and Loyola, but we lived at home. You were the first cousin to be truly independent. You were the first to make the big break. That was a big deal to me”.

”You see, Jan” Raul said lightheartedly, after weighing my confession, “I told you you’d love these cousins. They have good taste, they recognize my talents, and they’re really smart”. We all laughed and the people at the table spent the next hour chatting. I was very interested in filling in the informational gaps I had with Tooteez. I’d lost touch with him after he left home, and I was curious to discover what had happened since.
 

In talking and listening to Raul in the course of our meal, I was struck by 3 things; his sense of humor, the separation of our families from our parent’s East Los Angeles roots, and his writing. He told stories of his parents, siblings and family in a candid and humorous fashion. His comic style was very similar to the sardonic and self-deprecating manner that my wife Kathy, and her Irish-American brothers and sisters use. I believed it was a humorous way of exorcising painful aspects of growing up and family dynamics. There was also the parallel manner in which our family had become estranged from our parent’s family, history, and culture. We had little contact with our uncles, aunts, and cousins; and our children (Raul had three and I two) were largely unaware of our relatives, their East Los Angeles roots, and Chicano traditions. The third item was the trajectory of our careers and our common interest in writing. We attended college, served in the armed forces, and chose careers which led to administrative positions. Raul attended the California State University at Humboldt (Humboldt State), enlisted in the United States Coast Guard, and in 1980, joined the Seattle Fire Department. Over the course of 28 years, he promoted through the ranks, eventually becoming Captain of a Fire Company and a professional instructor and lecturer. His publishing credits were impressive. I had assumed that I was the only writer in the family, but it was satisfying to find a relative who shared my passion. Raul had published many stories and articles in a variety of professional journals and online websites, and now he was thinking of a book.
 

Singing Happy Birthday and cutting the cake for Charlie served as a natural transition from lunch. I visited a few more tables and then settled down to chat with Charlie, Espee, her husband Larry, and Liza. I’d brought along an old photo to show, and Charlie recognized it as a trip with my Dad and Mom to Mount Wilson. He recalled it as a spontaneous decision to see the snow with his young family. Because my dad forgot to bring tire chains, we only went as far as the snow line. There we piled out of the car to ride the toboggan we had carried on top of the car. The photograph was the only trace of the adventure. I asked my aunts and uncle to help me restage the photo. Joking and laughing, we lined up the chairs and arranged ourselves in the same order as that wintry day in the 1950’s. These were my earliest friends, teachers, and models (see Nacimiento Stories). I felt a twinge of nostalgia for those faraway days and the wonder of seeing snow for the first time. Tooteez volunteered to take the picture, and he shushed us into silence so he could direct. Eventually he managed to pose us for three shots. We knew it was a worthwhile effort when Tooteez cried “Great!”
 

Later, as I left the banquet hall, I mentally reviewed the names of my 14 aunts and uncles, from oldest to youngest. One day I plan to fill out the rest of their family information: dates of birth, spouses, and children. Until then, consider this my first installment of our family history.

1. Antonio Jose: Tony. My dad died in 1971.
2. Alberto: Albert. Died in France in 1944.
3. Manuel (No nickname?). Died in France in 1944.
4. Victor: Vic.
5. Maria Guadalupe: Lupe, Lulu.
6. Tarsicio: Tarsi (Tarzee). Died in 2007.
7. Enrique: Quiqiu (Keekee), Hank, Henry.
8. Jovita: Jay-jay.
9. Helen.
10. Ricardo: Kado (Kaydoe).
11. Ana Maria:Tillie.
12. Elisa: Liza, Lisa.
13. Carlos: Charlie, Chuck.
14. Esperanza: Espi (Espee).

When the night has come

And the land is dark

And the moon is the only light we’ll see

No I won’t be afraid; no I won’t be afraid.

Just as long as you stand, stand by me.

(Stand by Me: Ben E. King)

“Mr. Delgado”, Magda interrupted, peeking into my office from the side door. “Mrs. Spenser is on the phone. Would you like to speak with her?”

“Absolutely”, I replied, looking up from my desk. I was relieved by the prospect of finally getting some information about Peter Spenser, an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher who had been absent for three weeks. I’d spoken with his wife the day after his sudden departure from school, and then a week later. On the first occasion she told me that Peter had gone to the doctor complaining of heart palpations, shortness of breath, and fears of a coronary. The medical examination did not reveal any cardiac anomalies, but the doctor recommended further testing and home rest as a precaution. She called the second time to report that the doctor had eliminated all medical problems, and introduced the likelihood that Peter was experiencing stress related symptoms. I had received no further news. My desk phone rang and I picked up the receiver.

“Hi Mrs. Spenser, how is Peter doing?”

“He is much better, thank you” she replied. “He is feeling so well that he’s become quite a nuisance around the house. He is constantly getting in my way, looking for things to do, and trying to keep busy. The doctors have cleared him to return to work, but he is still unsure. He wants to discuss his options with you. He’s mentioned a Leave of some kind, but he needs to talk to you”.

“What did the doctor say, Mrs. Spenser?” I asked, trying to understand what she was telling me. “Is he cleared to come back to work, or not?”

“That’s the problem” she explained. “The doctor says there is no medical reason preventing him from working, but Peter doesn’t think he’s ready. If you ask me, Mr. Delgado, I think his condition is psychosomatic. Peter is something of a hypochondriac, and his palpitations really scared him. Maybe you can talk him into going back to work”.

“When can he come in to speak with me?” I asked, sensing that Peter’s wife had just passed her suspicions and worries onto me.

“Tomorrow, if possible” she replied quickly.

“Sure, tomorrow is fine” I said. “If he can come by at 1 o’clock, after lunch, we can talk”.

“Okay, then it’s set” she said, sounding relieved. “We’ll be there. Thank you, Mr. Delgado, I’m sure you will be able to help”.

I wasn’t so confident. The whole situation sounded bizarre. Peter’s sudden disappearance from school and his subsequent telephone calls to teachers and staff members about his symptoms had sent shock waves of worry and apprehension throughout the school. Teachers had gone to visit him, and students had sent him handmade Get Well cards. Now his wife was admitting that there was nothing physically wrong with him; but he was still not planning on returning to work. This was strange; but then again, Peter was unusual. Although he was a competent teacher, he was also something of a Prima Dona, with exaggerated mannerisms and an overblown estimation of his own importance and abilities. He had come to Shangri-la Middle School hoping to launch a new career as an English teacher, after working as church pastor and dabbling in amateur musical theatre productions. On many occasions, while in the Main Office, or at faculty meetings, he would stand up on a chair and perform a Broadway musical song, giving us a rousing rendition of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”, or “To Dream the Impossible Dream”. While never being as exceptional a teacher as he believed himself, he was an amusing eccentric. I definitely needed some advice on how to proceed, and a plan of action before speaking with him the following day. I called my two assistant principals and asked them to join me in my office for a quick meeting on this matter.
 

Sue and Kandy were my most experienced and valued administrators (see The Telephone Game). Kandy was the Head Counselor of the school and Sue was the second-in-command, the Acting Principal whenever I was absent or unavailable. I had come to depend on them for superior analysis of every difficult question or issue I faced. They presented refreshingly different points of view on almost every topic; and when they agreed on something, I became wary and suspicious (were they manipulating me in some way?). I depended on the fact that they could dissect a problem from every perspective and make my options clear, if not inevitable. I jokingly said that they represented the left-side and the right-side of my brain. When discussing Peter Spenser, they helped me anticipate the questions I needed to ask and the facts I needed to learn. Since Kandy was my personnel specialist, ESL Department administrator, and Head Counselor, we also decided that she should join me in the meeting. The conference went something like this:

“Hi Peter” I said, opening the door adjacent to the Main Office counter from my office. “Come on in. Ms. Woodmount and I are really happy to see you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling much better, thanks” he replied, stepping in to vigorously shake my hand. “It’s great being back. Everyone was so nice and welcoming when they saw me. I didn’t realize how much I missed them”.

Peter was a short, stout, middle-aged man, who always emanated energy and enthusiasm. He had a wide smiling face and sparkling brown eyes. He parted his light auburn hair on the left side, forming a thick, curling wave that washed over his head.

“Everyone has been really worried and concerned about you” Kandy chimed in, sweetly, hoping to put him quickly at ease. “The kids in your classes really miss you, and they’re hoping you come back soon”.

“So tell us Peter”, I said, getting down to business, “when do you think you can return to work? We have an adequate substitute teacher with your students, but your absence is starting to take its toll on their learning and achievement”.

“Well that’s the problem, Tony. You see I don’t think I’m ready to return. This has been a really tough school year. The kids who were programmed into my classes this year are unmotivated and disinterested. There are some especially troublesome students who should be in the Special Education program. They make it impossible for me to teach, and for other students to learn. It’s frustrating. You know how much I demand of myself and my students. I strive for excellence in my classes at all times. This semester has been a huge challenge, and I haven’t gotten much help or support”.

I could see Kandy squirming in her chair, struggling not to reply. She wanted to vigorously rebut this criticism of the ESL and Special Education departments and her programming of students, but we had agreed beforehand not to engage or debate him. We needed to know what Peter’s situation was and what he wanted to do.

“So” I interrupted, “is the doctor prohibiting you from working, or has he identified any work accommodations we can make for you at school?”

“No” he replied, impatiently. “The doctor hasn’t been at all cooperative. I don’t think he understands how difficult my job is and how teaching can affect one’s health”.

“So” I restated, patiently, “your doctor told you that you were fit to return to work?”

“Yes, but I disagree” he stated, plainly agitated. “I’m thinking of seeking a second opinion”.

“Peter” Kandy said soothingly, “your health is our main concern. We certainly don’t want you coming back to work if you’re not ready. But tell me, how many sick days do you have left, and can you afford living on only one income?”

“Well, that’s another problem” he admitted, grudgingly, changing positions in his chair. “I’m out of sick days, and we can’t live on my wife’s salary”.

“Okay, Peter” I said patiently, struggling to hide my irritation. I wanted to sound as caring and solicitous as Kandy. “Let me see if I understand you. You have no more sick days, and your doctor says you are fit to return to work, but you want a second opinion because you don’t feel you’re ready. So what do you want us to do?”

“Well, I want to know what my options are at this point”.

“Let me see if I can itemize them for you” I said, looking at Kandy for support while rolling my eyes. “Perhaps Ms. Woodmount can monitor what I say and add to or correct anything I miss”. I also hoped Kandy would monitor my mood, and make sure I didn’t lose my temper. “With no sick days left, you have two options. You can request a medical leave with a doctor’s authorization, or a permissive leave of absence for personal reasons. These leaves guarantee your right to return to your current teaching location at this school for one year; however, they are not paid leaves. The school must then find a sub to teach your classes, hopefully on a long-term basis, and not day-to-day. Those are your options”.

“What about Workmen’s Compensation? Wouldn’t that allow me not to work while still drawing a salary?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Peter”, I said, trying to take his question seriously. “I believe Workmen’s Comp only applies to industrial accidents or work-related injuries, it doesn’t cover teaching”.

“I’m not talking about the act of teaching” he said impatiently, “I’m talking about the mental stress and anguish caused by teaching. Certainly that’s as bad as an industrial injury and a good lawyer would have no trouble getting it covered by Workmen’s Comp”. With that emphatic declaration, he crossed his arms across his chest and stared at me defiantly, challenging me to contradict him.

“Peter” I said slowly, feeling the blood rising in my head, “in all my years of teaching and administering schools, I have never heard a more ridiculous idea”. I struggled to remain calm, speaking in a steady, reasonable voice. “Teaching is hard. Teachers at every grade level, in every part of this city, are struggling to teach kids from every culture and every social and economic stratum”. Despite my efforts, I could hear the volume of my voice rising. “Teaching is not a job for everyone; it is a vocation that requires special talents, abilities, and incredible resiliency. If the stress and frustration of the job becomes too much to bear, teachers can seek help or change professions. The Employee Assistance program of the District provides quality mental health services. I’ve availed them myself. If that doesn’t help, then my advice is to seek another career. But to claim teacher-stress as a work-related injury is insulting to every professional who does the job”. There was an awkward silence after my outburst. Peter’s broad face was beet red. Thankfully, Kandy spoke.

“Peter”, she said soothingly, “before you consider Workmen’s Comp, why don’t you tell me again about the difficulties you were experiencing with your classes. Tell me what you need, and I’m sure we can find solutions and remedies”. I welcomed the reprieve her intervention gave me. I sat back in my chair, fuming. I had been at the point of dismissing Peter; telling him to leave my office and start looking for a shyster lawyer and a mercenary doctor to justify his bogus claims. I did not plan on wasting any more of my time on Peter; perhaps Kandy could get him to see reason.

She gradually calmed him with her thoughtful questions and sincere concern. She encouraged him to describe the classes and the students giving him the most trouble and steering the conversation away from talk of leaves and Workmen’s comp. The details she elicited slowly drew a picture of a two-hour block of Intermediate ESL students who arrived right after lunch. They were a particularly troublesome class with varied learning abilities and social skills. They reported hot, sweaty, and hyperactive to the class, becoming quickly restless and bored. I could see that she was validating his feelings, and directing him away from a sense of powerlessness and self-pity.

“You know” she said, suddenly inspired,” let me call Suzanne, the Bilingual Coordinator. Perhaps we can do a few things to improve this situation right away. I’m thinking we could consolidate some of the language levels in your class with Ms. Sanchez’s Intermediate classes, and transfer a few of the more troublesome students”. She went over to my desk, picked up the phone and dialed the coordinator’s extension. In 5 minutes Suzanne joined us and the two women quickly huddled with Peter, at the far end of my office. They began discussing combinations of students, different classes and other teachers. Working as a team to solve his problems gradualy transformed Peter’s body language and manner. He became relaxed and animated, asking questions and volunteering ideas. He joked, laughed, and was constantly nodding his head in agreement.

“That will work, Suzanne” he exclaimed. “Great idea Kandy; that never occurred to me!” There was nothing for me to do but sit and watch, shaking my head in wonder. Kandy had taken control of the meeting. She appeared to be making one accommodation after another for Peter.

“Will this work for you?” she asked. “What else do you need?” She seemed to be redirecting all of the school’s resources and personnel to resolve Peter’s situation and convince him to return. She had become his personal Head Counselor.

As I watched her in action, one desire slowly materialized into thought: “Man, I wish I had a counselor like that on my side”. This unexpected admission stunned me. The wholehearted care and effort that Kandy was showering on Peter was making me jealous! My reaction shocked me. It was in this confused state that something odd happened. I felt as if someone next to me leaned in and whispered into my ear, “She IS on your side, dummy! She’s always been on your side!”
 

I’d worked with Kandy for seven years. During that time, we had faced countless trials and hardships: a staff conspiracy, parent insurrection, faculty unhappiness, asbestos contamination and evacuation, and a Red Team audit. In the midst and aftermaths of these catastrophes, I always esteemed her as Sue’s intelligent, left-brained partner, and the intuitive and maternal component of my administrative team. I had never considered her MY head counselor; a friend and a companion who was unconditionally ON MY SIDE. “Oh my God” I said to myself, watching Kandy orchestrate Peter’s change of heart and return to school. “She’s been on my side since the first day we met and I never saw it”. I settled back into my chair and smiled. Peter and I were in good hands. Kandy and Suzanne were accommodating Peter’s needs and guaranteeing his return. This was good for the school, good for Peter, and good for me. I memorized that moment. When Peter and Suzanne left my office, I asked Kandy to wait; then I shared my revelation and thanked her for being there.

A similar revelation struck me 7 years later, at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, California.

“I wonder if my time is almost up.”

“Don’t think about time – focus!”

“I know, I know, but it seems I’ve been sitting here an awfully long time. Peek at your watch and tell me the time”.

“Knock it off, will you; focus! Concentrate on your breathing. Come on, try it. Breathe in and feel the air enter through your nose. Observe it rushing through your windpipe to your lungs. Let your lungs and esophagus expand as they take in the cool, clear air from the outside. Let yourself be embraced by the air that swells inside you. Hold it - then release. Follow it as the air retraces its path from the lungs, through your windpipe, and out your nose”.

“I’m doing that, but it’s not working! I wonder if someone is sitting next to me. I felt a movement of air a while ago; is anyone there? Why don’t you take a look and check?”

“Let that idea go! Let all your thoughts go their way. Don’t engage them and don’t fight them; let them go.”

“Sure, that’s easy for you to say. I’m the one who’s struggling here. I doubt I have enough time left to find a meditative groove. I must have already sat here 29 minutes. Let me open my eyes and check the time.”

“Don’t do it! You’re giving in! God, WHAT AM I DOING! I’m arguing with you. I’m doing exactly what I’m telling you not to do! I’m your problem; I’m your distraction!”

