I twirled the video cassette in my fingers, the anxiety was building inside of me. It had been a week and I still couldn't bring myself to watch the tape. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I knew that I must be afraid of the secrets that it may possess. Perhaps it was his a video of his bacheleor party, our wedding, or perhaps Alyssa's birth, but I knew better. I knew that there was something on that tape that would terrify me. Could he possibly have known that something awful would happen to him? How could he know? It was an accident. Open and shut case. There was nothing at the scene of the collision to discern otherwise.
Alyssa was playing in her room, but I was still concerned that she might walk in. I thought that I should wait until after she had gone to sleep.
10:53 pm
Put the damn tape in the video camera Jessica Maria Martinez! You can do it, I told myself. I slipped the cassette into the silver camcorder and slowly pressed play. It was Alyssa's 6th birthday party in Alhambra. We had driven up to see my family on her birthday. Alyssa was preparing to blow out her birthday candles surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Joseph who was holding the camera said, "Make a wish mija." For a moment I wondered where I was, then an image in the far right corner of the screen caught my eye. It was me and my brother James, arguing, near the edge of the property. I remembered that we had had a disagreement about living arrangements for our mother.
Since she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006, we constantly bickered about what was best for her care. At the time of Alyssa's party, our mother, Guadalupe (or Lupe to her friends and family), was in stage 4, and all the chemo and radiation in the world couldn't save her. We both knew this, but James insisted on sending her to a nursing home, but I was determined to take care of her. In the end, it didn't matter what we decided because she died only three days later, in the comfort of her own home. It killed me that I hadn't been with her when God came to claim her.
After James and I were finished bickering about problems we would never have to face, I stormed off and found my place next to my gorgeous daughter, but the drama was far from over.
A black Escalade pulled up next to my brother and a tall, muscular Latino emergered from the driver's side of the vehicle. He was definately not Mexican. The image was slightly blurred but his attire suggested South Beach, not East L.A. I squinted to see his features, but to no avail. All I could see was his black hat, a blue button down shirt that looked silk, and black slacks. He looked very important and very dangerous.
James walked over to the gentleman and shook his hand. The dangerous man motioned to the back seat of the car and James looked through the window. James nodded. Joseph's glance had now moved from his precious daughter to his brother-in-law and his friend. Joseph said, "Great job Alyssa. Daddy's so proud of you, I'll be right back." Joseph moved, carefully closer to the car and the two men. He found a large violet hydrandea to crouch behind and kept the video recorder rolling.
Now that James was closer, I could see the man's features more clearly. No, not Boriqua. Definately Cubano. Not that I was an expert on the subject. Living in Southern California my entire life had limited my knowledge of Latinos. Most hispanics were Mexican, some Guatamalan, Honduran, but few Puerto Ricans or Cubans. Just like Native American tribes have different features and characteristics, so do different types of Latinos. Being a part of that culture fine tuned your abilities to recognize such characteristics.
Looking through James' eyes, I watched the horror unfold. He zoomed in to the back window of the black Escalade and through the darkened glass I could see the outline of a person, flailing about, as if bound, perhaps gagged. James quickly pulled a small handgun from his back pocket. His movements were quick and the sound of the gun was masked by the sound of a pinata being smashed and children screaming. Suddenly Alyssa's voice called, "Papi, come see what Abuela filled the pinata with! There's dollar bills and candy!" James' face jerked back to see my husband hiding behind the bush, and then the screen went black.
I must have stared at the black screen for a few minutes before I realized what I was doing. I was shaking and in shock. That was James that had shot someone. My hermano, my brother. What had he done? And why? Who was that Cuban man? Dozens more questions flooded my mind, as a dam broke inside of my head. Joseph's death wasn't an accident. He was murdered.
No one ever told me that life was going to be easy. I knew that it wasn't. I knew that I would have to find hard to get out of my neighborhood and that the chance of that were slim to none. As a teenager, I had accepted that. That my quince was probably the most glamorous event of my life. That my wedding would probably be one forced upon me due to a pregnancy and the thought of trying to raise a child in East L.A. frightened me.
My parents, both Mexicans immigrants, moved to Alhambra when my mother was pregnant with James. James was three years older than me. We were both born in the U.S., which is supposed to mean something, but Alhambra is far from the paradise that living in the U.S. promises. My parents, three older brothers, and I lived with my mother's sister, my tia, and her five children, in a three bedroom house. Picture that for a moment.
When I was about eight, we finally moved out of Tia's house and into our own two bedroom house. Sharing a room with three older brothers was a welcome comfort, although privacy was always an issue. My brothers, youngest to oldest were, James, Jesus, Armando, and Roberto. James and I were the only ones born in the U.S., hence the American names. James had always been the one who caused the most trouble. Our older brothers tried in vain to help him, but before they knew it he had joined a gang and was dealing before he was 13. We both were.
I had my tattoos removed soon after Alyssa's birth. I didn't want her to see her mother like that. A chola. I wanted her to see her mother as a strong Mexican-American woman, capable of anything. I wanted to protect her from the streets of LA, the evil. I should have known that one day it would all catch up with me.
James and I shared many business ventures in our young stupid years. As an adult, nearly middle-aged, I realize how foolish we were. At the time it was all about the money, the glamour, and respect. Of course the dealing was just the beginning. A little weed here, a little coke there, meth, whatever we could get our hands on. Then came the guns We would spend hours everyday filing serial numbers that we lifted from various sources. For me it was all about being favored in my brother's eyes. I looked up to him. He always had whatever he needed, cars, clothes, he was making a life for himself here, whereas my other brothers worked 10-12 hour days for minimum wage or less and still barely made ends me. I adored James, and I thought he felt the same about me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment