Read Online Always Running by Luis J. Rodriguez - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Luis J. Rodriguez
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Richard Garvey Intermediate School. My father had gotten a job as a “laboratory technician” at a Los Angeles community college. So we moved into a larger, two-bedroom place in territory which stood between the two major barrios: Las Lomas and Sangra. This meant I had to go to Garvey.
In the mid-1960s, the students at Garvey had some of the worst academic scores in the state. Most of the time, there were no pencils or paper. Books were discards from other suburban schools where the well-off students turned up. The kids who lived in the Hills found their way into Garvey. And for half of them, the school was the end of the line: It had more than a 50-percent dropout rate among Mexicans before they even got to high school.
There were only a couple of Impersonations who made it there. Miguel Robles and the others ended up in another school. Garvey was Illusions and Mystics territory. I was on my own.
Again the first thing I noticed were some of the girls. The ones from the Hills weren’t just blossoming women, though; they were already hardened, sophisticated. Some of them called themselves cholas. They had long, teased hair, often peroxided black or red. They had heavy makeup, skirts which hugged their behinds, and they were all the time fighting, including with guys. The cholas laughed a lot and knew how to open up to every situation. They talked back, talked loud and talked tough. And they knew how to dance.
A few East L.A. people who moved into the Hills brought the East L.A. style with them. There were federally-subsidized housing projects not far from here called Maravilla. It was so-named in the 1920s when Los Angeles city officials rebuilt the downtown area and got rid of the Mexicans in the inner core by offering land on the far outreaches of town for a dollar. When the Mexicans got wind of this they exclaimed “¡Qué Maravilla!”— what a marvel!—and the name took.
My first love at 12 years old was a girl from Maravilla named Elena, a chola, who came to Garvey all prendida. She didn’t just know how to kiss, but how to take my hand through sections of her body and teach a pre-teen something of his own budding sexuality.
At Garvey, the dudes began to sport cholo attire: the baggy starched pants and suspenders over white T-shirts, the flannel shirts clipped only from the top button, the bandannas and small brim hats. It was hip. It was different. And it was what the cholas liked.
This is what I remember of junior high: Cholas who walked up the stairs in their tight skirts, revealing everything, and looked down at us, smiling at their power. Bloody Kotexes on the hallway floor. Gang graffiti on every available space of wall. Fires which flared from restroom trash bins. Fights every day, including after school on the alley off Jackson Avenue. Dudes who sold and took drugs, mostly downers and yesca, but sometimes heroin which a couple of dudes shot up in the boys’ room while their “homeys” kept a lookout.
Yet most of the Mexican girls weren’t cholas; their families still had strong reins on many of them. Mexicans were mostly traditional and Catholic. Fathers, mothers or older brothers would drop off these girls and come get them after school so no perceived harm would come their way.
One of them was Socorro, from Mexico, who was straight and proper, and tried to stop me from being a cholo. I asked her to become my girlfriend when word got around she liked me and Elena had left me for Ratón, a down dude from the Hills.
“They’re trash,” Socorro would often say in Spanish about the cholillos. “If you keep hanging out with them, you can say goodby to me forever.”
I liked her, but we didn’t last too long as a couple. I didn’t want to be straight and proper. My next girlfriend was Marina, a girl from Lomas who had one of the highest, peroxided teases on her head with blonde streaks that accentuated her dark face.
It was at Marina’s urging that I obtained my first tattoo. A dude named
In the mid-1960s, the students at Garvey had some of the worst academic scores in the state. Most of the time, there were no pencils or paper. Books were discards from other suburban schools where the well-off students turned up. The kids who lived in the Hills found their way into Garvey. And for half of them, the school was the end of the line: It had more than a 50-percent dropout rate among Mexicans before they even got to high school.
There were only a couple of Impersonations who made it there. Miguel Robles and the others ended up in another school. Garvey was Illusions and Mystics territory. I was on my own.
Again the first thing I noticed were some of the girls. The ones from the Hills weren’t just blossoming women, though; they were already hardened, sophisticated. Some of them called themselves cholas. They had long, teased hair, often peroxided black or red. They had heavy makeup, skirts which hugged their behinds, and they were all the time fighting, including with guys. The cholas laughed a lot and knew how to open up to every situation. They talked back, talked loud and talked tough. And they knew how to dance.
A few East L.A. people who moved into the Hills brought the East L.A. style with them. There were federally-subsidized housing projects not far from here called Maravilla. It was so-named in the 1920s when Los Angeles city officials rebuilt the downtown area and got rid of the Mexicans in the inner core by offering land on the far outreaches of town for a dollar. When the Mexicans got wind of this they exclaimed “¡Qué Maravilla!”— what a marvel!—and the name took.
My first love at 12 years old was a girl from Maravilla named Elena, a chola, who came to Garvey all prendida. She didn’t just know how to kiss, but how to take my hand through sections of her body and teach a pre-teen something of his own budding sexuality.
At Garvey, the dudes began to sport cholo attire: the baggy starched pants and suspenders over white T-shirts, the flannel shirts clipped only from the top button, the bandannas and small brim hats. It was hip. It was different. And it was what the cholas liked.
This is what I remember of junior high: Cholas who walked up the stairs in their tight skirts, revealing everything, and looked down at us, smiling at their power. Bloody Kotexes on the hallway floor. Gang graffiti on every available space of wall. Fires which flared from restroom trash bins. Fights every day, including after school on the alley off Jackson Avenue. Dudes who sold and took drugs, mostly downers and yesca, but sometimes heroin which a couple of dudes shot up in the boys’ room while their “homeys” kept a lookout.
Yet most of the Mexican girls weren’t cholas; their families still had strong reins on many of them. Mexicans were mostly traditional and Catholic. Fathers, mothers or older brothers would drop off these girls and come get them after school so no perceived harm would come their way.
One of them was Socorro, from Mexico, who was straight and proper, and tried to stop me from being a cholo. I asked her to become my girlfriend when word got around she liked me and Elena had left me for Ratón, a down dude from the Hills.
“They’re trash,” Socorro would often say in Spanish about the cholillos. “If you keep hanging out with them, you can say goodby to me forever.”
I liked her, but we didn’t last too long as a couple. I didn’t want to be straight and proper. My next girlfriend was Marina, a girl from Lomas who had one of the highest, peroxided teases on her head with blonde streaks that accentuated her dark face.
It was at Marina’s urging that I obtained my first tattoo. A dude named
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