My Family

Whenever I see the bridges

that connect Los Angeles | with East Los Angeles,

I remember my family.

I remember my father | and my mother,

my brothers... | Chucho, little Jimmy,

and Memo, the lawyer.

My crazy sisters... | Toni and Irene.

But to write the story | of my family,

I have to begin where millions | of stories have begun...

in a small village in Mexico | a long, long time ago.

Actually, nothing like that | ever really happened.

That's just the way my father | used to tell the story.

His brother Roberto really died | of a ruptured appendix.

In those days | just after the revolution,

times were hard,

and my dad's in-laws couldn't | afford to feed an extra mouth,

so my father had to leave.

Now, the only living relative | my father knew about

lived somewhere north | in a village

called Nuestra Senora | Reina de Los Angeles.

He figured he could | walk there in a day or two.

The other side of the world.

My father thought about it.

"Good God," he thought,

"it might take two weeks | to walk there."

Gracias.

Andale, con cuidado. | Hazle un lugar ahi.

It took him over a year

to reach the other side | of the world.

He walked most of the way,

and we kids, well, we heard | of that journey many times.

He was attacked by 10 bandits | in Sonora

and had to beat them off | with a cactus branch.

He rode the back | of a snorting mountain lion.

But finally,

he reached El Pueblo de Nuestra | Senora Reina de Los Angeles...

the one in California.

The border? | Well, in those days,

the border was | just a line in the dirt.

They called the old man | "El Californio,"

because he didn't come | from anywhere else.

He was born right here | in Los Angeles,

when it was still Mexico.

My father had found | a new home.

Even then, | there were bridges.

My father soon | joined the people

crossing from their barrio | on the east side of the river

to do the work of the city | on the other side.

They mowed the lawns, | took care of the children,

cleaned the house, | worked in restaurant kitchens,

but no one | from the west side of the river

ever crossed the bridges | into the barrio.

Make sure that they're | all cleaned up

to go to Grandma's tonight.

Give us a kiss. Love you.

Love you. Aw, I love you.

Bye!

Toodles!

Ay, ninos!

Ninos!

Okay, now. Be serious.

And...

Mmm!

Boom, ba da boom, | ba da boom, ba da boom.

Children soon followed...

first me, then my sister Irene.

My earliest memory is of the face

of that gentle old man

looking at me and smiling.

And I remember my father | always working in his milpa...

corn in the back | and beans in the front.

And that's the way | it always was at my house

for as long | as I can remember.

Jose, tu cafe | con leche esta listo.

Mi cafecito.

Look...

the children are wonderful.

There is | no greater blessing

in all the world than children.

We're going to have another?

Maria, I knew it!

I knew it, Maria.

It's going to be a boy.

I'm going to have | another son,

and this one

is going to be a special boy.

I remember | when it happened.

It was that Sunday | afternoon. Remember?

Huh?

Remember that day | old Gomez

crashed his car into the river?

Yes. That was the day.

Maria, I knew it...

because that day | I got out of bed

and walked out | to the porch.

I was standing there.

I looked up into the sky,

and I saw an angel pass by.

An angel?

Yes.

How beautiful.

Tonight we celebrate.

Uh-huh.

Then came the day | everything changed...

when my mother didn't come home | from the market.

It was the time | of the Great Depression.

I guess some politicians | got it into their heads

that the Mexicanos

were responsible | for the whole thing.

I mean, they were taking up | a lot of jobs...

jobs that were needed

for what they called | "real Americans."

I have to get home | to my children!

Por favor, senor. | Please.

So La Migra made some big sweeps | through the barrio,

and they rounded up | everyone they could.

No! I live here.

No! I belong here.

Senor, por favor. | Senores.

I can't help you, lady.

Move it!

It didn't matter if you were | a citizen, like my mother.

If you looked Mexicano,

you were picked up | and shipped out.

She had just been | out shopping.

She wasn't allowed | to come home.

My father was never told.

She was all alone, | and she was pregnant.

All these things really happened.

The year was 1933.

Lock her up!

Back!

Okay, roll her out!

The Southern Pacific Railroad

made the US government a deal.

For $14.75 a head,

they took the Mexicanos

all the way back | into Central Mexico,

hoping they would never | be able to get back.

Maria?

I remember the day they buried | El Californio in the backyard.

He left a will and left | everything to my father,

but he made it very clear

he didn't want to have | nothing to do

with the pinche church | or the pinche government.

He wanted to be buried | right behind the house,

under the cornfield.

Agh!

And El Californio said | exactly what he wanted

written on his grave marker.

"Don Alejandro Vazquez, | El Californio,

died 1934.

When I was born here, | this was Mexico,

and where I lie, | this is still Mexico."

My mother kept her promise,

and when my brother Chucho | was old enough,

she set off | on her long journey home,

but the rains came early | that year.

She had gone too far | to turn back.

Ay.

No!

No! No!

Aah!

Senora!

Ay! Aah!

Aah!

Aah!

Chucho! Chucho!

Shh. Shh.

Estas a salvo.

Esta todo bien.

Two years had passed | since my mother was taken away.

My father lost hope,

but he kept working | to take care of me and Irene.

Jose.

Maria?

Maria?

I promised La Virgen

that I would | come back to you.

This is your son.

His name is Chucho.

Chucho.

Maria.

Jose.

Oh, Maria, | it is a miracle.

This is a miracle.

It's just like heaven

Being here with you

You're like...

Well, there he is all grown up...

my brother Chucho...

and he did grow up | into something special,

but not quite what | my father had imagined.

Chucho was one | of the baddest pachucos

on the whole east side.

My younger sister Toni... | God bless her...

pretty as an angel,

but sometimes she could | get a little bossy.

Hurry up, hermano.

You'll miss your own | sister's wedding!

What is the matter with you?

It's just a pair of pants, | not the Mona Lisa!

Hey! Hey, | Listen, hermana!

These are | Jimmy's pants, see?

And I want to make sure | they're properly ironed,

and there's only one person | in this whole goddamn world

capable of doing that, | and that's me.

Gracias. | Aborrate.

Aborrate yourself.

Get your big | cholo butt moving, ese,

and get Jimmy moving, too,

or nobody's going to make it | to the wedding on time!

I ought to... I ought to iron | your mouth shut!

And there I am, | home on leave from the navy.

Boy, was I young then!

My family had scheduled the wedding | when I was on leave

so I wouldn't miss it, | because no one could miss it.

Come on. Hurry up, Memo. | She's going crazy.

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