knew was that he was Chicano, someone of Mexican descent born in the U.S., but he was also something else entirely: a Tex-Mex, a
pocho
Tejano, a Mexican
born
in Texas, and that was something to be especially proud of. Southside poverty and the slick talk of the lawless
vatos,
pronounced
bahtos
—the toughs of the project—quickly converted the little boy’s gentleness into aggression and rebelliousness. Gang fights and
cuchillados
and
navajazos,
knife and razor wounds, were common and often fatal in the project. Jailhouse
pachuco
tattoos of a Christian cross located on the back of the hand between thumb and forefinger were commonplace. Chicky was caught riding a stolen bike. He was arrested, and a stern Tex-Mex judge named Herrera gave him a break because of his age, but promised him time in
el bote,
the can, should he see him in court again. The boy shrugged it off, thought of the slammer as a road to manhood and valor.
He was but a small package, and the darker-skinned kids teased him for his light skin, told him his father had to be a redneck GI from Kelly Air Force Base. Chicky refused to believe it. Some called him Whirly-bird, and had to fight for that mistake. His resentment toward his mother, Rafaela, for his light complexion became so great that she knew she couldn’t deflect it as long as he lived with her in the run-down Victoria Courts, temporary housing dating from the end of World War II. It was an anthill of danger and drugs and dirt where the
vatos
saw themselves as the baddest of the bad in San Anto, one of the long-standing Tex-Mex names for San Antonio.
Though Rafaela was far from an ideal mother, she feared the loss of her son to the prison system. She figured his only chance was for her to get him out of the project. She bundled his things up in a sheet one day and delivered him to her parents at their strawberry farm in Poteet. Shesaid she was doing it for the boy. But her father, Eloy, also knew that she was doing it because of her part-time pimp, an over-the-road truck driver who aimed at increasing his income by taking her with him and working her at truck stops.
Chicky never saw her again. His respect and growing love for his grandparents, Eloy and Dolores, coupled with the responsibilities of the farm, would change him back into the decent child who at five had promised his mother to work hard and earn money and move them out of La Vica. Chicky could recall what she looked like only if he saw her photograph at an aunt’s or uncle’s house—there were no photos of her at the farm—but he was reminded of his time at La Vica whenever he heard of a stabbing or a drive-by shooting.
Amateur boxing would change the world for the scrawny little boy. His grandfather had been a fighter before he was a farmer, an amateur who turned pro and became known as el Lobo, the Wolf. Under Eloy’s tutelage, the kid grew and got strong. He stopped wearing wife-beaters and baggy pants down to the crack of his ass, outfits designed by homeboys to trumpet their
cholo
toughness, their
valor mexicano.
Eloy had inherited fourth-generation Mexican-border poverty, but with the encouragement of his wise and hardworking parents, he had worked and boxed his way up through it, and he would not let it destroy his grandson.
Instead of turning to violence and drugs like so many other boys his age, Chicky, with his grandfather’s encouragement, won several amateur competitions that were held for all kids of every background, ages eight to fifteen. From there he progressed to the open, or senior, ranks, and one wall of his room was gradually covered in trophies from every weight and age division he fought in. When Eloy told him that his green eyes and light skin came from the San Patricios side of the family, Chicky’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since he was a little kid. He knew about the San Patricios from the parades.
“You mean I got the blood of those Irish men in me, the ones who fought for
pocho
Tejano, a Mexican
born
in Texas, and that was something to be especially proud of. Southside poverty and the slick talk of the lawless
vatos,
pronounced
bahtos
—the toughs of the project—quickly converted the little boy’s gentleness into aggression and rebelliousness. Gang fights and
cuchillados
and
navajazos,
knife and razor wounds, were common and often fatal in the project. Jailhouse
pachuco
tattoos of a Christian cross located on the back of the hand between thumb and forefinger were commonplace. Chicky was caught riding a stolen bike. He was arrested, and a stern Tex-Mex judge named Herrera gave him a break because of his age, but promised him time in
el bote,
the can, should he see him in court again. The boy shrugged it off, thought of the slammer as a road to manhood and valor.
He was but a small package, and the darker-skinned kids teased him for his light skin, told him his father had to be a redneck GI from Kelly Air Force Base. Chicky refused to believe it. Some called him Whirly-bird, and had to fight for that mistake. His resentment toward his mother, Rafaela, for his light complexion became so great that she knew she couldn’t deflect it as long as he lived with her in the run-down Victoria Courts, temporary housing dating from the end of World War II. It was an anthill of danger and drugs and dirt where the
vatos
saw themselves as the baddest of the bad in San Anto, one of the long-standing Tex-Mex names for San Antonio.
Though Rafaela was far from an ideal mother, she feared the loss of her son to the prison system. She figured his only chance was for her to get him out of the project. She bundled his things up in a sheet one day and delivered him to her parents at their strawberry farm in Poteet. Shesaid she was doing it for the boy. But her father, Eloy, also knew that she was doing it because of her part-time pimp, an over-the-road truck driver who aimed at increasing his income by taking her with him and working her at truck stops.
Chicky never saw her again. His respect and growing love for his grandparents, Eloy and Dolores, coupled with the responsibilities of the farm, would change him back into the decent child who at five had promised his mother to work hard and earn money and move them out of La Vica. Chicky could recall what she looked like only if he saw her photograph at an aunt’s or uncle’s house—there were no photos of her at the farm—but he was reminded of his time at La Vica whenever he heard of a stabbing or a drive-by shooting.
Amateur boxing would change the world for the scrawny little boy. His grandfather had been a fighter before he was a farmer, an amateur who turned pro and became known as el Lobo, the Wolf. Under Eloy’s tutelage, the kid grew and got strong. He stopped wearing wife-beaters and baggy pants down to the crack of his ass, outfits designed by homeboys to trumpet their
cholo
toughness, their
valor mexicano.
Eloy had inherited fourth-generation Mexican-border poverty, but with the encouragement of his wise and hardworking parents, he had worked and boxed his way up through it, and he would not let it destroy his grandson.
Instead of turning to violence and drugs like so many other boys his age, Chicky, with his grandfather’s encouragement, won several amateur competitions that were held for all kids of every background, ages eight to fifteen. From there he progressed to the open, or senior, ranks, and one wall of his room was gradually covered in trophies from every weight and age division he fought in. When Eloy told him that his green eyes and light skin came from the San Patricios side of the family, Chicky’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since he was a little kid. He knew about the San Patricios from the parades.
“You mean I got the blood of those Irish men in me, the ones who fought for
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