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ – the vibration of my cell phone in my pants pocket seemed deafening in the contemplative silence of the chapel-like room. I was convinced the blaring vibrations were popping the eye sockets and uncorking the ears of the people around me. I hurriedly reached into my pocket and took out the offending vibrator. The clock image on the tiny screen pulsated in simulated motion. I toggled the button to cut it off, and then blinked at the scene around me. I was sitting in Sacred Space, the meditation room of the Religious Ed Congress. This was the 3^rd day I had come to sit and meditate, and each visit had proven frustrating.
 

This was my fourth year at the Religious Ed Congress. I’d never been disappointed with the convention. The speakers, liturgies, and encounters I’ve experienced have always been enlightening and a great beginning to the Lenten season. I’ve also had some truly inspirational moments at the Congress (see Beacons of Light).  This year I was hoping to attend some workshops, completing my Easter duty by receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation (Confession), and kick-starting my practice of mediation. I had not sat in meditation for almost 8 months, and my prayer life had dried up like a moist turtle dropped on its back in a summer desert. Sacred Space was the first place I visited at the conclusion of the Opening Ceremonies on Friday morning. Located on the top floor of the Convention Center, it is a cool, other-worldly place, illuminated in pastel hues of purple, red, and blue. Its sensory appeal seduced me at once, and I was convinced that I would once again have a deeply satisfying, spiritual moment. I would lose myself in the proximity to the nothing-ness and all-ness that meditation brings. I switched my cell phone to vibrate and set the alarm clock for thirty minutes. I centered myself in a chair near the tabernacle, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and bowed. I was convinced that my meditation would pick up where I left it last year. My thoughts would disappear until jolted by the movement of my silent alarm. I failed. I struggled the first day, and the second day. My thoughts and emotions jumped like panicky fleas escaping an insecticide spray. My neck ached, my leg itched, or the chair was too hard. Day three had been my last chance and I had squandered it with internal argument, self-criticism, and clock watching. I was miserable. On three occasions I’d come seeking God, and all I had to show was a cell phone in my hand. I sighed and looked around the room. There was a middle aged woman sitting next to me, with her eyes closed, and hands folded in her lap. She emanated a peace and serenity that seemed to float in the air, surrounding me for a moment and then trailing off to other parts of the room. “God, I wish I could pray like” I thought, bitterly, convinced that this woman was in the presence of God. Then I thought of Kandy, and felt an old, familiar stranger return, lean into my ear, and whisper: “I am on your side, dummy! I’ve always been on your side!”
 

Night fell and the woodcutter did not return.

Gretel began to sob bitterly. Hansel too felt

scared, but he tried to hide his feelings and

comfort his sister.

“Don’t cry, trust me! I swear I’ll take you

home even if Father doesn’t come back

for us!” Luckily the moon was full that night

and Hansel waited till its cold light

filtered through the trees.

“Now give me your hand!” he said. “We’ll

get home safely, you’ll see!”

The tiny white pebbles gleamed in the moonlight,

and the children found their way home. They

crept through a half open window, without

waking their parents. Cold, tired but thankful

to be home, they slipped into bed.

(Early version of Hansel and Gretel)

Sisters can be annoying sometimes. My sister Stela refuses to read any of my stories; and her reasons are hard to keep track of. By my calculations, they have changed three times over three years. When I first told her that I was writing a web-journal or “blog” in 2006, she dismissed my invitation to read it, saying that she never opened her email and never used the internet. Her aversion to computer technology was the only reason she gave until overhearing a conversation I had with our mother a year later. I was reading a passage describing our younger sister Gracie, from a story I’d written on the occasion of the graduation party for Carlos, our nephew (see Carlito’s Way – Culmination). In my narrative of the party, I included some reminiscences of Gracie, through time. Suddenly Stela stormed into the room.

“How can you say that?” she exclaimed. “That’s not what happened!” She challenged my memory of events and interpretation of actions. I tried explaining myself, but she dismissed me, leaving the room and saying that this was but another reason why she refused to read my stories. I shouted my apologies for any slights I caused, and conceded that perhaps it was best that she not read my blog, since our views and opinions of past family events differed. The matter remained at this impasse until last week, when I visited Stela and my mom during Spring Break. We were talking about my recent visit to Mexico when I mentioned that friends and family members sometimes suggested topics or events for me to write about. I had written such blogs about my brothers Art and Eddie, and mentioned Alex and Gracie in others. At that point Stela interrupted, declaring that this was yet one more reason she refused to read my blogs – I hadn’t written one about her. My first reaction was bemusement.

“If you don’t read my blogs, how do you know I haven’t?” I kidded her.

“Mom would have told me” she countered.

“Would you read my blog if I wrote a story about you?” I teased.

“Nope” she replied. “It’s too late. If you have to ask, it doesn’t count. I wouldn’t read it”.

“Well I can’t win with you, can I?”

“No you can’t”.

Sisters can be frustrating sometimes.
 

Estela is the fraternal twin of my brother Arturo. They were born one year and three months after me. Despite our closeness in ages, I have very different relationships with these twins whom I nicknamed Tito and Tita, from the Spanish diminutives of their names, Arturito (R2D2) and Estelita. Once past infancy, Tito became my sibling rival and nemesis while Tita was a childhood friend and ally. She and I tended to see things the same way, and shared similar views on how to get along and get our way with people. Tito had a contrarian perspective all his own which always seemed to get him in trouble. It took me 21 years to get an inkling of how to understand him (see Giri – family obligations) . Over the long course of our lives, our sibling interactions have changed. We were playmates, teammates, and school mates until eighth grade and adolescence. Through high school and college we lived together as family in the same house, but we were really independent explorers discovering the mysteries of scholarship, friendships, dating, and personal ambitions. College graduations, the draft, and the death of our father dramatically redirected our lives into education, where our previously fanned-out paths converged into parallel career lines. Stela and Art became elementary teachers and I taught at the junior and high school level. The biggest deviation occurred when Arthur and I wed and had children (Gracie had married two years earlier). Except for our jobs, we each lived separate lives with distinct interests. Now, it is hard to remember our past lives as children and teenagers together, especially those early years when we lived on Amethyst Street, Duane Street, and Cove Avenue. My clearest memories of Tita in those hazy days of childhood have to do with hospitals and fears of abandonment.
 

When Tita was 3 or 4 years old (and I was 4 or 5), she was hospitalized for an unknown lung or respiratory ailment. My hazy storybook version of those events went like this. We were spending the evening at our grandmother’s house with the youngest aunts and uncle, Lisa, Charlie, and Espy (see Nacimiento Stories).  Lisa was making popcorn and we were settling in to watch a Million Dollar movie on television. At one point I was demonstrating how I never wasted a single piece by eating even the un-popped, toasted kernels at the bottom of the bowl. The next thing I remember Tita was coughing and coughing. She couldn’t stop. The hacking continued that night and into the next day. A doctor came to our home on Amethyst Street the next afternoon, but he was unable to identify the problem. The coughing continued and my parents took  Tita to the hospital and left her there. I recall looking back as I walked away, and seeing her sit, alone and forlorn, in the middle of an oversized crib-like bed, with bar-like rails. I felt miserable. As the eldest brother, I thought it was my fault and I was abandoning her. A few days later my father announced that x-rays had revealed a spot on Tita’s lungs that appeared to be moving around. The mystery was solved when doctors extracted a corn kernel from the lung and she came home soon after. To this day I feel personally responsible for her hospitalization. I believed that by showing her how I ate the burnt kernels of un-popped popcorn, I encouraged her to imitate my actions.
 

For about three years, from 3^rd to 5^th grade, our family of 6 lived in a triplex on Cove Avenue, a hilly street south of the Silver Lake Reservoir area. Our bottom floor residence was cool and airy in the summer and cold and drafty in the winter. We would go through periods of colds, sore throats, and runny noses, and some of us would get sicker that others. One day our parents were mentioning tonsils and operations at dinner time, and suddenly they were scheduling tonsillectomies for Tita and me. I can’t recall why we were both having them at the same time. My first thought was the surgeon was offering a two-for-one sale; but that hardly seemed likely. I liked to believe that Tita was the one who really needed the surgery, and the double tonsillectomy idea was proposed for two reasons: 1) the operation was scheduled so early in the morning that it would be necessary to be admitted the night before; and 2) Tita still had very negative feelings towards hospitals, and my sharing the room and the operation would make it easier for her. This was a rationale that appealed to me as a “big brother”, a role I took very seriously in my younger years. My mother and father had been very consistent in inculcating the duties and responsibilities of the “oldest child” in a family. I secretly felt that going along with this plan would also expiate my guilt over having caused her first hospitalization. Of course my parents didn’t stress the practical and logistical reasons for the operation; instead they emphasized the novelty of a private bedroom with a television set and unlimited ice cream after the operation.

I was very quiet on the drive to the hospital, staring out the car window and noting the significant streets and important landmarks. The entire family (Mom, Dad, Tito, Tita, Gracie, and me – Eddie was born soon after) was in the car as we drove down Glendale Boulevard, past St. Teresa of Avila Church on Fargo Street, the Mayflower Moving complex, to the Alvarado Street split, just before crossing Sunset Blvd. Glendale would take you to Echo Park Lake and the Angelus Temple, but we continued south on Alvarado, past St. Vincent Hospital, Westlake MacArthur Park, and Westlake Theatre, to Hoover Street. At a V-shaped intersection, with a gleaming white church at the point, Alvarado merged into Hoover, and we proceed further into the Pico-Union part of town until we reached the hospital. As my siblings evacuated the car in a flurry of banging doors and excited cries, I studied the traffic on Hoover Street, mentally retracing the route we had taken. Satisfied that I could find my way back home, I turned and followed the family troop into the lobby of the hospital.
 

There is always a festive air when all family members join in saying farewell. Curiosity and excitement reigned supreme as Tito and Gracie explored the hospital and our room. They gazed enviously at the television set mounted on the wall, the separate beds, and the convenient bathroom. Their constant refrains, between “ooohhs” and “aahhhs”, were “You are so lucky!” and “I wish I could stay here!” The happy banter and enthusiasm helped disguise their inevitable goodbyes and the menacing silence that filled the room after their departure. The friendliness of the nurses, along with the novelty of “room service” and remote-controlled television, helped distract us, but before night fell, we were alone. I kept up a steady dialogue with Tita until she finally slept. Once she was asleep, the sterile solitude of the dark room hit me full force. It wasn’t the absence of sight and sound that scared me so much, as it was my inability to recognize the shadows and noises that scurried under the crack of the door, and slipped between the slivers of open curtains and blinds. I willed myself to sleep and mentally counted sheep. I even tried mumbling five Hail Mary’s and begging the Virgin Mary to help, but to no avail. My childish desperation finally compelled me to slip out of my covers and stand by Tita’s bedside. The proximity of her steady breathing and deep slumber mocked me. How could this little girl sleep through this cacophony of whispered sounds and fearful noises? Without further thought I inched into bed with her, knowing that any sudden movement might awaken her.

“What are you doing?” Tita said in a sleepily irritated voice.

“I’m scared and I can’t sleep” I whispered, unable to think of a convincing lie.

“Oh, okay” she replied. She turned her back and went to sleep.

Although I felt comfortable, nervousness over my change of beds kept me awake until the nurses changed shifts. Soon I heard a nurse enter the room. Keeping my eyes closed, I imagined that she peered down into one bed and then the other. “What will she do?” I wondered fearfully, straining to hear her reaction. However, instead of being rudely shaken, scolded, and ordered to return to my proper bed, I heard the nurse open the door and leave. From outside hallway, I heard her calling to a companion in a hushed voice:

“Alice, come and see this! The little girl got into her brother’s bed to sleep; how sweet!”

I took a deep breath and allowed myself to relax. The Virgin Mary had answered my prayers by sending two nurses who were leaving us alone and saving me from embarrassment. For the first time that evening, feeling Tita’s warmth nearby, I knew we were safe. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
 

Then they came to a place named Gethsemane,
and he said to his disciples,
"Sit here while I pray."
He took with him Peter, James, and John,
and began to be troubled and distressed.
Then he said to them, "My soul is sorrowful even to death.
Remain here and keep watch."
He advanced a little and fell to the ground and prayed
that if it were possible the hour might pass by him;
he said, "Abba, Father, all things are possible to you.
Take this cup away from me,
but not what I will but what you will."
When he returned he found them asleep.
He said to Peter, "Simon, are you asleep?
Could you not keep watch for one hour?
Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test.
The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

(Gospel from Palm Sunday – Mark 14: 32-39)

 A deadly gloom hung over the front of the car as we drove home. No one had spoken since leaving the Motion Picture & Television Hospital in Calabasas.

“We didn’t accomplish a fucking thing by going there!” Toñito muttered, between clenched teeth.

I turned from my driving to shoot him a quick look of surprise. Toñito rarely cursed, and he never said “fuck” in my presence. His face was a rigid mask of anguish, as he stared straight through the windshield.

“What do you mean?” I asked; addressing his words, and not reacting to his emotions.

 “I don’t know what I mean” he said, impatiently. “I don’t know why I went; and I don’t know what we hoped to do by going. I sure didn’t think I’d feel more mixed after it was over”.

I recoiled from the bitterness seething in his words. I wanted to say something calming and soothing, but I felt as lost and confused as he sounded. Since leaving Frank, I’d been practically mute, as if struck dumb by the ghastly vision of a banshee reflected on the sliding glass doors of the hospital exit. I couldn’t remain silent any further.

“What are you doing?” Toñito interjected, as I impulsively pulled the car to the right.

“I’m going to park”, I answered decisively. “We need to talk about this, and I can’t do it while I’m driving”.

I pulled over on Valley Circle, just past the freeway, and turned off the motor. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face Toñito in the passenger seat.

I’d arrived home that Tuesday to find only Toñito in the house. I was on Spring Break, but Catholic schools were still in session until Thursday. Their vacation would start at noon on Holy Thursday, the first day of the Triduum leading to Easter. As I passed his bedroom, I peeked in to see Toñito sprawled out on his bed, reading a puzzle book of some kind. He was still dressed in his school uniform. I tried recalling what Kathy had told me of her afternoon plans, but I was drawing a blank.

“Toñito” I called out, walking over to the oversized wall calendar in the kitchen, “do you know where your mother is?”

“She was still working in her classroom when I left” he shouted back from his room. “Prisa had softball practice”. Toñito’s news was informative, but it didn’t jog any more details from my memory.

“Did she mention when she would be home?” I pressed.

“No” Toñito said, walking out of his room and joining me in the kitchen. “But she did mention dropping in on Mary to see if she needed any help”.

“Oh yeah” I said, “of course. Now I remember”. We had talked about this the other night. Kathy could be delayed anywhere from one to three hours. From school she would probably go to Mary’s house or the hospital. There was no point thinking or worrying about time or dinner. Kathy’s itinerary would depend on Mary’s needs; and this week, they were very uncertain. I continued staring at the calendar hanging on the wall, looking for some new clue or inspiration. The only thing written was the address of Frank’s hospital and his room number. Kathy had written it at my request after learning that Frank was being admitted. When she asked me if I planned on visiting him during my break, I instinctively replied “Yeah”. But I really wasn’t sure when that would be. “Why don’t you write down the information for me” I suggested, “and I’ll try going over there”. It had been two days since our conversation and I still had not gone. I was dragging my feet, as if trying to slow the downward spiral of Frank’s terminal condition.

  Francis Xavier Killmond  was 58 years old. He was the father of 8 children, a former teacher, the owner of a religious goods store, and a working character actor on the popular soap opera, General Hospital. He was 5’9”, with salt and pepper hair, and a wiry, expressive face that could alternate from long and morose to lean and amused. He had aspects of a tall Irish leprechaun, or a colorful, Runyanesque character, when telling a joke or describing a story. I knew him best as Mary’s husband, Frank (see Beacons of Light). If wives are to form binding friendships, the compatibility of husbands is essential. Kathy and Mary’s friendship began as teachers in the same elementary school, evolved to a “best friends” level, and finally culminated in an “Irish sister” relationship. Along the way I got to know and like Frank, and his two youngest sons, Eddie and John, very much. His dry wit and charm were always a great counter balance to Mary’s intensity and passion. His varied interests and eccentric sense of humor always allowed us other topics of conversation when Mary and Kathy would “talk shop” and discuss parish politics and faculty problems. Frank, Mary, and the boys were regular visitors at our house on Fridays, and we were invited to all their family gatherings and parties. The summer before Eddie’s freshman year in high school, Frank had surgery to remove a mole on his neck, which turned out to be a malignant melanoma. I didn’t think further about it until January, when Frank noticed that a small lump had developed near the scar. The removal of that lump revealed that the cancer had spread to a nearby lymph node. The next three months were a blur of emotions: shock, despair, and hope; followed by a determination to battle the cancer on every possible front. It seemed to me, during this chaotic time, that the actor in Frank managed to perform all his regular routines and obligations – never betraying public evidence of his illness or treatments. He continued filming General Hospital until April, and stopped only to travel to Mexico to investigate some new exotic therapy. However, the optimism seemed to collapse upon his return, and Kathy learned that he was being hospitalized. She said that the prognosis was bad, and Mary was requesting that her out-of-state son, James, come home as soon as possible to see his father in the hospital. I looked again at the message in Kathy’s barely decipherable calendar-scrawl:

“Hospital

23388 Mulhouland Drive,

Room. 103”.

