La Pinta

Part 2

The Message


Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under
Huh-huhhuhhuh-huh-huh

The bass from a low rider reverberates along the empty canyon of 24th Street at 3 a.m. The hydraulics jerk the car up and down as it rolls through the flashing red light: a calculated risk, an open defiance of the law.
"I guess they haven't read Foucault," I muse to myself. "Julio!" I yell out to a familiar face and cross the street. He looks the other way.
"Hey Julio, what's up, homes?" I say, reaching out my hand. He looks me up and down and sneers, "I don't know you." It isn't Julio and I don't like the way he looks at me.
"Fuck you, ese," I say, annoyed. "I thought I knew you."
"Yeah, well you don't, white boy, so go away." He snorts and looks down the street for his bus.
"What? Fuck you, you little puto. I ain't no white boy." I push him against the wall of the Bataan pharmacy.
"Leave me alone man. I don't know you!"
"No fuck you punk you could've been more polite." I slap him and he tries to run away. I easily catch him and throw him onto the hood of a car. "You could have shown me a little respect."
"O.K., man, just leave me alone!" Holding him down, I begin smashing my right fist into his face. Blood and mucus stream from his nose and into his mouth as he tries to scream for help.
"Shut the fuck up, punk. You were so bad a second ago. All you had to do was show a little respect." I throw him off the hood and into Folsom Street. He kneels on all fours. I run up to him and kick him in the face. His head snaps back as he corkscrews around and lands on his back. His bloody and bruised face has begun to swell. I kick him in the ribs to make sure he's not faking it. I hear a faint groan. "Fuck it, he's still alive." I leave him lying out in the middle of the street. "Maybe someone'll run the son of a bitch over." I jog the rest of the way home.

Il Castrato

"George is talking about cutting off his balls," my friend Ray, a recent born-again Christian, informed me.
"What?!?"
"Yeah, he says that temptation is starting to get to him and he doesn't know how long he can hold out." Ray was my second friend to become a born-again Christian and this time it really bothered me, because he was the one guy I had good conversations with.
"What happens if he changes his mind after he cuts them off?" I asked.
"Man! That would be messed-up," Ray stared at the black nothing in the windshield and took a sip of orange juice. Even though he was suddenly a CHRISTIAN, we still hung out and drank together. We always talked about school: in the old days--a couple of months before--our topic was, almost always, the chicks in our classes. After his salvation we had to find other stuff to talk about. He'd drink his orange juice, I'd down a few beers; maybe being in the presence of a sinner made him feel more "saved": St. Paul among the gentiles. He didn't bother trying to "witness" to me. He pondered the horrors of cutting off one's balls before you were absolutely sure of your salvation and continued,
"There's a Greek or Roman myth about some guy who cuts off his balls to become a priest, or something, then realizes the next day he made a mistake."
"You're not going to cut yours off are you?"
"No, but I've thought about it."
"Bullshit!"
"No, seriously," he continued, "I still have a lot of desires. Man! some of those chicks at school..."
"What if you changed your mind? What if you stopped being a Christian?"
"No, you don't understand. This is it. I'm saved. I've been touched by the Holy Spirit. "Stoy salvado."
"But when you've been looking for something for a long time and you think you finally found it, you're going to feel joy."
"I don't think I found it. I know I found it. You don't know what I feel, so you can't tell me what I feel."
"I know that when you feel something powerful and beautiful it's hard to believe it came from yourself, because you wonder where it's been all this time."
"So you're saying that I'm deluding myself. You're saying that I'm stupid and weak-minded enough to delude myself."
"No, homes, you know I don't think you're stupid. I'm just saying that sometimes people want something so bad they'll believe things about it that aren't true."
"I still say you can't tell me what I feel. You can't understand it, because you haven't felt it yourself."
"I've been in church, homes, and I felt like my soul was rising, like something was lifting it. I could of thought it was God, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever; but I knew it was just being in that church with all these people that believed: it was just the beauty and power of faith."
"If you know that faith's so beautiful why don't you have any?"
"Can't have faith in what you don't believe; but I can still acknowledge its beauty."
"Why do you want to question my faith just because you don't believe what I believe?"
""Cause you're my friend and you're intelligent and you've stopped looking for answers."
"I found the answers, homes. I don't have to search any more. If you felt what I felt, you'd know too."
We weren't arguing; we both just believed in what we were saying and wanted our friend to believe it also. After a lull, Ray continued: "When I read scripture, I feel the Holy Spirit, I hear the Holy Spirit speak to me."
"When I read the bible I hear myself thinking: this isn't true, these are just stories," I answered.
"That's not you! That's Satan! He driving you away from the truth."
"Satan! Man, Ray, that's the silliest shit. Satan's just something to scare kids and idiots: like the boogieman and La Llorona."
"Are you saying I'm an idiot?"
"You know I'm not and don't try to change the subject by making it an argument over something else." I knew all his tricks.
"I still say you don"t know what I feel. But I'll pray for you, homes." He said it with slightly less conviction. I knew the argument would just go in circles now so I let it drop.
"OK, homes, if it makes you happy." Ray was too intelligent not to question; sooner or later he'd quit his church. What would it hurt if he pretended to be St. Paul for a few months? In the fall Ray took English 107: The English Bible as Literature. By spring he was real happy he didn't cut off his balls.

Cholo-Punk

Hermya pinned the tag on me. She was kind of square: a sort-of Born Again Christian I met through Ray's girlfriend. More serious than joking, she once asked me: "Why would I want a cholo-punk for a boyfriend?" I never got anywhere with her and it was probably just as well; but at least she gave a name to my self-image: cholo-punk. That's exactly what I was. The cruise scene had been extinguished. The merchants pressured the police and the police closed down the cruise. No more ready-to-party chicks from San Jose, Hayward, and Stockton. The streets were cold and dead. The cruising used to start on Thursday nights and continue till Sunday night: the old days. Weekend nights belonged to the SFPD cruisers now.
My friend Eddie had gotten his own pad: on Guerrero about four blocks up from Mission. We sat around drinking, talking shit, and listening to rancheras. We had started listening to rancheras because we were sick of mayate music and because we were only a generation removed from the Mexican countryside: we had begun to lose our shame over our parent's immigrantness and, in fact, we now embraced it. I suppose it was because we had started to get around a little bit: had gotten out of the oppressive single-mindedness that we grew up in and accepted without question--the stupidity which dictates, "this, and only this, is the way Chicanos act." Eddie was always trying to set me up with his girlfriend's friends. They were all salseras and rigidly opposed to going out with anyone who even hinted at nonconformity. They were all fine and I would have loved fucking any of them; but a weird, non-conformist, white-looking, cholo-punk was in diametrical opposition to what they considered attractive. So when Eddie kept telling me he would set me up with Susie, Twenty-Fourth Street Fair's Señorita Black Velvet 1982, I didn't bother getting my hopes up. I left Eddie's pad and walked to Mission Street. A punk with a very long, spiked mohawk asked me for the time. A year ago he wouldn't have lasted five minutes before some carload of cholos would have beaten him senseless and stolen his jacket.
"Midnight," I answered. "Say man, you know it's really not safe for you to be out here."
"I'm waiting for the bus. Where else am I supposed to wait?"
"Yeah I know, but you should have avoided this part of the neighborhood. There are other bus lines." A car load of vatos drove by. Real slow. They took a good, long look and kept driving.
"How often do the buses run at night?" He asked.
"I don't know. I haven't taken MUNI in years." I don't know why, maybe I just felt a sense of musical camaraderie or maybe it was just human decency, but I decided to stick around and watch out for the dude. "Who's your favorite band?" I asked him.
"The Circle Jerks."
"Live Fast, Die Young."
"Yeah! You've heard of them."
"I listen to a lot of different stuff. I listen to KUSF a lot."
"Cool man. I, I thought you were kind of a cholo," he said somewhat hesitantly.
"Yeah, well I kind of am and I'm kind of not. I guess I have an identity crisis."
"Fuck, who doesn't. Those are real cool shades, where'd you get them?" Even at midnight, I was wearing my '64s.
"That Harley place on Valencia: near the projects." I looked at the pins he had all over his beat up old biker's jacket: mostly bands and a few famous punks. His jeans were torn-up; his hair was green and purple; his steel toes were all scuffed up; and he thought he could just go anywhere. My baggies and Pendelton had razor sharp creases; my Stacys were spit shined; my hair was short and slicked back, the same way it had been for five years; and I knew I couldn't go anywhere. I knew he was wearing a costume, just like I was wearing one; but there was something deeper about the way we were dressed: it reflected an attitude, a world view--Weltanschauung. We talked awhile about the punk rock scene; he told me I had to go to the Mabuhay sometime. But I knew I wouldn't: my partners would never go.
"Just tell them you know Johnny Suicide; they know me."
"Here comes your bus." He took a pin off his jacket and said, "I want you to have this." It had a picture of Sid Vicious on it and the words, "I Did It My Way."
"Thanks man, good luck."
As he got on the bus he yelled out an open window, "Live fast, die young!" He waved from the rear window of the bus as he sat down: visibly relieved in the safety of the bus. As I crossed Mission the carload of cholos came cruising by again; they gave me a long, hard look, and kept driving. A couple of more blocks and I'd be near my homeboys. I fastened the pin to my Pendleton: yet another enigma for my Chicano identity.

