Growing Up and Getting Out
I moved away from Santa Ana, but a piece of me will always be there, with the people I grew up with
I remember the first time I asked a question that my mother couldn’t answer. I was eight years old, standing at the end of a driveway, watching her wash the car. I could hear the bucket, the water, the slap of the wet rag. Suds ran into the street. I tapped the water with my sandal.
It was a hot day. My mother was wearing a navy blue Lacoste pique polo shirt with short sleeves. Behind her was a bright green yard with a blooming bird of paradise and a bottle-brush tree. The house was yellow. Our neighbor’s house was orange and the one after that, pink. A typical Mexican neighborhood in Orange County. The year was 1986.
“Today at school, some boys were making fun of Janelle,” I told her.
The rag paused mid-swirl. She dropped it into the bucket and shook the suds from her hands, then put them on my shoulders. She looked me in the eye in a serious way.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “People can be mean sometimes. It’s very sad when something like this happens.”
It was obvious that she was concerned. I could tell that she was sad. But her response was not soothing, nor did it help me understand. The weight of her hands…