I felt it was mocking me – challenging me to keep my promise, or do SOMETHING.

“I’m going to the hospital” I declared aloud, surprising myself. “Do you want to come?” I added, turning to Toñito.

“Ahh, I don’t know Dad”, he said, hesitantly.

“Come on!” I coaxed. “You’re not doing anything important right now. Your mom will probably be there with Mary. We’ll visit for awhile and leave. It won’t take long, and we can find out what’s going on with dinner”. These reasons even made sense to me; they were buttressing my own weak and waning impulse to go. “Come on” I concluded. “You can keep me company”.

“Alright, I’ll go” he concluded, reluctantly.

The Motion Picture & Television Hospital is not far from our home, and it was an easy ride; but I don’t know if I would have made the trip alone. I was incredibly relieved when Toñito said “yes”. I feel small and vulnerable in a hospital. Fearful feelings from long ago scenes crash over me like giant combers in a stormy sea, whenever I find myself in a hospital or medical center: walking down a cavernous hallway, having left a solitary 4 year old sister, all alone in a barred hospital bed; spending a shadow-filled night, accompanied by nightmarish noises and sounds, only to have a tonsillectomy the following morning; waiting with my injured uncle Charlie, surrounded by half-naked, moaning patients in gurneys and wheel chairs, in the crowded hallway of an ER; and being told in a frigid, sterile waiting room, after an eleven-hour vigil, that my bride of two years required an emergency “C-section” in order to deliver our son. The antidote which always dispelled these past vapors of foreboding was the presence of my children, Toñito or Prisa. They did not come pre-burdened with these fearful vignettes and memories. If they were present, I was able to assume the role of father, teacher, and protector. They buoyed me with their innocent curiosity and their trust in me; and my paternal imperative to never disappoint them overrode all other fears and insecurities. Prisa was always my most enthusiastic traveling companion. As a teenager, Toñito had become less inclined in joining me on trips and errands, but he was still susceptible to family pressure and whining. If I stressed that “I really needed” his company, he would usually agree. With Prisa unavailable, this was one of those times.

 This would be my first visit to the Motion Picture hospital. Situated near the rolling hills of Calabasas and Woodland Hills, it is a vast and impressive compound. The sweeping lawns, unblemished stucco walls, and abundance of glass and open areas gave it the feel of a resort condominium, not a hospital. The availability of parking was especially refreshing, and I was able to position our car near the front entrance.

“Does the scarcity of cars mean there are few patients or few visitors?” I asked Toñito, making a feeble attempt a humor.

“I don’t know, Dad” he replied, dryly, not betraying any insights into his feelings or state of mind.

We walked in through the wide, automatic glass doors and walked directly to the Admitting Desk.

“Hi” I said to a smiling young girl in a volunteer pinstriped uniform. “We’re here to visit Frank Killmond in room 103. Could you help us?”

“Sure” she replied, and directed us down the hall, and into the next building. The simple directions and clearly marked halls and numbers were reassuring. Toñito took the lead and I followed him until we came to the room we sought. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked and entered. Mary was sitting at the far end of the room, next to a louvered, but brightly lit window, reading a book. Frank was sitting on the side of the bed, across from her, in front of a rolling table with a food tray. There was no sight of Kathy, Prisa, or any other visitor.

“Hi Tony” Mary said first, putting down her book and rising.

“Hi Mary, hi Frank” I said, entering the room. “Toñito and I thought we’d come by and see how you were doing”. It appeared that Frank was finishing his meal, so Mary took over the duty of salutations, greetings, and chatting. She explained that Rosemary and Liz had just left, and with our arrival, it appeared that visitors were automatically spacing themselves nicely throughout the day. As Frank stopped eating, and began covering the plates with the cafeteria lids, Mary started looking for her purse.

“Now that you’re here, Tony, why don’t you sit and visit with Frank. I’ll take a break, get something to drink, maybe, or go to the chapel”.

“I’ll go with you Mary” Toñito volunteered. “I’d like to see the chapel”. He had been silent all this time, and Mary’s need for a break was giving him a natural exit line. With their departure, Frank and I were alone, and I was suddenly aware of the awkwardness of this moment. Mary’s greetings and family updates had distracted us from the setting. In her absence, I was left alone to my own devices.

“How are you feeling Frank?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for voicing such an obvious and stupid question. What were the “right questions” to ask, I wondered. Just be natural, I said to myself, be normal.

“Not bad, right now, Tony” he replied, “but the nights are difficult”.

“Don’t they give you something to sleep?” I wondered aloud.

“Yeah, but I don’t like taking too much. It knocks me out, and I’d rather be alert and aware of what is going on”.

“Is it affecting your appetite?” I asked looking at the dessert gelatin and cake he had left on the tray.

 “No” he said with a laugh. “The food is surprisingly good. I’m saving the cake for later; unless John shows up, then we’ll have to fight for it. Give me a hand, will you? I’d like to get off the bed and stretch”. I pulled the rolling side-table away from the bed and parked it on the other side of the room. Frank slowly slid off the bed and arranged the gown around him. “Tie me up here, will you”.

“Sure” I replied, coming up behind him and retying the gown at his neck, and waist. I don’t know what I expected Frank to look like. I suppose I’d envisioned an emaciated, skeletal figure, barely able to move. Frank was pale with rumpled hair, but he looked okay, spoke confidently, and was mobile – albeit a little slowly. He walked over to the window and gazed out at the rolling grass and parking lot. I sat on the bed he had vacated and relaxed. “Have you had many visitors today?”

“Yes” he said, turning to look at me again. Beams from the diving sun bathed him in light as he told me that his friend John Burns had come by earlier and they had reminisced about their days in the Pasadena Playhouse. He also mentioned that his son James was arriving that evening, and how much he was looking forward to seeing him.

“I’m feeling a little tired now” he said, bringing his musings to an end. He moved back toward the bed and sat down beside me. “It was good talking with you, Tony”

“Thanks, Frank” I replied. “I’m glad I came by”

He put his left arm around my shoulder and, in a very deliberate manner, said “I love you, Tony. Thanks for coming today”.

I was caught short by this unexpected remark. “I love you too, Frank” is all I managed to say.

As if on cue, Mary swept into the room holding her purse in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She was alone.

“Where’s Toñito?” I asked.

“I’m not sure” she replied. “I took him to the chapel and then I went to the cafeteria. I haven’t seen him, so he may still be there”.

I excused myself from Mary and Frank, said goodbye again. I met Toñito in the hallway.

“Do you want to go back and say goodbye?” I asked.

“No” he replied, “that’s okay”.

As we retraced our path back to the reception area, the fading light of the crepuscular sun shone through the steel and glass. There was about 15 minutes of daylight left as we got in the car and left the parking lot.

I waited silently in the car until Toñito was looking directly into my face. I had no clue what I was going to say, until the words started flowing. “First of all, thank you for coming with me. I could not have gone to the hospital without you”.

“But I didn’t DO ANYTHING, Dad” he said in an anguished voice. “I didn’t even stay in the room with you. I ran out as soon as I could”.

“I didn’t want to be there either, son. I was afraid to go too. I just felt we had to see him. There really wasn’t anything for us to do”.

He let those words sink in, and then he asked “What happened after I left?”

“I’m not sure” I said, recalling the brief moments Frank and I had shared. “I didn’t know what to say, or what to ask. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded stupid. Thank God he did most of the talking. He told me he how he was feeling and who had visited him”. I took a long ragged breath, and continued. “Toñito” I added, quietly, as if revealing a dreaded secret, “I think Frank’s dying”. Fighting to express the next few words, I looked pleadingly into his face, hoping he’d help me understand. “He told me that he loved me”. A single sob broke free, and I stopped suddenly, struggling to quell any more from escaping. Toñito moved closer to me in the car and I desperately embraced him. The feel of his long, skinny arms wrapping themselves around me in such a firm, protective manner unleashed my pent up tears. The weeping must have been contagious, because Toñito was soon crying as well. The pressure of his face against my chest, and the energy from all his repressed sorrows rocked us both for a long time. When our tears were spent, and I could cry no longer, I moved my head back so I could see his face.

“How are you doing, son?”

“Not good, Dad” he said, laughingly, as he wiped his nose against his hand. “I don’t have a Kleenex”.

“We’ve never cried like this before, have we?” I asked rhetorically.

“No we haven’t, and I don’t want to do it again” he said in a pseudo-comic manner. “I’m sorry I left you alone, Dad” he said, repentantly. “I just didn’t want to say goodbye to Frank. I didn’t want to admit that I might never see him again. I don’t want him to die”.

“I know, son, I know” I said, taking him into my arms again. “It’s all right. You were fine, and you didn’t let me down. I love you Toñito”. I rocked him gently in my arms until his breathing was in harmony with mine. “I never saw my Dad before he died” I said, speaking over his head, but knowing he was listening. “By the time I arrived home, he was gone. I never had a chance to see him or say goodbye. Today was different. Frank is seeing all his children and all his friends. He saw us, and we were able to see him. Today was a gift, and it would not have happened if you had not come with me. Do you believe me?” I asked, pulling back and forcing him to look up.

“Yes, Dad, I believe you” he said, looking into my eyes.

“Good” I said, hugging him again, and pounding his back. “Now let’s clean ourselves up. We’re a mess. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to your mom”.

“Do you think we’ll ever cry like this again?” he asked. “I mean, together”.

“I hope so, Toñito, I hope so. I think it was a healthy thing to do”.

Frank died three days later, on Good Friday, after saying farewell to all his friends and family. Toñito and I said goodbye to him again at his funeral.

“Oooh, Mexico!

It sounds so simple, I just got to go.

The sun’s so hot, I forgot to go home;

I guess I’ll have to go now”.

(Mexico: James Taylor)

 “Whad du you teesh?” the oficial de aduana said as he stared at my Tourist Card.

“Excuse me?” I replied, caught off guard by the question I didn’t understand. “Perdon?” I repeated in Spanish, offering him another language for clarification.

“Whad du you teesh?” the chubby customs agent repeated slowly, eyeing me now from his towering kiosk in the vast hall.

“Oh, you mean ‘What do I teach’” I said, realizing what he meant. My mind whirled with options now that I knew what he was referring to. Do I tell him the truth? I asked myself; or do I go with what I wrote. I was trapped by the over-thinking I did when I filled out the Tourist Card on the airplane. The form asked for one’s occupation, and I had debated putting the accurate response “Principal”, or the more generic answer, “Teacher”. I opted for “Teacher”, believing that it was clearer and would not provoke confusion or questioning. Obviously, I thought wrong, because now I was stuck supporting an inaccuracy.

“High school, I teach high school” I replied, hoping he would get on with the business of processing my passport and visa, so I could move on in line.

“No, no”, he persisted. “Whad subsheck du you teesh?”

“Oh, I see”, I answered, finally understanding the full intent of the question. “I teach history; U.S. History in high school”.

“I am a teesher also”, he said, with a wide smile, placing my documents on the counter. “I juant to teesh in the Eunited Estates juan day. Eez theez deefeecult?” Any hope of escaping this checkpoint sank like a lead weight in the deep waters of the agent’s American Dream. The agent was ignoring the extended lines of weary travelers behind me, and engaging me in a personal conversation.

Since disembarking from the airplane, I had been moving back and forth, in a snail-like crawl, through the switch-back lines of the vast Sala de Aduana (Customs and Immigration Annex) of the airport. This is the bottleneck point of every international flight, but tonight it was worse. We were the last of three delayed flights, all arriving in Mexico City at the same time. The sudden onslaught of foreign arrivals overwhelmed the exhausted night crew, who wanted to end their shift and go home on a late Friday night. Despite the vast crowd and long lines, I managed to keep my mood upbeat and positive. Pulling out my cell phone, I called Kathy in Los Angeles and told her of my trip and arrival, and shared my excitement about being in Mexico. Talking with her helped dispel my fatigue and reanimated me at the prospect of seeing my family and learning how they had managed these last 5 years.
 

Courtesy in Mexico does not translate into the brisk and efficient completion of ones duties or obligations. Cortesía is the establishing of a relationship through personal communication and empathy. Having dispatched three prior travelers in quick order, the customs agent was unexpectedly doing me the courtesy of ignoring his immediate tasks to talk to me. I let the emotional wave of annoyance pass through me, and looked at him thoughtfully as I replied:

“What subject do you teach?” I asked with a resigned smile.

“Espanish” he replied.

My smile faded. This information created major obstacles to the agent’s goal. “I’m afraid it is difficult to find work in the United States as a teacher right now” I said. “In California, the state requires an American credential to teach. This usually means one year of training and supervised practice after your degree. Some states will recognize foreign credentials in certain hard-to-staff subjects, like mathematics and science. Can you teach mathematics or science?”

“No” he responded, picking up my documents. “I am creedenshalled du teesh Espanish and Inglish. I cannod teesh matemateeks or escience”.

“Lo siento” I said, reverting to Spanish in hopes of lessening the impact of my bad news. “Es posible, pero muy dificil. Tendrás que mantenerte en un empleo y al mismo tiempo assistir a clases para completar su credencial de maestro”.

“Du bad” he said, dividing the visa, and placing my section inside the passport. “I weel conteenue drying”. He handed me back the passport with a wan smile. “Hav a nice treep”

“Thank you” I said, snatching the passport like a relay race baton, and positioning myself for a dash toward the baggage entrance. I’d only gone three strides when a cramp of shame rose up to hobble me, and halted my sprint for the door. I slowly turned around and returned to the kiosk, looking over the shoulder of a woman traveler who was standing in my former place.

“Amigo” I called, waiting for him to look away from the documents he was reading. “I want to wish you good luck with your dream. It will be hard, but it is possible – Buena Suerte”.

“Tank you, señor” he replied with a beaming smile. “Vaya con Dios”.

By the time I reached the baggage area, my solitary red valise was the only visible object next to the empty luggage-conveyor. I raised the retractable handle and guided the rolling suitcase to my next stop on this improbable adventure.
 

Three weeks earlier I received an email from my Mexican cousin Mari Lupe, the eldest daughter of my Uncle Pepe. I was intrigued by the communiqué, but not surprised. Mari Lupe was one of a group of first cousins who were on an electronic-mailing list I maintained. For the past 2 years, I’ve sent them regular emails with a link to my blog (see Dedalus Log). The stories always included generous amounts of photographs to entice my Spanish speaking cousins to try reading my English. My initial attempts at writing emails in Spanish had slowly withered and died after the Golden Wedding Anniversary of my Uncle Pepe and his wife, Margarita. That gala event in 2004 was the last time I visited Mexico (See Mexican Connections).  Since then I kept in tenuous contact with monthly blog alerts. I assumed Marilupe was simply updating me on a change of residence, phone number, or email address. Instead she announced a party. The email explained that my cousins Mari Lupe and Güero were hosting a reunion of cousins (and surviving uncles) at Güero’s home in Tlalnepantla, a city outside of Mexico City, near Ciudad Satelite. The party promised to include relatives I had not seen on my last visit to Mexico. Mari Lupe also offered a method for instant (real-time) communication with the United States, by explaining that a video-computer connection would be available at the party. My immediate reaction to this unexpected news was to barge into Kathy’s reading-in-bed time and ask:

“What do you think about flying to Mexico City on a weekend for a family reunion?”

Her response: “Are you crazy!” brought me to my senses. Of course I couldn’t fly to Mexico for a party in three weeks. It wasn’t like flying to San Francisco or Sacramento for a business meeting or conference. Traveling to Mexico required international flight plans, passports, visas, and hotel arrangements. One couldn’t drop everything and just fly down to Mexico. Sufficiently sober, I told Kathy she was right and wrote to Mari Lupe saying that I loved the ideas of a reunion and would try establishing a video hook-up with the help of my younger brothers. Yet I was still haunted by the dream of seeing my cousins again – especially those I had not seen on my last trip. Five years ago I was only able to speak to Rosita (the eldest female cousin and daughter of my aunt Chita) and Tavo (my aunt Totis’ son and Nena’s brother) by phone. Our plans to reunite never came to pass. Rosita died of cancer one year later, and a scheduled visit to see Tavo and his family during Easter vacation floundered on the rocks of a family crisis. Rosita’s death was especially unsettling, because it reminded me of the untimeliness of death, and the frailty of our connections to family members who live so far away from each other (see Mexican Connections). Mari Lupe’s invitation sounded so tempting that I did not drop it completely. I sent an email to Nena (my aunt Totis’ only daughter and Tavo’s sister), asking for more information on the party, and if she and Tavo were going. Nena responded a week later saying that the party was a wonderful surprise to everyone, and that she and Tavo were planning to attend. She saw the reunion as an excellent opportunity for her three children to connect with their surviving great-uncles and cousins. More importantly, she begged me to reconsider going by mentioning that Tavo, who is infamous for sudden changes of hearts and no-show’s, would definitely attend if he knew I was coming.