Pulling the Trigger

Shick--click

Orale, chamber a cartridge into your Star 9mm semi-automatic. Now weÔre gettin' somewhere, homes. You can't take shit like that from fucking drunks. Look at that old Jerry Garcia-looking fuck. Go out there, homes. Threaten them. Show them you're a man. Teach them respect. If they're stupid enough to make a move...use it.
"What? Are you gonna shoot us?"
They saw you, homes. It's goin' down, ese. You gotta use it. Never pull a gun unless you're gonna use it. Never pull a gun unless you're ready to pull the trigger.
That's right, ese, go into the street. Just like the old days. Pero ponte trucha. Slip the gun behind your belt. Let them start to make a move. Let them dig their own grave. Ice cold, homes. O. G. a real veterano, a pinto de primera, puro chingón. You can't take shit in this world, homes. No one will respect you. "I told you to get the fuck off this street!"
No, homes. Shut up! Your voice is trembling, you sound scared. Fuck! If you're gonna talk, talk like a man. This ain't how you face people, this ain't how you show them you're a man. Haven't you learned anything after all these years? Are you still street--stupid? Let them do the talking. Let them try to make the first move, then...blam! Let your 9mm do the talking. Kill their asses.
"We're not doing anything. What? Are you afraid of us? We're not gonna hurt you."
You hear that, homes. These sad-ass motherfuckers actually think that you're afraid of them. Afraid of them! You're shaking, homes. That's not cool. You're nervous. Are you scared? "I'm angry."
Never lose your temper in the streets, homes. Stay cool. Ice cold. Like a veterano. You've seen plenty of shit go down. What do you care? La Vida Loca, homes. It all comes down sooner or later. what difference does it make? What have you got to lose?
"You know, homes, you're a real pussy."
They hear your nervous little punk voice. They see your hands trembling You're just a little punk to them. Nothing. Less than nothing. Not even a man. Listen to all the shit they're talking They know, ese. They know you ain't gonna do shit. They know you can"t pull the trigger. You should never have pulled the gun. You should never have opened your mouth. You blew it, ese. You blew it.
"OK. We're goin' motherfucker. But we ain't runnin'. We're just goin "cause you fucked up the mood."
They're right, homes. They don't need to run from you. You ain't gonna do nothing What happened to you, homes? You used to be bad, ese. You used to beat the fuck out of people, leave their unconscious asses layin' out in the street. You didn't care. It didn't matter.
"American Me, homes. American Me."
Listen to that shit. Look at that sad-ass drunk. He's tryin' to scare you with that lame shit? He's tryin' to get you to think he's some bad-ass pinto? Like that weak son-of-a-bitch was ever in La M. Man! How can you let them disrespect you so much? Don't you have any pride? Or do you have too much? You think that piece of shit diploma raises you above all this? Don't forget where you came from, who you are. Remember the barrio? Remember the streets you came from? "Yeah, I remember. Jaime and Beto are dead. Louie, Woody, and Sad Boy are in prison. A couple of the lucky ones have steady jobs. And the rest? No high school diplomas, no jobs, struggling to support families or drinking themselves to death. It's just me and Ray. We're the only ones that got to college. It opened our minds! It changed us! And..."
...and now you're just some token Spic, little Chicano poster boy for Affirmative Action. You ain't about shit, ese. They just let you in and gave you a diploma so they could say they let Chicanos in. But that ain't you, homes, not really. Fuck that sissy Bachelor of Arts shit. Fuck Graaad school. ¡Chingada! What kind of WHlTE BOY shit is that? And you think that matters? You think it makes a difference? You got a gun. You got real power. What've you got to lose? Use it, homeboy. Use it.
"We know where you live." Use it.
"We're gonna come back and kick the shit out of your ass!" Use it.
"Fuck you and FUCK your mother!"
If you were ever a man...use it.
"You're STOOOPID, motherfucker!"
They're right. Book smart, street stupid. Always have been. You're no man. You"re lost, homes, lost. Yeah, go back in the house. Go hide.
You're gonna hit the heavy-bag? You're pissed-off: You take all that shit and you're just gonna hit the bag? You're sad, homes. Umph "Mother" Umph "fucking" Umph-Umph-Umph "shit!"
You still got those fists, homes. Look at that bag fly around. You still got it. But you can't use it, ese. You can't pull the trigger anymore. Umph-Umph-Umph.
Feel better now? You shouldn't. You should've fucked them up. All you did was cut up your fists. "But it's my blood. I ca