“You really want to go to this party, don’t you?” Kathy said ruefully, after I told her of Nena’s email.

“Yeah, I do”, I decided. “I think it’s important for me to be there”.

“I get that” she said. “You know I’ve been there”, referring to her intuitive decision to fly to Switzerland and visit her sister Mary Ellen in the hospital several years earlier. “Do you want me to help?” she volunteered.

“I’d appreciate it”, I replied, relieved at her acceptance and assistance. “I’m not sure how to make the flight reservations”.

Thirty minutes later, Kathy had finalized my travel arrangements. I would leave LAX on Friday at 2:30 p.m., and arrive in MEX at 7:30. I would return home on Sunday at 7:30 p.m. After an exchange of emails and telephone calls with Nena, it was arranged that she would pick me up at the Benito Juarez Airport and I would spend two nights with her family of three: Carolina (26), Jorge (24), and Alex (23). I’d met her children briefly five years before, but I doubted they remembered me clearly.
 

I’ve traveled enough to know that a quick, 3-day turnaround like this can be physically exhausting. I was also heading into a huge social event, which, because of the complexities of language, lack of mobility, and family politics, could be stressful. However, I refused to acknowledge these factors as problems. They were simply facts, which did not alter or affect my determination to go. I would approach this trip as a blessing; a wonderful opportunity to visit Mexico, practice my Spanish, and embrace family members I rarely see. My blissful feelings of being guided on this trip were tested at the outset. Kathy was the first to report a change of fortune in my plans on Friday morning. She called to warn me of a possible delay with my flight as I was catching the shuttle from Parking Lot C to the Aeroméxico terminal. I dismissed the worries as lingering symptoms of her unease over my precipitance trip while I sped through the airline check-in, luggage drop-off, security inspection, and McDonald’s Restaurant, to arrive at my boarding gate with time to spare at 2 o’clock. There I was jolted by confirmation of a delay that slowly grew in length and tedium, from 30 minutes, to one hour, to 90 minutes, and finally two hours. I managed to keep up my spirits by reading and calling forth old memories of my excitement and anticipation of traveling to Mexico. We finally boarded the plane at 4:30 p.m. and took off a little after 5 o’clock. The plane landed at 9 o’clock, Mexico City time.

As I entered the baggage inspection area in Mexico City, I thought I was facing the last hurdle of the arrival process. This station could be quick and easy or long and cumbersome. I walked up to a tall metal column with a pair of uniformed, female attendants positioned on each side.

“Poosh dee bootoon, pleez” said the attractive young lady on the right.

I pushed the large, over-sized plastic button on the column and saw it glow green.

“Tank you, you may go” she said, pointing at a high wall of beveled glass that magically opened for the passengers who were exiting the area.

I felt the pendulum of luck finally swing to my side as I walked by the countless weary travelers who had pushed red and were now opening their suitcases and carry-on luggage to the critical eyes of stone-faced aduana agents. I began visualizing, as best I could, the faces of Nena and her children as I approached the sliding glass wall. Walking through I was greeted with the echoing sounds of a vast concourse filled with travelers, rolling luggage, taxi cab and limousine drivers, and countless men and women lined up and waiting to meet or pick up friends and family members.

“Taxi, señor” someone call, as I slowed my pace to carefully scan the assembled faces.

“No, gracias” I mumbled, never moving my gaze from the line of men and women. I walked to my right, looking for Nena, and then came back along the same course. There were a couple of individuals holding hand-lettered signs, but none read “Delgado”. I saw no one I recognized, and walked through the line to the other side of the hall.

“Now what do I do?” I said to myself, when I reached the wall at the opposite end of the vast area. I walked around in a slowly, widening arc, went to the bathroom, and returned to the receiving line in front of the beveled glass wall; but I saw no familiar faces or signs. I felt a visceral compulsion to follow the flow of confident pedestrian travelers leaving this hall and walking toward another corridor marked “Transporte”. Fighting this impulse to escape, I sat down near the sliding wall to think and weigh my options. I tried calling Nena by cell phone, but kept getting a trouble signal. I didn’t miss the irony of having just called my wife in Los Angeles with ease, and finding myself unable to contact my cousin who lived in the immediate vicinity. I cursed my rotten luck, and my delay. The two hour flight delay and hour-long customs ordeal had to be responsible for this SNAFU (World War II term: “Situation normal – All Fucked Up); I could not believe that Nena or her children would fail to meet me at the airport. As I stood up to try one more walk along the receiving line, the cell phone in my pocket rang. It was Kathy, calling from California.

“Tony, I have Nena on the other line. She couldn’t reach your cell phone, so she called me. Where are you? Her son is at the airport, but he didn’t see you”.

My heart rate accelerated with relief, as I tried describing my surroundings in Spanish. I looked around the hall; picking the largest, most recognizable objects to name. I then listened to Kathy repeating the words to Nena, who in turn repeated them to her son, wherever he was. I was rotating my head from side to side, with the phone in my right ear, when a young man in a black jacket stepped in front of me.

“Tio Tuny?” he asked.

“Si” I replied, looking intently at his face and realizing that I would never have recognized him as Nena’s son. “Kathy, he found me” I said into the cell phone. “He was here all along. Tell Nena everything’s fine”. I closed the phone and looked again at this wide-faced, short-haired young man.

“Soy Alejandro, Alex” he explained, extending his hand.

“Como no” I said, shaking his hand and then directing him toward me so I could give him a huge hug of relief and gratitude. “Es un placer verte”.

The euphoria of discovery and safety saturated every pore and lasted for a long time. Any fears of inadequate vocabulary and my miserable accent faded as I chatted in Spanish with Alex, and his traveling companion Alejandra. I would have preferred simply answering their questions, but questions were not forthcoming. I suspected that Alex and this second generation of cousins were not as curious about me as I was about them. But I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity, so I became the interrogator on our drive from the airport, to Alejandra’s house (to drop her off), and finally to Alex’s home in Campestre Churubusco, a suburb to the south of Mexico City. It was there that I finally greeted my cousin and hostess Nena. When Alex left to join other friends for a late evening of cabarets and music, Nena and I opened a bottle of red wine and spent the next three hours talking about our families, current situations, and future plans. The nightcap was a perfect vehicle for reviewing the past and catching up to the present. I went to bed at around 2:00 a.m., and slept through the jumbled dreams of faded memories disguised in new signs and symbols. The next morning I had a quiet breakfast with Nena while her children slept off their late arrivals, and we outlined the day to come and our itinerary. Later, I gathered up my backpack and camera and took a long, solitary walk along the wooded meridian that ran through this suburban vecindad. Mexico has a distinct “look”. One notices it the minute you cross the border. The color, shape, and design of homes, buildings, and neighborhoods are radically different from the United States. The sounds, music, and conversations that float through the air seem to guide the tone and tempo of the people, and the manner they interact with each other. I am an American by birth and education, but Mexico still calls me home. There is an emotional connection that sparks anew whenever I visit this Second World country. Perhaps it is because the words and songs I hear in this land elicit the first sensations of love and happiness I felt in the arms of my mother. It was in the Campestre Churubusco Park, under the shade of an elm tree, that I inhaled the caressing embrace of Mexico and reflected on the zigzag course of my journey.
 

When writing in my journal, I’ve occasionally perceived a pattern to our lives that is visible in the smaller stories that unfold around us. It wasn’t until I sat in the park on Saturday morning that I sensed the rhythm of the events that had occurred and were still unwinding on this visit to Mexico. The invitation from Mari Lupe, the emails, flight reservations, delays and difficulties, all flowed in an undulating sequence of ups and downs. The tempo of this trip was alternating from action to boredom, from excitement to dismay, and from serenity to anxiety. There was no groove to this mission; the only constant was my determination to be present at the party, and my belief that it was the right thing to do. I’d managed to fight off Friday’s annoyances, but the upcoming day promised more complex uncertainties. If I could not force events and people’s actions to follow my preferred plot, I needed to give in and enjoy myself. I wasn’t crafting a fictional tale of family homecoming and reunion; I was living the consequences of a spontaneous act. I felt sure that the secret to a satisfying visit was accommodating myself to the rhythm of the day, and the flow of the events. I needed to close my eyes, relax my body, and allow my innate buoyancy to keep me afloat on the swells of this heaving ocean of time, space, and movement. On that note I closed the writing tablet I was filling with prose, and accepted the day as a poetical exercise in free verse. I retraced my path to Nena’s house and let Saturday in Tlalnepantla come to me:
 

Sabado en Tlalne

High noon,

and timing is crucial

for five adults to coordinate

one shower.

Humor and patience

are needed,

in a family of four,

especially if you add a novia,

and a primo gringo.

The stress test

was a drive to Satelite,

with six people in a car,

along colonial streets,

too narrow and old,

made worse this year

by the incessant construction

of overhead bridges

for the bi-centennial.

A luxurious manor

on a wooded hill

was our first stop.

A gleaming palace

of glass and brick

with marble ceilings

and sparkling floors,

hid 3 raven-haired princesses

from preying eyes.

Alejandra (16), Andrea (14),

and Ariana (12)

spoke lilting, breathless Spanish,

at velocities

near the speed of sound.

After hugs and photos,

we were on our way

to Tlalnepantla,

the hilltop citadel

of mighty Hector,

Güero,

the host of this tale.
 

A red Hummer

and black Expedition

powered the carriages

on the last leg if the trip.

Jorge and Alex plotted a course,

with the first map I’d seen

in this land of sluggish traffic,

and creative driving.

Down a hill and turning left,

we enter a cul-de-sac called

Prolongacion

Avenida Santa Cruz.

A trim, polo-shirted lady

leapt from a doorway

to guide our docking,

and someone exclaimed

“Es Margot!

Hemos llegado!”

Walking through the tented courtyard

was a festive gauntlet,

of hugs, shouts, and kisses.

Faces from my youth,

still recognizable,

despite the graying hair

and furrowed brows,

reminded me of days long past,

when sunrises never dimmed.

Of the surviving triumvirate

of tios,

only Uncle Pepe, “el profe”

was there

with all his children and nietos.

Wave after wave of cousins

came cresting,

with spraying sparkles

recording their smiles.

Martha posed them,

and Fede traced them.

A tsunami of faces I once knew

arrived with hijos and nietos.

I could not recall

so many families together,

without drama, or anger,

or tensions straining;

only gales of laughter

and shouts of joy.

My biggest surprise

was the next generation

of primos.

No longer infants

Hiding behind doors,

pants, or skirts,

they were brash adults

with novios and spouses.

I met Pepe’s girls Nora and Elvira,

And spoke to Margot’s son Luis

of jobs and work.

I discovered that Carlos’ boy, Carlos,

inherited my Air Force fatigues;

and Jorge is a reporter for El Universal.

Nena’s boys are planning careers

in design and music engineering;

and Tavo’s girl Alejandra

dreams of art and film production.

A portrait was taken

of a Villalpando family

at that moment in time.

From top to bottom,

and from left to right,

the litany began:

Marilupe, Tavo, Irma,

Celia (Nena), Blanca,

Fede, Carlos, and Pico.

Margot, Gabino, Nena,

Jaime, Pepe, and Beto.

Güero, Tony, Ale, Nina,

el Profe, Memo, Raquel, and Sofia.

The profe spoke

of needing to gather

before the passing of

too much time,

and led a silent prayer

of hope

for the absent ones,

who reside in the city,

and in the republic.

At veinte horas,

or 8 o’clock,

the church bell tolled,

and the despedida began.

Besos y abrazos, and

hopes of a swift return.

The evening ended

with a cena at El Guardian,

where the “children”

watched and listened

to three oft-separated cousins

talk all night.

On late Sunday morning, Pepe and his family arrived for a desayuno of huevos y chilaquiles. The evening before, he had expressed the wish to visit in a less hectic and distracting environment. So Nena had graciously invited him and his family for breakfast. The quiet and relaxed locale was reminiscent of other desayunos in that home, when Totis would prepare the meals, direct the conversation, and entertain her local relatives and foreign travelers. We chatted and I updated them on the status of my mother, brothers, sisters, and children at home. When they left, all that remained to do was pack my suitcase, say goodbye to Nena and her children, and ride with Alex to the airport. The melody and refrain of my traveling blues resumed at the airport, when I discovered that I was in the wrong terminal for a 3 o’clock flight on Alaskan Airlines. Suppressing the quick impulse to panic and rush, I calmly, forced myself to ask for information and trust that everything would work out. I eventually made my way to the tram and traveled to Terminal 2, on the opposite side of the airport. I arrived at the boarding gate with just enough time to catch my breath, dreading a replay of the trials and delays of my arrival. The lyrical flow of Saturday seemed an illusion, and I feared returning to the chaos of “real time” and “actual events”. To shut off these disturbing thoughts I took out a book to read.

“Excuse me” a voice intruded.

I looked up to inspect a young man sitting directly across from me in the crowded boarding area. He had a high forehead, a wide face, and a beaming smile.

“Are you Mr. Delgado?” he continued, peering steadily into my eyes.

A fleeting shadow of recognition brushed my memory. I recalled a stampede of P.E. students, jogging around the interior quad of the school, tossing rubber chickens to each other, and begging me to watch their antics.

“Yes” I replied. “Were you a student at Shangri-la?”

“Yes” he said.

“What’s your name? You look very familiar.”

He was Jesus Rodriguez, a student who graduated in 1999. That we were meeting in the airport of Mexico City, on the same flight back to Los Angeles was astounding, and I lost track of time and worry.

Chance meetings with former students are always a delight. These encounters affirm my belief that the middle school years, from 11 to 13 years of age, are the most wonderful and absurd – because children can only get better from that point. The “Halflings” of that stage (neither elementary school children nor high school adolescents) drive adults and parents crazy by their uncanny ability to make bad decisions and failing to learn from their mistakes. They are known to provoke utter despair. Yet, for those teachers, counselors, and adults, who can vaguely recall their own feelings and experiences during those years, there is a bizarre logic to these “bone-headed” behaviors. Meeting them as young adults finally confirms that they really do grow up and improve after middle school. It is wonderful to hear what they have accomplished, and who they have become, since their days in Shangri-la. I will confess Jesus’ story ranked as one of the most interesting.

“What brought you to Mexico City? I asked. “Were you visiting someone, or on vacation?”

“No” he replied. “I came for a wrestling match. I’m a professional wrestler called Chimaera”. He paused for a moment, reached into his backpack, and held up a flaming red mask.

“That is so cool” I exclaimed. “You’re in Lucha Libre!”
 

Jesus was a freelance, masked wrestler, named Chimaera, in the carnival-like world of Lucha Libre. This was the Mexican version of “Wrestlemania”. He let me hold his mask as he told me how he and a group of high school friends had taken a backyard hobby and developed it into a part-time interest that paid him to travel around the world. I was fascinated by his tale, and pestered him with questions about this gaudy, sport-entertainment spectacle. When my questions took on a paternal tone, with concern about the short and long-term effects of this physically demanding “sport”, he assured me that wrestling was a hobby, not a career. He had a full-time job as a graphic designer for an ITT firm in Van Nuys. His boss allowed him to adjust his hours and work schedule so he could travel and perform. He enjoyed it now, but realized that these activities were taking a toll on his body, and his wrestling years were limited. Our conversation ended when we boarded the plane, and four hours later we landed in Los Angeles. I saw Jesus briefly in the baggage area when we were recovering our suitcases, and I waved goodbye.

“Lucha libre” I murmured to myself. “What a great metaphor; a ‘free struggle’ for harmony and balance”. I walked out into the cool, fading twilight of evening and caught the shuttle to the parking lot, and home.
 

Boys you can break;

Find out how much they can take.

Boys will be strong,

Boys soldier on, but

Boys would be gone,

Without the warmth of a woman’s

Good, good heart.

(Daughters, by John Mayer)

“One cannot see well except with the heart.

The essential is invisible to the eyes.”

(The Little Prince: Antoine Saint-Exupéry, 1943)

“Prisa has been in a lot of your blogs lately”, Kathy mused, as she guided the car along Shoup Avenue on a Sunday morning.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right” I replied, thinking of three of my last four blogs.

“She really makes an effort to stay in contact, and we see more of her because of the wedding preparations” she added.

“Yeah” I agreed, looking out my passenger window to watch two joggers as they trotted along the sidewalk. “She’s a great traveling companion too”.

“Have you thought of doing one on Toñito?” Kathy asked.

I swiveled my head to look at Kathy as I replied. “Not really. We haven’t done anything together in awhile, and he hasn’t provoked a response, like his IBARW blog (see Cosmic Quest) ”.

“I know” she conceded, “and his work hours don’t make it easy to get together”.

“Well, at least he still lectors once a month” I interjected. “That gives us a regular date to see and talk to him. Will he be coming for brunch today?”

“I hope so” Kathy said. “I’d like to hear how he’s doing and how the MIT Mystery Puzzle Hunt turned out”.

I wished the same thoughts as we drove to our parish church for the 10 o’clock Mass. Tony would be one of the lay lectors who read the preliminary scriptural selections before the gospel. We stayed silent for the rest of the drive, but I couldn’t help thinking about Kathy’s observations. Did the kids keep track of the number of times I mentioned them in my blogs? Prisa had joked about rating them that way, but I didn’t think Tony did.

“Do you think I should write a blog about Toñito?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot.

“I don’t know” Kathy said, sighing deeply, and speaking almost to herself. “Before Tony grew up and went off to college, he was the center of your universe. From the first moment you laid eyes on him, he was special to you. You would come home from work to watch him sleep and move, and played with him when he awoke. Your relationship with Prisa is different. I’m just wondering if you have things yet to express”.
 

The 10 o’clock mass is not my favorite Eucharist celebration. I go when I have a compelling reason. If Kathy needs my presence at a school and parish function, I go; and when Tony is reading, I go. Seeing him read in church is much the same as when we watched him performing in Children’s Theatre, grammar school productions, high school plays and musicals, and college dramas. His renderings of the scriptures are nuanced to the messages they contain, and he makes them come alive. Kathy and I separated as she entered the sacristy to sign up as a Eucharistic minister for the mass, and I continued inside the church. Sitting in the pew, waiting for Kathy to join me, I reviewed the scriptures for the day: Isaiah 43; Psalm 41; 2nd Corinthians 1; and Mark 2. The combination of Old and New Testament offerings emphasized God’s compassion and forgiveness, and made for good readings. I was wondering which one Tony would be reading when he stepped out of the sacristy. I put down my missal and watched him. His 6’-2” frame towered over the line of altar servers, ministers, and priest, as they formed up along the side of the church and began the procession. Each participant walked slowly down the center aisle, bowed before the tabernacle, and stepped up onto the altar platform before taking their assigned places for the first part of the ceremony. Tony wore a long sleeved, royal purple shirt with black slacks. His shoulder-length hair appeared wet and stringy, as if from a quick shower, and his black, steel-rimmed glasses drooped down his nose. At the beginning of the Liturgy of the Word, Tony arose from his seat and walked to the podium. I closed my eyes and mindfully listened. He paused for an extended moment, and then in a deep sonorous voice announced:

“A reading from Isaiah:

‘Thus says the LORD:

Remember not the events of the past,

The things of long ago consider not;

See, I am doing something new!

Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

In the desert I make a way,

In the wasteland, rivers.

The people I formed for myself,

That they might announce my praise.

Yet you did not call upon me, O Jacob,

For you grew weary of me, O Israel.

You burdened me with your sins,

And wearied me with your crimes.

It is I, I who wipe out,

For my own sake, your offenses;

Your sins I remember no more’.

He paused for another moment, and then in a softer voice said, “The word of the Lord.”
 

It was as if a wild-eyed, raven-haired prophet had thundered and railed at the people of Israel; telling them of God’s boundless love for them, and his passion to forgive their sins and offenses. Tony’s dramatic interpretation had been far more effective than my silent decoding of the same words. His sweeping voice paved a wide road through the desert, and transformed a desolate wasteland into a flowering orchard. I could feel the weariness and burden of my sins being lifted and blown away, by the effortless assurances of God. I was not surprised by my emotional response. Tony always had the ability to astound me and bring tears of joy to my eyes with his actions, words, and performances. When he was a child, I thought of him as my own “Little Prince”; a boy from another world bringing the gifts of laughter and insight into our home. Toñito taught me the truths I knew as a child, but had forgotten as an adult.
 

When Toñito was seven years old, I proudly signed him up for tee-ball at the local park. I bubbled over with excitement over this critical rite of passage. Tony had played three years of AYSO soccer, but that was a kiddies’ game. Soccer consisted of little children running around an open field kicking a ball in the general direction of some netting. Baseball was Tony’s introduction into an organized sport that required physical acumen and teamwork. I saw this juncture as his first step on the same road I had traveled as a youth; a journey I could now relive with him. His grandfather, the doctor, also participated in the rite by purchasing an excellent fielders mitt. As I carefully explained to Toñito how an oversized glove would enhance his fielding abilities, I could see him soaking in every word. He was great at games; but until then, they had been board games, problem-solving games, and mental games which complemented his intellectual and reasoning skills. This was his first athletically demanding sport, and he was carefully listening and internalizing the rules, procedures, and equipment of this new game. Later I volunteered as an adult helper on his team, assisting with practices and games, but I was more interested in watching Tony’s individual progress. Even though he was awkward at the mechanics of baseball, he looked like a real ball player; being tall and lanky, with long arms and legs. We practiced at home by going out to the front lawn to play catch, field ground balls and fly balls, and bat. There we were always joined by his five year old sister Prisa. Instead of relegating Prisa to the task of “shagging” and returning balls hit into the next yard, Tony was happy to let Prisa bat, field, and throw with his equipment. She got as much practice as he.

Half way through the season, on a weekday afternoon before practice, Tony came into my study as I was working.

“Can I talk to you Dad?” he asked, sounding very serious.

“Sure” I replied, rolling back my desk chair. I was amused by his formality, but I didn’t laugh and gave him my full attention.

“Can we talk alone?” he added.

Now I was curious. “Let’s talk in the bedroom” I said, leaving my desk and leading the way down the hall. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Tony to enter and close the door.

“Dad” he said, “I don’t want to play baseball anymore”.

I was stunned.

“Did anything happen?” I asked, searching for a specific reason to explain this shocking request.

“No, nothing happened”, he said. “I just hate it, Dad. I’m not good at baseball”.

“Did anyone do or say anything to hurt you?” I pressed, still hoping to find a problem I could fix.

“It’s not one thing Dad; it’s everything. The kids don’t listen when they’re supposed to, and the coaches don’t really teach; they just expect you to play. And baseball is so boring!”
 

These were only the first erupting emotions that Toñito had been repressing about baseball. I was unprepared for such a litany of unhappiness. Tony was miserable because he felt forced to play a sport he did not value or appreciate. He described the pointless drills, the indecisive directions, and the boredom of standing in the outfield waiting for nothing to happen, because tee-ball batters rarely hit baseballs that far. But even more frightening was the growing fear that my desire to see him play baseball was the cause for his misery. I listened to all he said, and was then compelled to ask the question I dreaded to voice. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t want to play” he replied, firmly.

The finality of his response was another shot to the gut. “You mean right now?” I asked uncertainly. “You don’t want to go to practice today?”

He nodded silently, never taking his eyes off of me.

I felt the dam of my calm bursting, with the realization that I could rescue my son from all his unhappiness with a word. The onrushing flood of Tony’s misery and my desire to help swept over me. Somehow I managed to stop this compelling impulse. I needed time to think, discuss the issue with Kathy, and reach a calm decision. I paused, took a deep breath and straightened my back as I prepared to speak.

“Tony, I love you. I never want you to be unhappy, especially in a sport that is supposed to be fun. But I don’t feel that quitting is the right thing to do today. Let me talk it over with your Mom before we decide anything. There is one thing I want you to think about. When you joined the team you made a promise to be part of it for the season. When I was a boy, there was a time I wanted to quit Pop Warner football. I thought it was too hard and painful; but my parents thought it was important to finish what I had begun. I’m glad you talked to me about this, but I need more time. So I need you to go to practice today. Can you do this for me?”

I saw Toñito take a deep breath and say “Okay”.

I saw no hint of agitation during practice, and on the drive back home he told me he could await my decision. When I talked to Kathy that evening, she said Tony’s feelings about baseball did not surprise her. She had noticed his general antipathy to yard games and team sports at school, and had observed his preferences for individual achievement and competition. We both felt that it was important to finish the season, even though it would be difficult for him. This was the most painful parenting dilemma we had encountered, because it meant forcing Toñito to remain in a distasteful situation. However, insisting on fulfilling one’s commitment for its own sake seemed like such an archaic, old fashioned idea. We did not believe in continuing a practice simply because our parents thought it best; we had to weigh the merits of this virtue for ourselves. By the end of the evening, we agreed that there was a lesson to be learned from this issue - for us and Toñito. The last question I asked myself was “Am I prepared to insist on a course of action that Toñito will find painful to endure?”  I hated doing so, but my answer was yes, and I knew that I had to tell him by myself. He never looked younger or more innocent than when I asked him to join me in the living room to hear the decision. I could not predict how Tony would react. I had mentioned all the key issues on the first day we talked about this. I hoped that my decision would not be a complete surprise. But Tony was only a seven year old child, and I could not expect an adult reaction.

He listened quietly as I repeated the reasoning Kathy and I rehearsed the night before. I told him we loved him, and I was sorry if my enthusiasm for the game had influenced him into joining. However, we also believed that keeping promises was important, and he had promised to join and be part of a team for one season. I concluded by making him a promise: if he finished the last few weeks on the team, he would never have to play baseball or any sport he disliked again; but he needed to complete what he had begun. He did not cry or pout as I spoke; he simply listened, nodding his head occasionally. When I finished speaking, he asked,

“So I don’t have to play baseball next year?”

“You never have to play baseball again, once this year is over” I repeated.

“Okay”, he concluded, “it’s a deal.”

The quickness and simplicity of his answer surprised me. I gave him a hug and said “Tony, I love you and I’m proud of you. Thank you for accepting a tough decision.”

“Your welcome, Dad”, he replied, squeezing me back. “Can I go play now?”
 

I tip-toed through the last weeks of the season, watching Toñito for any tell-tale signs of sadness or pain. I saw none, and when I asked him how he was doing during practices and games, he said “fine”. I finally relaxed at the Awards Picnic at Reseda Park. Two plastic lunch tables were reserved for the team; one covered with trophies and the other with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad and cake. The boys played on the swings and monkey bars, and invented games with loosened balloons. After eating, the coach stood up to thank the parents and award the players for their participation. He called each boy to the table and handed them a trophy, with all the parents clapping and cheering. Some parents called out “speech, speech”, encouraging them to speak, but none did – until Toñito. He was sitting on the grass near the picnic table, so when his name was called he only had to stand up to receive his trophy.

He shook the coach’s hand and said “I’d like to speak”.

The surprised coach stammered for a bit, and then replied “sure”. Raising his arms for attention, he said “Tony would like to say a few words”.

Holding his trophy tightly in his right hand, Tony stood up on the picnic bench and waited until the small crowd was silent. I recall his speech going something like this:

“I want to thank the coaches for teaching me to play baseball. I especially want to thank my Mom and Dad for their support at all the games and practices, and for helping me throughout the year. I learned a lot about the game and I will always remember it.”

I found it difficult to hold back my tears. Who was this gangly youth with the angelic face? What prompted him to call so much attention to himself? There was no hesitation or self-consciousness in his actions or words. The other boys seemed just as astounded, because they all listened intently, without catcalling or making fun.

“I don’t know what the future will bring” he continued, “but I will always remember you and the time we spent together. Thank you.” With cheers and clapping cascading around him, Tony resumed his place and sat down. I just looked at him in wonder as I brushed away my tears of pride. The courage to give this speech matched the bravery he demonstrated during the last weeks of the season. He had respected our wishes, accepted our decision, and suffered the consequences of commitment. He was heroic, and he was free of baseball. As he rushed off with his teammates to resume their competition on the swings, his laughter sounded crisper and happier than it had for a long time.
 

Toñito’s laughter was his sweetest gift to us as a child. Until his voice changed at 10 or 11 years of age, Toñito had a secret, tinkling laugh that escaped during his private moments. It sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This was not his public laughter, but his private chuckling. I would hear it on quiet days from another room, while he sat alone in the living room or bedroom, reading a book, listening to an audiotape, or watching a TV program. I would inch toward the open door silently and carefully, as if stalking a skittish hummingbird, hoping to find the source of the enchanting sound. Without betraying my presence, I would peek in for a quick glimpse of a tall, skinny boy, with a shock of black hair falling over his forehead, sitting on the rug or couch, engrossed in a book or magazine. Ducking back, I imagined a luminous, Tinkerbelle-like faerie perched on his narrow shoulder, leaning into his ear, and whispering the private jokes or riddles that delight children. If Kathy appeared in the hallway, I would raise my finger to my lips and motion for silence. Her questioning look would disappear when the chiming giggles floated through the door. She would beam a smile of clarity, and we shared our secret. Too soon, a sound from the street or yard would intrude - a car, a shout, or a ringing phone; and the moment would pass. At puberty, Toñito kept reading, watching TV, and laughing, but the faeries came no more, and the sounds of tinkling laughter ceased.
 

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)

“Hello?” I asked in an overly loud voice, in the direction of the speaker phone attached to the window shade of my car. “Hello?” I repeated.

“Hi Tony, this is Ed” said the disembodied voice of my brother from the speaker.

“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.
 

“Coaching is a profession of love.

You can’t coach people unless you love them”.

(Eddie Robinson, former Grambling State College coach)

“Either love your players

or get out of coaching”.

(Bobby Dodd, former Georgia Tech coach)

“Bye Dad”, Prisa said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

Clutching a sports bag to her chest, the pony-tailed girl in a grey and black jersey squeezed between the narrow entrance doors and sprinted off in the direction of eight girls at the far end of the court. The similarly dressed girls were stretching on the floor in the corner, or milling around the edge of the bleachers. I barely noticed the hasty goodbye and kiss from my daughter, as I entered the large, luminous, plastic bubble, that served as a gymnasium. Instead of the solid, reassuring echoes of a basketball court with players and spectators, I was distracted by the clattering ricochets of shouts and clapping that rebounded off the synthetic walls and roof. These noises did not synchronize with the game being played on the paneled floor. There was none of the steady drumming of basketballs, or the squeaking of sneakers against polished floors, as players passed, skipped, and dribbled. I heard none of these familiar harmonies as I entered the building. The noises I heard were harsh - and the poor acoustics in the ersatz gym made them deafening. The fact that we were in this cavernous monstrosity in the first place, was testament to the truism that boys and girls will play basketball anywhere in which two opposing hoops are hoisted 10 feet off the ground, and separated by a distance of 30 yards.
 

We were at a club basketball tournament at Alemany High School, on the grounds of what was once Our Lady Queen of Angels Junior Seminary, next to the San Fernando Mission. The original high school on Rinaldi Blvd had been damaged beyond repair in the Northridge Earthquake of 1994. The temporary move to the seminary across the street became permanent the following year, when it became obvious that the tiny number of priestly candidates did not warrant the exclusive use of such a large facility. There ensued a five year modernization and building program which would end with the completion of a new gym. In the interim, all high school games which required a court were played in the gyms of surrounding schools. For three years, I had watched the Louisville High School basketball team play Alemany in the gym belonging to L.A. Baptist High School. However, as I discovered on this day, the Alemany teams practiced at home, in this temporary structure made of plastic, vinyl, and acrylics. It appeared to be more substantial than a tent – barely; but it looked and sounded like a deserted airplane hanger filled with sprinting and jostling players, and shouting spectators.

I decided to ignore the din and cacophony of this place and concentrate on the reasons I was there – to watch my daughter play basketball, and absorb enough game details to keep up with her post-game analysis on the drive home. As one game was ending, I made my way up the shaky, temporary bleachers. I sat down and searched the court for Prisa. I spied her conferring with Kari, her co-captain, as the other girls were warming up and shooting around the basket. Prisa and Kari were the only seniors on a team filled with short underclasswomen, and a cadre of very talented freshman. The pair had been on varsity for four years, and inherited the roles of leaders for this year’s squad. Despite losing 5 varsity players to graduation, these captains were committed to improving on last year’s record, and rejected the notion of a “rebuilding year”. As evidence of this determination, Prisa waived her final year of volleyball to help direct the Basketball Conditioning sessions in the fall of 1997. This was a pre-season strength and conditioning program that allowed the coaching staff to assess their new and returning players before scheduled games and tournaments could begin. Coaches were not allowed to hold games or scrimmages during this period, but players were permitted to play on club teams - as long as their coaches were not present or guiding them. This lack of formal coaching made for low-key, low-stress games. No one kept score, and stats were rarely maintained; the point of the games was to let the kids play, and not on winning. A designated father, mother, or adult volunteer, stepped into the temporary role of coach for the game, and he or she would shuttle the players in and out.

The quaking of the bleachers signaled the transition to the next game. Sweaty and tussle-haired players climbed up the ascending benches to greet their supporters, merging with the descending spectators heading to the exits.  Searching for a better place to sit, I noticed that Prisa had walked over to the bottom of the bleachers and was waving me down.

“What’s up?” I asked, reaching the floor after a slow descent.

“Dad, I need to ask you for a favor”, she said in an odd manner, sliding up close to me.

“Sure” I replied quickly bringing up my right arm to hug her. I imagined that she probably needed me to recover something she had forgotten in the car, or at home.

“You really won’t have to do much, Dad, Kari and I will keep track of the substitutions, fouls, and plays; all you’ll have to do is sit there - it will be really simple”. All this was said in one quick and breathless sentence.

“Uhhh, what did you say?” I replied slowly, not trusting my hearing. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be the coach, Dad. Kari’s dad couldn’t make it and there is no one else available”.

I felt as if the rotation of the earth had stopped, and everything was frozen in time. I was alone in the universe, facing my worst nightmare scenario: being asked for a personal favor, by my only daughter, to perform a simple, but terrifying task. My daughter was asking me to do the impossible – coaching a team.

There are only three actions I cannot conceive of ever performing: touching and distributing the transubstantiated Body of Jesus Christ as a host in Communion; performing medical surgery on any body; and coaching a sports team. I firmly believed that these tasks were the exclusive domain of unique individuals who were blessed with extraordinary talents and abilities. They were people who were born to be priests or ministers, doctors, medics, or nurses, and team coaches or managers. These were true vocations, special callings, which required rigorous training, dedicated practice, and faithful devotion. Admittedly, I had lightly dabbled in coaching when I volunteered as an assistant on my son’s early soccer and baseball teams, and my daughter’s softball teams; but these were amateurish, supporting efforts that ended with high school sports. I came to truly appreciate the complexity and intricacy of high school coaching when Prisa joined the varsity basketball team as a freshman. The newly hired husband and wife team (Mr. Coach and Mrs. Coach, as they were known) established a sophisticated program that raised the level of fitness, skill development, and game performance at Louisville High School. Prisa’s talents and understanding of basketball increased logarithmically under their tutelage, and I happily assumed the role of spectator and fan. I saw that she was playing the game at a level I never imagined, and understood it better than I ever would. Now that player was putting me in an impossible position.
 

I never refused Prisa anything she urgently needed or wanted (and she never asked for much); but I never accepted a task I wasn’t confident in performing adequately. I was a school principal of seven years, the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of a multi-million dollar operation, and the instructional leader of more than 70 teachers and 1800 students, but I was haunted by the primordial fear of being exposed as a fraud. I was trained as a teacher and administrator, but never as a manager of the types of emergencies and crises that can erupt on a school campus. Only 22 years of professional experiences gave me the brashness to face, engage, and deal with them – always realizing I was a hair’s breadth away from disaster. I was only as qualified as I believed myself to be. I was not about to knowingly assume a task, in public view, that I felt myself unqualified to perform.

“Dad, I know I’m asking you to do something you hate” she said, placing her head against my shoulder and looking up at me. “I would never let you be embarrassed. Trust me. Kari and I will do the coaching; I just need you to sit on the bench”.

I looked down at her pleading expression and imagined that it kept alternating as the face of the baby girl I rocked to sleep in my arms, and the mocking face of Chuck Barris, convincing an untalented contestant to make a fool of himself on the Gong Show.

“There has to be someone else we can find” I suggested, weakly.

“No, Dad, you’re our last hope. If you don’t do it, we’ll have to forfeit”. Her decisive tone resounded as loudly as the striking of the humiliating gong.

“Okay, honey” I said, letting go of my fears and placing my ego in the hands of my 17 year old daughter. “I’ll do it”.

Resignedly, I walked to the player’s bench and sat down. From that moment on, the velocity of actions and movements of the people around me, and on the floor, increased to match my speeding heart rate. Prisa, Kari, and eight other girls took the court, and, with the tipoff and start of the clock on the scoreboard, I was engulfed in a blizzard of shifting bodies. Uniformed shapes and squealing sneakers sprinted up and down the floor, transitioning from offense to defense, shooting and passing the ball, committing fouls and being fouled, shouting encouragements, setting plays, and giving directions. It was a confusing and humbling experience. I felt naked in the midst of a tempest, bereft of shelter and with no understanding of the elements that buffeted me. Suddenly the buzzer sounded, and the first half came to a close. During the abbreviated intermission, Prisa finished talking to the team and came up to me.

“You’re doing a great job, Dad,” she said, reassuringly, patting me on the shoulder “I’m really proud of you”.
 

Twelve years later, I walked into another gymnasium for the first time to see Prisa in a game of basketball between the Knights of Bishop Montgomery and St. Mary’s Academy of Inglewood. This time she was not playing, she was coaching. Stopping under the backboard at one end of the court to get my bearings, I happily noticed that this building was built in the reassuring, classic multipurpose design of the late 1950’s. There was a raised theatre stage on one side and rising bleachers on the other. The team benches were aligned on the stage side of the floor, with folding chairs set up along the baseline. Prisa was sitting on the stage, with a clipboard in hand, studying the day’s line up and game plan. There were two groups of players at each end of the court shooting and rebounding, but I couldn’t tell which were Prisa’s until the girls nearest me began staring, pointing, and whispering to one another. Girl athletes, as opposed to boys, are never indifferent to the parents of their coach, and their curiosity betrays them. As I walked over to Prisa, she hopped down from the stage when she saw me and gave me a hug.

“Hi dad, I’m glad you made it. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No, it was easy. I had a high school friend who lived near here, on Praire. I haven’t driven this route in years”.  Realizing that she didn’t have time to listen to my rambling memories, I changed the subject. “So, how has your team been doing?”

“We’ve been struggling” she explained. “Two of our players were out of town for Christmas, and two more couldn’t make the last game. Our practices have been uneven, and the girls are distracted. We’ve lost our last three games.”

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. “Sorry to hear that. Maybe your luck will change, now that I’m here. In fact, I think you should tell the players that I’ll be taking their pictures and bringing them luck today”.

“I’ll do that, Dad”, she said with a laugh.

“So, what kind or talent do you have this year?” I resumed, questioningly.

“Well”, she replied, “the Varsity coach drafted all the promising freshmen players. Her team is already loaded with talent, so the freshmen won’t see much game time. It’s too bad really, but I understand the advantages of practicing with the varsity team. We still have a good team, with some strong juniors. We have height, speed, and depth. In each of our last 3 games we came back from early deficits to tie the score, but then we lost momentum. The other teams just wanted it more. We have the talent – we just need to put our game together”.

A tall, strong-looking, ponytailed blonde player came bounding up to us. She was one of the girls who had noted my entrance into the gym. Prisa introduced her to me as the team captain and then gave her instructions.

“Be sure everyone has stretched and warmed up” she said carefully, “then bring the team together for a meeting”.

As the captain jogged back to her teammates, I said, “Well, coach, we’ll talk after the game. I’ll let you get back to your team. I’ll just watch and take pictures”.

“Great”, she replied, “Joe should be coming by later, so he can keep you company during the game”.

It is a treat and a blessing for a parent to watch their adult children performing their chosen professions or vocations. I’ve been fortunate to see Prisa teach one of her English classes, and now I was finally watching her coach. Last year she worked as an assistant, implementing the philosophy and game plans of the head coach. This year she was in charge, and it was her team. Fifteen girls of various sizes, shapes, and mannerisms huddled around her, at the far end of the bench. Watching her speak and interact with her players, reminded me of how she acted in class. She spoke softly and intently, used her hands for emphasis, and interjected lighthearted humor and joking banter. However, there was more intensity in the huddle that in a classroom. These girls wanted to be here, and on this team. The varsity coach had already picked over the players; so there would be no more promotions to varsity. This was the last season for all the juniors on the team. The players who remained were playing for love of the game. This was the essence of sport; to learn and play a game because you love to learn and play it. In high school, Prisa had willingly stayed at the JV level in volleyball and softball just to experience the joy of practice and performance; rather than practicing and watching on the varsity, she preferred playing on JV.

When the game started I joined Joe, Prisa’s fiancé, in the stands to watch and photograph. I enjoy watching basketball, even though I don’t recognize all the technical aspects of the game without the assistance of a commentator or coach. I can usually identify a zone defense, man-to-man coverage, and a full-court press, but after that I don’t know what is really going on beyond the scoring. That is why I love watching the Pac-10 Tournament with Prisa; she constantly updates me on the defensive sets, the plays, and the adjustments that go on during a game. She is so good at it, that spectators in front, and to our sides, would constantly engage her in conversation and discussion. When I’m alone, I just watch the guards, the ball, and the scoring. Through the lens of my camera, the teams traded baskets for the first quarter, with neither one establishing any consistent momentum or control. Despite Bishop Montgomery’s advantage in height and speed, St. Mary’s kept up with their outside shooting. The Knights would fall behind when they tried matching outside field goals, and then catch up with fast breaks off defensive turnovers, and passes to their forwards for layups. I grew increasingly anxious in the second quarter because Montgomery’s advantages were becoming more obvious, but they were not capitalizing on them. I expressed my apprehensions and nervousness with intermittent shouts of encouragement and emotional reactions: “yes, yes, yes”; “no, no, no”; “rebound, get the rebound”; “look up, look up”; “no, no, no”; “shoot, shoot  – yes!”; “ oohh, nooo”; “get it, get it”; and “put it up”. Joe was kind enough to ignore me. Glancing away from the action on the floor, I’d occasionally look over at Prisa, striding calmly and confidently in front of the team bench. Pausing at different spots along the baseline, she would call out, point, clap encouragement, and give directions to the hustling players who pushed the ball forward on the attack, and retreated on defense. The closest gesture of disapproval was when she stretched out her arms, palms up in supplication, and mouthed the word “What?” at the referees. The game see-sawed back and forth, with neither team gaining the upper hand. At halftime the score was St. Mary’s Academy 18 – Bishop Montgomery 20.
 

From my perspective behind the camera, Prisa’s halftime speech was a continuation of the pre-game huddle, and her on-court encouragements. She praised the players for what they were doing correctly, identifying the specific plays, and then reviewed the adjustments that needed to be made. She interspersed jokes, insights, and irony, but there was no hint of disappointment or frustration. I did hear strong echoes of past coaches that Prisa admired and loved. The second half was an entirely different game. Montgomery came out with increased determination and a pressing defense that did not let up, and they slowly increased their lead. When I looked up at the scoreboard in the 3^rd quarter, they were ahead by 10 points; when I looked again at the next timeout, the spread had grown to 20. It was at that point that I finally sat back in my seat and relaxed, asking Joe how he was doing in his new position as Athletic Director of Serra High School. As he talked about how much he missed coaching, memories of the club game at Alemany, and my one-and-only high school coaching experience came to mind. I hated every moment of that game, because I felt powerless; I didn’t know what I was doing, or what was going on. Yet, I had to say “Yes” to my daughter or the girls would not play. That game was about trusting Prisa and her teammates, and being willing to appear foolish so they could play and learn in front of family, friends, and strangers. I suppose that is what every coach does when they go out on a court, or on a field of play, with their kids – saying “Yes”, and being willing to appear foolish, or wise, depending on how the team performs.  Observing some of her teaching mannerisms in her coaching style had misled me to suspect that coaching was an extension of teaching for Prisa – but it isn’t. Teachers and administrators do not expose themselves in quite that way in classrooms and schools; they work within segregated spaces and behind closed doors. Coaches have no privacy; they constantly expose themselves to public judgments every game, through their players.
 

The Knights coasted to an easy victory, with Prisa substituting her players generously to give everyone lots of time on the court. The final score was St. Mary’s 29 – Bishop Montgomery 62. At the end of the game, after Prisa had congratulated her team and reminded them of practice, I walked over to her and said, “Good game, coach”.  There is something generationally satisfying in watching ones children do something you never could. There is a little envy, and a lot of awe.
 

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 long 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”.

On this Valentine’s Day of 2009, I just want to say, I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I saw you.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,

any thing can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

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

In the pre-dawn chill of Inauguration Day, sitting together on the flat, frigid, and windswept plain, there was little desire to move, talk, or joke. Communication and action was reduced to the barest essentials to conserve warmth. We spoke in quick questions and statements; like, “What’s the time? My toes are frozen. When will the sun come up?”  Instead of sharing impressions of the dawn, our thoughts were internalized, and we concentrated on the temperature, and how our bodies were reacting to it. I had never spent so much time completely at the mercy of the glacial elements of winter, without shelter or external covering. Our only defense against hypothermia was the clothing we wore. Together, Prisa and I passed seven hours on the National Mall waiting for the Swearing-In ceremony and speech. During that time, I gained a new appreciation for arctic gear and a healthy respect for the vagaries of freezing conditions. My personal observations were that cold seems to come in waves of intensity, and the sun doesn’t help much. There were intervals when I felt very cold and then, not-so-cold; periods when it seemed that the people around us were human generators of heat and warmth, and then a gust of frigid air would blow out their pilot lights and turn them into icicles radiating frost. I noticed this tendency mostly with my fingers and toes. Even when I wasn’t exposing my digits to the open air to adjust my camera or take a picture, my fingers (and toes) would alternate between feeling stiff, aching, and frostbitten, to being soft, flexible, and whole. I couldn’t understand it. Whether using mittens (as I did) or gloves (as Prisa did), there was no way to control the undulating phases of cold. We came to the fatalistic conclusion that no amount of clothing or insulated layering was adequate defense to the unrelenting rhythms of cold. Our only hope was the certainty that the morning would end. However, the rising sun didn’t make that much difference. The day turned sparkling and sharp, but the undulating rhythms of cold continued throughout. Looking back at how we fared during those seven hours, I think 3 factors helped us survive: woolen scarves and hats, music, and human company.
 

As a Los Angeles native, and a lifetime Southern California resident, I never used knit caps and scarves for the cold. I considered those items snow gear, ill suited for the infrequent rainfall and rarely cold mornings and evenings of a semi-arid, desert climate. I especially didn’t understand them as gifts. I considered scarves to be bright and wooly ladies neckwear, which women used to accessorize their coats and sweaters. I believed that scarves, like neckties, were decorative, and not at all functional. These notions shattered like thin ice on the morning of January 20. It did not matter that the sun was up, or that Washington D.C. was a southern city, my ears, nose, and throat (mouth) were the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of my anatomy, and they were taking a beating in this weather. With temperatures ranging in the mid to low 20 degrees, and wind chill blasts driving it occasionally lower, I constantly thanked God for the flannel cap that covered my head and ears, and my scarf, which covered my mouth and nose. Yet even these key accessories couldn’t compare with the beneficial effects that music had on the beleaguered spectators. At about 8:30, event technicians began testing the sound system on the Mall. Instead of a disembodied, monotone voice chanting “Check, check, check”, the speakers would suddenly explode with music and songs. We couldn’t tell if the music came from a radio or MP3 player, because it never lasted long. However, those intermittent and brief snippets of music were enough to lift our spirits and give us hope. We would sing along and rock with the longer, more popular pieces, and then boo when the testing terminated and the music stopped.

“The organizers could be really helpful if they just let the music play” Prisa said in a muffled voice, through her neck-scarf.

“Really” I agreed. “It would sure help to keep our minds off the cold”.

“It would; you know, I heard that they were thinking of showing the entire HBO Concert from last Sunday”.

“Wow that would be great” I said, praying that this was more than a rumor.

The testing continued for 15 more minutes and then stopped completely. A little later, as we were hopping up and down, and bouncing from foot to foot, trying to increase circulation; the giant monitor jumped suddenly to life. The title on the screen read “We Are One: The Obama Inaugural Celebration”, and the bundled masses on the Mall broke into wild cheers and muffled clapping. Prisa’s information had been correct, for over 90 minutes we were treated to a reprise of the HBO concert that took place two days before in front of the Lincoln Memorial. It was only then that we felt the sun’s presence, and the day’s promise. Our thoughts moved away from ourselves, the cold, and our discomfort, and focused on the speakers, the musicians, and the music. It was wonderful – from Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising”, through Garth Brooks’ renditions of “American Pie” and “Shout”, to U2’s singing “In the the Name of Love” - we traveled the breadth of American’s gospel, soul, folk, and rock and roll music . We sang, we swayed, and we danced; more important we warmed. The heat wasn’t coming from the sun, but from the beaming smiles, infectious laughter, and bounding energy of the people around us. Bodies were moving and walking again. There was a renewed migration of individuals, pairs, and bands of people from the back of the Mall to the front. This new wave of “squatters” was looking for better locations and closer views. They filled every nook and cranny of empty space they could find. Ground that was used for lounging and sleeping during the darkened hours of the morning now filled with late arriving settlers. The crowd became denser and friendlier. As James Taylor and Pete Seeger performed, I focused my camera on the faces of the men and women around me, the young, the old, the cheery, and the intense. I wanted to record the faces of these witnesses, the people who had come from far and near to be here today. When the concert ended after 10:30, the video screen transitioned into showing a procession of dignitaries and guests. We saw Dustin Hoffman, Oprah Winfrey, the diplomatic corps, Steven Spielberg, and countless people who had gained the preferred seating areas under the Capitol portico. However, nothing was more impressive, or received the biggest cheer, than the live, overhead views of the Mall itself with its miles and miles of people. From the Capitol Building to beyond the Washington Monument, men, women, and children cheered and waved flags at the sight of themselves. We learned later that we totaled over 1.7 million spectators in this vast, sprawling area. At the time, we simply felt as One.
 

The official Inaugural ceremonies began at 11 o’clock with musical selections by the Marine Band and the Boys and Girls Chorus of San Francisco. During this interlude the video broadcast would break off to show the arriving members of the House and Senate, new cabinet members and former presidents. The only negative sound to emanate from the viewing throng during the entire experience was the booing at the pictures of President Bush and Vice-president Cheney. The moment was awkward and embarrassing, because it reminded me of how I scold my students at election assemblies to always cheer FOR candidates, never against them. We choose by our vote, I tell them, we don’t demean candidates, or former officers, by booing and catcalling. The lapse in decorum passed as soon as the camera shifted to a picture of Barack Obama, in the hallway of the Capitol, waiting to enter. This initial part of the agenda served as an audio and visual countdown to the Swearing-In, and like a late morning rocket launch, it generated a growing build-up of anticipation. The tension finally climaxed as the trumpet fanfare signaled the start of the events, and whoops and cheering greeted Senator Dianne Feinstein as she stepped to the podium to call the convocation to order and guide the proceedings. In a multitude of almost 2 million people, I was struck by the noticeable hush that descended on the Mall when the program started. Without hum or murmurings, all eyes and ears were locked on the giant screens, with an occasional glance at the Capitol building and portico. Up until this moment, I had felt bonded with the crowd by our common desire to be there, and having withstood the arduous morning. In the eerie stillness, my excitement faltered. From our distant location on the Mall, we could barely see the miniscule figures on the ledge in front of the Capitol. They were so far away and so tiny. If we couldn’t actually SEE Barack Obama, what were we doing here? Why had I travelled 2,000 miles, missed two days of work, and suffered the ravages of the raw elements? The self-pitying questions surprised me, but I managed to push them aside when I scanned the confident and happy faces of the people around me. Their expectant and excited features reassured me that my feelings were crazy, and a symptom of fatigue.
 

The introduction of the Reverend Rick Warren also distracted me from my doubts. His selection to give the Invocation had caused considerable controversy in the media because of some earlier criticisms of homosexuality, and I wondered if any of the previously manifested anti-Bush sentiment would reappear. There was none. In fact the “padre” helped vanquish my self-doubts by encapsulating the reasons for our presence on that Mall with a prayer. He carefully and thoughtfully constructed a psalm for our new president. Tears welled up in my eyes at the power of the words sent directly to God’s ear:

“Let us pray… The Scripture tells us, Hear, oh Israel, the Lord is our God; the Lord is one. And you are the compassionate and merciful one. And you are loving to everyone you have made.

Now today we rejoice not only in America’s peaceful transfer of power for the 44^th time. We celebrate a hinge-point of history with the inauguration of our first African-American president of the United States.

We are so grateful to live in this land, a land of unequaled possibility, where the son of an African immigrant can rise to the highest level of our leadership.

And we know today that Dr. King and a great cloud of witnesses are shouting in Heaven.

Give to our new president, Barack Obama, the wisdom to lead us with humility, the courage to lead us with integrity, the compassion to lead us with generosity. Bless and protect him and his family.

Help us, oh God, to remember that we are Americans, united not by race or religion or blood, but to our commitment to freedom and justice for all.

When we focus on ourselves, when we fight each other, when we forget you, forgive us. When we presume that our greatness and our prosperity is ours alone, forgive us. When we fail to treat our fellow human beings and all the Earth with the respect that they deserve, forgive us.

And as we face these difficult days ahead, may we have a new birth of clarity in our aims, responsibility in our actions, humility in our approaches, and civility in our attitudes, even when we differ…”

“Do you have a Kleenex, Prisa?” I asked at the completion of the ‘Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer)’. Throughout the latter part of the Invocation I had been fighting back sobs and my flowing mucus.

“No, sorry Dad” she replied, looking at my reddening eyes with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yea” I said, “but I need to blow my nose”. I was forced to use my mittens as a handkerchief until I got my nose under control.
 

After the Invocation, Prisa and I stood side-by-side, carefully listening to the rest of the ceremonies. The strongest and longest cheers of the day burst forth when President Obama said “So help me God” at the conclusion of his Oath of Office. Prisa and I hugged, and then I re-positioned myself to record the waving flags, embracing couples, and ear-to-ear smiles, with my camera. In that instant, seeing those faces, and feeling the energy of our numbers, I KNEW why Prisa and I had traveled so far and so long to be there at that moment. We were NOT there to SEE Barack Obama; we could get a better view at home, on our HDTV. We were there to be with him at this moment, so HE COULD SEE US: not Oprah, not Spielberg, not any one single person on the Mall – but so he could SEE ALL OF US AS ONE. We came together in that instant, for that reason. We were almost 2 million Americans being seen by one man from a high and lonely precipice, on the portico of the nation’s Capitol. The problems our nation faced and the tasks that awaited him were perilous and daunting. This was a moment when he needed to see the people who trusted him and were ready to brave the uncertain future with him. We were there to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. I imagined how we looked to him, and I prayed that we were an awesome and inspiring sight. I put my arm around Prisa, squeezed her close, and listened to the new president’s first speech.
 

The inaugural oration lacked the soaring eloquence and sweeping scope of the speeches he gave in Iowa and New Hampshire, in the first months of the primaries. Those were the high flying days when his rhetoric billowed with idealism and optimism. The phrases and style he used at that time were the Obama 1.0 version of his speeches; their freshness grabbed and held our attention, inspiring hopefulness and the promise of change. However, over the course of the long and arduous campaign, and with the collapse of the financial and economic system of the country, these messages changed and evolved. Slowly, his discourses became more logistical, factual, and concrete. The inaugural address continued this hardnosed and mature style. He described his Vision of hope and promise for the nation, but his message was truthful, realistic, and grim. President Obama did not sugar-coat the nation’s problems, nor offer inspirational platitudes. He also did not recite a convenient sound bite which journalists could repeat to characterize his administration – no New Deal, New Frontier, or Great Society quote was provided. The one phrase that probably captured the no-nonsense spirit of his theme was “Starting today, we must pick yourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin the work of remaking America”. Prisa and I hung on his every word. We were moved by his speech, and we accepted the challenges that he framed for us and the nation. We cheered ourselves weak at the end. Together, we were concluding a journey that began over a year ago. It started when Prisa piqued my curiosity about this young, African-American Senator by telling me she was working on his presidential campaign (see Whisper of Hope). It was ending with a new president, here on the Mall of Washington D.C., on Wednesday, January 20, 2009.
 

The long day’s adventure drew to a close as Prisa and I sat warmly and snuggly at the bar of Kavanaugh’s Pub, on Wisconsin Ave. I ordered a beer for my soon-to-be wed daughter, and together we toasted and drank to the President Barack Obama - the First Citizen of the United States of America. As she lowered her glass, Prisa let out one final whoop:

“Woowhoo, Obama!”

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)

“I think this is as far as we can go”, I said breathlessly, glancing up at the annoying strobes, flashing from the malfunctioning spotlights suspended near the video “jumbo-tron” screen.

“We could probably get closer to the barriers, but then we’d lose sight of the screen”, Prisa mused, raising herself on tip-toes to survey the 5 to 8 yards between us and the fencing along 4^th Street. “This is a good place to stop” she concluded, exhaling and sending a cloud of warm mist into the freezing morning air. We were being joined by a constant flow of hooded, scarved, and heavily jacketed settlers who had followed us across the National Mall, in Washington D.C. Like latter day Sooners, we were slowing from our initial sprint across the acres of worn winter grass to stake our claims at this spot. The imaginary land rush began the moment we topped the mound of the Washington Monument and saw only a vast tract of open territory between that towering obelisk and the eastern boundary of the public viewing area of the Inauguration. With every step we took, we accelerated our pace in the frigid morning, and sped past the buildings and landmarks we had noted the day before: the Smithsonian, the National Carousel, and the MSNBC trailer at 7^th Street. The darkness of the early morning was interrupted by beams of narrow light cast by towers set at regular intervals along the Mall. Guided by these beacons we traversed 4 divided viewing areas before we came to a stop near 4^th Street. We had come to the limits of our land claiming stampede.
 

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…..

There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed.

Some forever, not for better,

Some have gone and some remain.

All these places have their moments,

With lovers and friends I still can recall.

Some are dead and some are living;

In my life, I’ve loved them all.

 (Lennon-McCarthy, In My Life: 1965)

I’ve found that most people my age recall their high school days in idyllic terms. I’ve never understood this. I mistakenly assumed that, in attending the same catholic school for four years, my high school friends and acquaintances shared the same adolescent feelings about these times. Yet, as I shivered at remembered scenes of embarrassments and humiliations, school mates and friends blissfully described these times as the best years of their lives. In the invitation of my silence, they tried to convince me of the superior education they received, the high quality of teaching, and the fulfilling social and sporting activities they participated in. At the conclusion of these conversations, I often doubted that we attended the same high school. These thoughts of high school came to me while I was writing my last essay about driving down Venice Boulevard (Rolling Home) and describing my years playing Pop Warner football. The high school scenes that came to mind did not fit the travelogue essay I was writing, so I saved them for another.
 

Looking back at the boy I was during high school, I would describe myself as an uncertain and insecure “nerd”, struggling to distinguish himself and achieve some chimerical prize in the social, academic, and athletic arenas in which we competed. I wanted to be recognized and envied: “There goes Tony. I wish I were as handsome, popular, smart, and athletic as he is”. At the same time I was afraid to be singled out, differentiated, or separated from the safety of a group. I wanted to be like other kids; kids who looked the right way, did the right things, and knew what to say in all occasions. It was a confusing time. My day to day existence never ceased being a private struggle of making mistakes, forgiving myself for having made them, and then trying to avoid making them again. This was difficult to do because I kept them hidden and secret. Miraculously, by a confluence of accident, good luck, and hard work, I reached a truce with myself in my senior year. In that fourth year, I achieved a modicum of individual distinction, group acceptance, and personal satisfaction as a student and athlete – but I could never forget my lower-classmen days, especially my freshman year and football.
 

In the summer of 1961, I decided to skip freshman tryouts and remain for a final year in the Pop Warner football program. I was in the odd situation of being the only high school boy on my team, since everyone else went to public junior high schools. The core of the team had been together for three years. We were veteran and experienced ball players who knew that this could be our championship season. I had no interest in breaking ranks with my comrades to join a new team. I assumed any sportsman would understand this decision; especially since football was just a game. Unfortunately, my high school did not. In my freshman year, I learned two lessons about high school football: Team loyalties are not respected when they conflict with its football program; and football is not a game in high school.
 

A clue to the importance of football in high school was the tradition among upper classmen in lettermen sweaters of cornering freshman boys and asking if they were going out for football. The question was couched as a compliment, such as “You have great hands; are you going out for the frosh team?” Or, “With your size and strength, you’d make a great lineman; are you going out for football?” The “right” answer was “Sure, I can’t wait!” This response, with an added dose of naive enthusiasm, would get you past this roadblock. Answering “No” was a sure provocation to a hostile interrogation, laced with humiliating homophobic insults and innuendo. “What’s wrong with you, are you a pansy? Do you still play with dolls? You don’t look like a fag to me!” Coaches who taught freshmen classes also posed these question, albeit without the explicit homosexual references. I’d been forewarned of this fall ritual by one former teammate who had moved on to catholic high school. However, it didn’t help, and I mistakenly tried walking the tightrope of honesty and sport machismo. When I was “braced” by lettermen or teachers, I told them I WAS a football player, but I was passing on freshman ball to complete a third year in Pop Warner. Instead of understanding and respect for this loyalty to my team, I received a semester-length dose of negative attention for my choice. It was the worst possible fate for a freshman, in a new school among strangers, to be singled out and made the target of mockery and derision by “jock” teachers and lettermen. I was called a “Pop Warner pansy”, a “homo”, and a “traitor” in hallways and the lunch area. I had to run more laps, and do extra push-ups and sit-ups than my fellow freshmen in P.E. This treatment continued until I showed up for spring football in April.

Spring football is a gathering of novice and veteran football players so they can be inspected and judged for their ability to play junior varsity or varsity football. The coaches hoped to weed out the weak and uncover the strong. At first I thought I had something to prove: I would demonstrate my seasoned skills and fierce attitude; I would show that I was not a “faggot” and I could play this game. Since I had not gone out for the freshman team that fall, I was relegated to the beginners group until I showed my mettle. I took the setback in stride. I devoted the first days to showing the neophytes how to buckle their pads and wear their uniforms, and translating the gridiron curses that were screamed at them by volunteer upperclassmen coaches. The adult coaches talked about team spirit, courage, and commitment; but, after three years, I knew that at its essence, football was about guts, attitude, and rules. There were rules of behavior and etiquette on the field and off the field. Beginners practiced and improved their skills, but real players had to show a willingness to accept and deliver punishment and receive pain without hesitation or sign of distress. I had done this for three years, and I believed I could continue at the high school level.

On one particularly cold day of practice, the linemen paired off for tackling drills. I was facing a mountainous classmate named Alex Schumacher, a freshman beginner who was nicknamed “Big”. He was 6’- 1’’, and weighed about 210 lbs – hefty advantages to my 5-9, 160. We were 5 yards apart when he was given the ball and commanded to run forward. My job was to hit and stop him, lifting and driving him off his feet, back into the ground. The collision was sufficiently loud and thunderous to cause all eyes on the field to turn towards us; but instead of seeing me drive him up and onto his back, the coaches saw us collapse to the side. An unstoppable force had struck the unmovable object, and there was no momentum left. Grasping the instructional opportunity of this moment, an assistant coach ran up to us and yelled in my face. It was a two-man litany I was familiar with:

“Delgado, do you call that sissy effort a tackle?” He screamed.

“No sir” I yelled back, through my mouth piece.

“What do you want to do about it? He barked.

“I want to do it again, coach!” I yelled enthusiastically.

“Good, line up! Do it again! Only this time plant him into the ground.” He commanded.

Schumacher was on his feet, still holding the ball, and moving his helmeted head from side to side as we spoke. He never said a word. He had no lines in this scripted dialogue, so he just stood there, confused, waiting for directions. “What are you waiting for, Shumacher?” the coached yelled, turning toward him and taking the ball away. “You heard me, let’s do it again. Line up – only this time I want you to run over him”.

We separated again. I took my stance, bit down on my mouth piece, and leaned forward, visualized my action. Spring forward, with driving legs, and impaling my right shoulder into his thighs, while wrapping my arms around his knees, pull them back towards me. The keys to a successful tackle off the line are hitting the ball carrier low and maintaining forward momentum by driving your legs like pistons. I’d done this hundreds of times. By putting all the pieces together I would hit him, drive him back, and drop him down.  Unfortunately, I knew what all the coaches knew, and the watching veterans suspected, about this pairing – it was a mismatch. Halfbacks and fullbacks did not come in Schumacher’s size, bulk or weight. My only hope was to act confidently and decisively and pray that Schumacher would realize that he needed to let himself be tackled. However, Alex was new to football. He truly believed it was his job to run over me. He knew nothing of lineman etiquette during tackling drills. The purpose of the drill was to practice form and intensity, not to score touchdowns. I was demonstrating the proper bravado and determination; he was supposed to be the tackling dummy.

“Go!” The coach screamed as he jammed the football into Schumacher’s stomach.

I charged off my mark, staying low and staring at the target of his stomach. I hit him with a resounding crunch before he had taken 2 steps, and followed the impact with a long strenuous grunt, “Aarrgghhh!”
 

Silence ensued, as all eyes watched the mammoth Schumacher, absorb the blow. My shoulder and helmet appeared to be pasted on his waist and thighs, and my legs kept driving, but there was no movement. I finally yanked the arms encircling his legs toward me and twisted him to the side, as though I was wrestling a giant heifer to the ground.

The coach was instantly hovering over us, yelling: “What do you call that, Delgado?”

“A candy-ass tackle, coach,” I replied immediately, looking up at him from the ground. I was hoping that by giving him an honest but humorous response, he would laugh and move on to the next pair. But he wasn’t going to let me off the hook yet.

“Damn right”, he responded. “That was the sorriest, most candy-assed tackle, I’ve ever seen! Where did you learn how to tackle like that? Oh wait, now I remember, Pop Warner football. What do you want to do about this, Delgado? Do you want to quit?”

“No sir!” I yelled back at him at the top of my lungs. “I want to go again, coach!” I lied, hoping that the force of my words would sound convincing. It must have worked, because for the first time I saw what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile on his grizzled face. I hoped he was seeing the absurdity of my situation, the size of my opponent, and realizing that I was only demonstrating false bravado.

“Good, then line up and knock him on his ass!”

That was not the response I wanted to hear. Perhaps my acting was better that I thought. Now I had no recourse but to try one more time. Since Alex was not cooperating with me, I needed a new plan. I jogged back to the line of tacklers and took my three point stance. If I couldn’t drive him back, then I had to drop him. The only way to do that was to knock his feet out from under him. This was the last-ditch, failsafe maneuver performed by undersized safeties when facing hard-charging fullbacks who had broken through the defensive lines of linemen and linebackers. It was a risky maneuver, because by launching oneself at a ball carrier’s feet, and turning themselves into a low-flying missile, with their helmet as the warhead, the tackler lost sight of his target. A quick back could simply leap over the blind, low flying obstacle and make the tackler look foolish. No self-respecting lineman would try such a ploy, leaving it for the likes of safeties, punters, and kickers. I had seen it done, but I never practiced the maneuver. I kept telling myself that Schumacher did not know enough to leap over me.

“Go” shouted the coach, pushing the ball into Schumacher’s stomach for the third time.

I flew off my mark, tunneling all my attention at the space between his ankles and knees. On my third step I launched myself, lowering my eyes to the ground, and visualizing the contact of my helmet and shoulder pads against bone and sinew. I felt a jarring collision that shivered through my neck, shoulders, back, waist, and thighs. I felt a wide blow to the stomach, followed by the collapsing avalanche of a mountain on my back. Everything went black until someone rolled me over.

“He’s not breathing, he’s not breathing!” Schumacher was yelling frantically in my face, and looking around in panic.

I was trying to inhale, but my lungs and mouth found no traction. I was grasping for air in an airless vacuum, and everyone moved and sounded as though they were under water. The wind had been knocked out of me. I’d seen it happen a few times in practices, and I’d experienced it once – I think. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t care, because I couldn’t breathe. I tried saying “Pull up my belt; pull me up by my belt!” but no sounds emanated except more gasping. I’d seen coaches and other players treat this condition by lifting the belt of the winded player and raising his stomach. This action allowed air back into the diaphragm and lungs. However, no one was moving toward me and I was beginning to panic. Finally the head of the coach appeared in front of me, and I felt my midsection being raised up. “Whoosh”, the air seemed to rush back into me, and I started breathing again.

“Are you okay, Delgado?” The coach asked, staring into my eyes.

“Yes, sir”, I replied, marveling at how good air tasted after being blown out of your body. I sat up and felt my body expanding and contracting with air.

“Take five and get some water”, he said, patting me on my helmet.

“Do you want me to try it again, coach?” I asked, praying that he would finally call a halt to this ludicrous game we were playing.

“No”, he said, grimly, patting my helmet again. “I think you’ve done enough for now. Go get some water”.

I got up slowly and removed my helmet as I went jogging off to the water fountain. My stomach was sore, so I just rinsed my mouth and spit out the water. I was more interested in deep gulps of air than water. Two minutes later Schumacher came lumbering up to the fountain.

“I’m sorry, Tony”, he said through the face guard of his helmet.

“Shut up, you asshole” I muttered, softly, making sure no coaches heard. “Thanks for trying to kill me”, I exaggerated for good measure.

“Jeez” he whined. “I was only following directions. I didn’t mean to hurt you”.

“It’s a tackling DRILL you idiot!” I said, accentuating every word. “You’re not supposed to score touchdowns. You’re supposed to hold the ball and be tackled”.

“I’m sorry”, he repeated soulfully.

“Come on”, I said, putting my helmet back on. “Let’s get back to practice”. As we jogged along, I shook my head from side to side, in dreaded anticipation. Was I the only person who saw the absurdity of the drill and its mismatch? The tackling episode had been filled with potential for levity and humor, but the coach treated it as a tragedy of some sort. I was in the middle of a slapstick comedy sketch, but nobody was laughing. I couldn’t because my stomach was too sore, and no one else seemed to get it.

When Schumacher and I returned to our section of the practice field, the coach was directing the linemen to form a wide circle around him.

“Okay, okay, okay” he said, clapping his hands together in rhythm with his exclamations. “The drill is called ‘Bull in the Ring’. You each have a number. We start with one man in the middle, whose job it is to stay there as long as possible. The object is to knock the man out of the ring. I call a number, and the man with that number charges and drives the bull out of the ring. Get it? Who’ll go first?”

Even as I stepped forward with raised arm, shouting “Here coach!” the self-accusations reverberated in my mind: “What are you doing? Are you crazy? What are you trying to prove?” It was too late.

“Delgado, great; I knew I could count on you. Get in the middle of the ring, and be alert and ready”.

I ran to the center of the circle and took a wide, crouching stance, with arms up and out, and legs driving into the ground. It was a stupid drill whose only purpose was to demonstrate toughness and determination. Some coaches called it an open-field blocking drill, claiming it increased alertness and reaction time. I’d come to the conclusion that it was simply another game, a test of strength, fatigue, and spirit. I figured I could use my experience and balance, as well as my strength, to stay in the ring for a decent length of time.

“Five” shouted the coach, and Cavanaugh, a tall end came charging at me. He ran upright, so I slipped under his arms and slammed my shoulder into his chest and stomach, keeping my legs driving. “Eleven”, and the next player sprang at me. On and on the random countdown continued, and with each new opponent I managed to stay balanced and low, matching blow for blow, and push for push. I think I survived seven or eight attackers when my shoulders, arms, and legs began to ache and my reactions became labored. I wasn’t popping my pads into the on-rushing chests with enthusiasm, and my movements slowed. I was weakening, and it would only be a matter of time before I was pushed out; but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. When Number 3 came careening at me like a runaway locomotive, I stepped aside and shoved him in the same direction he was moving. His momentum sent him crashing to the ground, and triggered a verbal firestorm from the coach.

“What the hell are you doing, Delgado!” he screamed, running up to my position in the middle of the ring.

“I’m staying in the ring, coach” I replied, with more conviction than I felt.

“That’s not staying in the ring, Delgado – that’s chicken shit. You’re supposed to pound him out of the ring or be pounded out. You can’t be dancing around my ring. You’re not a ballerina, and I don’t want any candy-assed chickens in my ring!”

Perhaps it was the implausibility of a candy-assed hen that sent me over the edge. I again imagined I was back in that absurdist sketch on the tackling field, only this time I wasn’t accepting his humorless line of thinking.

“I thought I was on defense, sir”, I stated defiantly. “So I used my hands”.

“You what?” he exploded, his face turning into a rich tomato color. “You thought you were on defense? Are you being a smart-ass? Who told you to think? I don’t want you thinking on my field; I want you following orders and showing me some guts”.

“Sorry, coach” I dead-panned. “I thought I was on defense”. I wasn’t admitting my error, and I wasn’t giving him any new openings. I certainly wasn’t volunteering to repeat the drill. I’d already managed to knock the wind out of myself once and I had no intention of doing it again; but I never expected his response.

“You quit, and I can’t stand quitters” he shouted hysterically, grabbing hold of my face mask. “Get out of my sight, Delgado. You make me sick. Take five laps, and then pack up your Pop Warner, smart-ass attitude and hit the showers. You’re done for the day. Get out of here. I don’t want to see you”.

During those laps around the field, I subjected that coach to every hellish torture and degradation a 14 year old could imagine. I called him every curse word I knew, and muttered every obscenity I could think of with each crunching step. By the time I reached the locker room I was finally under control, and during the shower I considered quitting. With water dripping over my head and shoulders I came to the sad realization that this was not the way I learned to play the game. There was no laughter or levity during these practices; there were no encouragements or gentle prodding. I’d entered the new dimension of high school football, and I’d entered it late, with a reputation for having chosen Pop Warner football over freshman ball. These coaches were attempting to tear down the players and then build them up; and I was being too analytical, too critical, and too judgmental. I didn't belong here. I heard the clattering of cleats against cement before the rest of the players joined me in the locker room. No one directed a word to me. Although I sat in classes with many of these players, we were still virtual strangers. I had crossed a line of some kind on the practice field, and they were afraid that contact with me might contaminate them. I was alone and afraid to tell anyone what had happened.
 

Loneliness is a strange sensation when one is surrounded by two parents, two brothers, and two sisters, and crowded into a modified two-bedroom, one-bathroom home; but during my adolescence I felt it the most. No one seemed to know what I was experiencing in a co-institutional (girls attended the same high school, but they were educated in separate classes, by lay women or sisters) catholic high school as a freshmen. I was given no forewarning of, or frame of reference for the conflicts I was encountering. No one gave me the advice and warnings I offered my younger siblings when they entered grade school, high school, or college. That night I managed to bury and repress all thoughts of practice as I watched television. I actually welcomed the distracting aching muscles and fatigue I felt. I slept an exhausted and dreamless sleep, and awoke determined to quit. The rest of my day in classes was spent contriving the rationale I would offer to my coaches and parents for this decision. At 3:25 that afternoon, carrying my helmet, pads, and uniform over my shoulder, I walked silently to the block house that acted as our locker room. I told the head coach that I had spoken with my parents and they wanted me to devote more attention to my class work and grades. I don’t know if I was convincing, or if he had already decided that I wasn’t worth the effort, but he did not try to change my mind. He accepted my gear and wished me luck. That night I lied to my father and said that the demands of spring football were aversely affecting my class work, homework and grades. I told him that I needed to quit and concentrate on my course work. It was an argument that he could not, and did not, argue with. I sealed my fate that freshman year, and my football career came to an end.

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)

When I saw the familiar exit sign on Interstate 405, I knew a decision had to be made. “Which way do I turn at the end of the off ramp?” I thought. I was driving to the December meeting of the Middle School Principal’s Organization (MSPO) of the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). The meeting was to be held at Mark Twain Middle School. This was the public school which was attended by most of the kids I played baseball and football with as a child. I’ve traveled this road hundreds of times in my life: practicing freeway driving with my dad in 1964; driving home from classes at UCLA in 1967; and driving home from work on the swing shift at ADT Alarm Company, in 1971. After all those years, one would think that this was an easy question to answer, no? No; in fact it is a conundrum of Dylanesque proportions (Bob, not Thomas). This crossroad of Sawtelle Boulevard and the 405 exit always challenged me to find the best direction home. Turning left, puts me on Washington Place, which (when followed westward) takes me directly to my mother’s home. Turning right places me on a street, which (while a little out of the way) is a more historic route. While I usually took the quicker and more familiar course home, on this occasion I turned right. I decided to treat myself to a nostalgic journey down the boulevard named after the beach community where I lived from childhood through adulthood - Venice, California.
 

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.

Be thankful for your blessings all,
and the happy memories we recall.
For times we spent in winter and fall,
before our children grew wise and tall.

I think it was their tall symmetry that first caught my attention. Once I noticed them, I couldn’t stop my fascination with the balanced perspective and narrative unease they started in me. The angular tableaux presented so many mysteries and questions that my gaze kept returning to it.

I was sitting in a bookstore café and reading room on the day after Thanksgiving. The room was steeped in dark earth colors with one beige wall reflecting the light that washed in through a row of windows. The wooden furniture was solid and simple. A series of straight-lined, mahogany colored coffee tables with high-backed chairs bordered the glassed-in wall. The room had the air of a college library, with more tables and chairs filling the center of the room, and one taller, circular table with 4 highchairs at the far end. A coffee bar with two servers lay just beyond this stilted perch. At first I took no notice of anything unusual. Then a series of visual images began intruding into my reading and writing:

• The straight lines of the high chair melded into long angles of the jean pedal-pusher slacks and legs.
• Amber-framed, horn-rimmed glasses tilted at a 45º slant, on a head of tightly braided strands of black hair.
• Elongated upper arms were hidden under an emerald colored, diamond-shaped poncho sweater which covered the angular shoulders, and reached past the mid-section of her long waist.
• Bony elbows, followed by long, slender arms, hands and fingers extended from the knitted fabric, holding a sheet of white paper.
• A shorter, mirror image, in white sweatshirt and pale jeans, sat at the accompanying chair, her feet dangling down, without reaching the floor.
• The smaller companion moved skittishly around the table and chairs.
• The taller girl was slim, slender, and solemn.
• She sat and stood ramrod straight and still, with long legs and lean arms, and ignored the little girl by her side.

 They were two young, black girls, sitting in tall, bar-like, high chairs in the reading room of Borders Book Store. They were about 10 and 7 years of age, and their stilted, circular table was strewn with rectangular binders, notebooks, and workbooks. The older of the girls stood about 5’-9”, and was most seriously intense in her work. She sat erect, holding a sheet of paper in one hand. A long arm and elbow formed a perfect right angle with her body as she held her work in a slender hand with tapered fingers. Lean and long, she presented a queenly pose as she studied the paper through amber-colored, horn-rimmed eye glasses. Her swan-like neck was motionless as she mouthed the written words to herself; and her tightly-braided hair formed a delicate design of black lace, pulled closely around her head. Her younger sister did not use glasses, and wore different color slacks. She was a smaller, colt-like, kinetic version of her sober sister. Frozen in this eternal moment of infinite possibility, the older sibling looked like an aloof, ebony princess, with no intention of recognizing her sister. Their mother sat off to the side, away from the smaller child’s occasional antics and whisperings. She too was surrounded by papers, textbooks, and notebooks. She would periodically look away from the page and the paragraphs she was highlighting in yellow and inspect the actions of these two, younger versions of herself. What was she thinking as she gazed upon the unlimited futures of her children? What were her personal circumstances? Was she a graduate student? Were those law books in front of her, or accounting books? Was she married, single, or divorced?
 

I pulled back from the unfolding diorama before me, when I realized I was filling in the narrative gaps with struggles and conflicts I was inventing. I’d gone from fact to fiction in only a few brief glimpses of these three individuals, with no basis in reality. These girls were total strangers, and I was jumping to dramatic conclusions based on little evidence or clues. Yet there was something hauntingly familiar about this scene. They reminded me of a tableau I had witnessed on many occasions in another lifetime. The characters, sex, and ethnicity were different, but their relationship was the same. In that life, so long ago, I too would secretly watch a tall and skinny boy, deep in concentrated study, with a smaller sister by his side. He would have been about the same angular height and width as the solemn ebony princess, and he would have ignored his younger sibling in the same stern manner. In those days, I would not know what to imagine as I watched them standing, sitting, and moving, when they accompanied me to a library or bookstore. I could not visualize a future for them in those days, because to do so imposed an artificial boundary. I would just watch and wonder at the miracle that made them my children. Their unbounded futures astounded me. It was a moment I wanted to last forever.

Our family and children came together for Thanksgiving last week. The simplicity of this year’s reunion made it especially memorable. Instead of going to a family dinner at another home, with additional families included – this was a small and private affair. Our children did not bring friends, roommates, or guests - only their fiancées. It would be an uncomplicated feast with only two goals: to savor a fine meal, and give thanks for the gift of family. Prisa arrived early and helped set up the hors d’oeuvres and drinks. She was going to spend the night and leave the following day. She and Kathy had planned a busy “Black Friday” agenda: breakfast at Nico’s Coffee Shop, checking the bridal registry at Crate and Barrel, visiting her grandfather, and returning to coach the J.V. Basketball practice at her south bay high school. Her fiancé Joe would join us during dessert, after stopping to visit and dine with long time friends and family. Toñito and his fiancé arrived after 6 o’clock. Jonaya came bearing a cornucopia of delicious side dishes.  She had cut, cooked and baked mashed potatoes (regular and garlic), collared greens, macaroni and cheese, and sweet potatoes. She had expanded on her cuisine of last year, when her talent was first revealed to us. During his bachelor days, Toñito was known to bake a pie or two for Thanksgiving, but Jonaya’s culinary magic now took priority in the kitchen. While homemade pie was a charming addition to a meal, a delicious side dish was transforming. Collared greens were my new discovery this year; and on tasting the sweet potatoes, I was again struck by how gastronomically complimentary they are with turkey and stuffing. In short, it was a delightful dining and family reunion. I recall laughter, smiles, and feasting – lots of feasting. The Nordic halls of mythic Asgard could not have hosted a finer banquet than the sumptuous Thanksgiving meal we devoured that night.
 

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”.