treated as such second-class citizens. But it’s not like that in San Francisco. Here, everybody lives together. By the way, I’ve started taking two classes. Intermediate yoga and classical photography. Randy says I’m a natural with lighting. And your sister’s taking
three
different dance classes. Randy’s taking us out to Alcatraz today. I’ve
always
wanted to go out there. Those prisoners back in history, being shipped out there. It’s so interesting to think about, isn’t it? God, Danny boy, I think this man might be the one. I mean it, honey. I think this might be
it
for your crazy mom.”
Danny doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, hon, gotta run. Randy’s out hailing a cab.
Hailing a cab
—can you imagine, baby? Can you picture your mom and sister running around this famous city? Okay, you take care down there, and say hi to everybody. We love you, Danny boy.”
The phone clicks dead in his ear and Danny sets it on the table. He looks at it for a few seconds, trying to imagine what San Francisco might look like. Trying to imagine his mom and his sister and Randy all piling into a cab. He pushes his bowl of soggy flakes away and leans back in his chair. How could his mom do this to his dad? He wants nothing to do with her ever again. He doesn’t care if he has to sleep on a cot the rest of his high school career. He’s not going back with her. He reaches out for his bowl and takes the spoon, resumes eating the soggy flakes so he’ll have energy when he works out today.
Senior Explains Poverty
1
“All right, lemme put it to you another way,” Senior says, holding an index finger in the air. He snaps. Looks Uno right in the eyes. “Say you ain’t from round here. Say you just some random Jack who got lost on your way to Mexico. You jump the gun, turn off the freeway into National City. That’s the only way you could know how you livin’, son. Your boys from down the block? They can’t tell you nuthin’. Your moms? Nah. But an outsider, Uno. Wouldn’t need to hear no words neither. The answers would be in his eyes.”
On the walk home from the barbecue joint, Uno asked his old man what would happen if he couldn’t raise all the money. The whole five hundred. Would he still be able to move to Oxnard? Uno watched his dad stop cold. Watched him spit into a gutter and turn to him, fire building in the whites of his eyes.
Senior took Uno by the arm, veered him into Sweetwater High’s parking lot. Up the ramp. Into the football bleachers. And that’s where they’ve been for the past forty-five minutes. Senior talking. Uno listening.
“Get too close to somethin’,” Senior says, pointing at his eyes, “it ain’t no longer possible to
see
. An outsider, though, lookin’ in on shit with virgin eyes. That’s the person who could shed a light on your reality. I mean, I done lived here with your mom, a Mexican woman, for years. So I understand the cultural background and historical symbolic stuff. You follow?”
“I think so,” Uno says. In his head he tries to connect the dots. He brought up Oxnard and Senior’s talking about an outsider. But they have to relate somehow.
“But a true outsider,” Senior continues, “he drives past the Lincoln Acres picnic table area, sees old Indian-lookin’ women sittin’ huddled in the shade, crochetin’. Hardly a word passing between them. The outsider sees bus after bus, filled to the capacity with factory workers, faces like the worn-out leather on your baseball mitt. On they way to minimum-wage jobs. He rolls past an alley full of weeds after school, sees a pack of
los ratas
tape firecrackers to the back of a stray cat—then pop! pop! pop! they scatter away in they rags, laughin’. The outsider passes the run-down taquerias and liquor stores that line Highland Ave like old, broken-down Aztec warriors. Standing at the edge of the street with they arms folded.”
Uno nods. He’s no longer sure what these things have to do with Oxnard, but he’s
three
different dance classes. Randy’s taking us out to Alcatraz today. I’ve
always
wanted to go out there. Those prisoners back in history, being shipped out there. It’s so interesting to think about, isn’t it? God, Danny boy, I think this man might be the one. I mean it, honey. I think this might be
it
for your crazy mom.”
Danny doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, hon, gotta run. Randy’s out hailing a cab.
Hailing a cab
—can you imagine, baby? Can you picture your mom and sister running around this famous city? Okay, you take care down there, and say hi to everybody. We love you, Danny boy.”
The phone clicks dead in his ear and Danny sets it on the table. He looks at it for a few seconds, trying to imagine what San Francisco might look like. Trying to imagine his mom and his sister and Randy all piling into a cab. He pushes his bowl of soggy flakes away and leans back in his chair. How could his mom do this to his dad? He wants nothing to do with her ever again. He doesn’t care if he has to sleep on a cot the rest of his high school career. He’s not going back with her. He reaches out for his bowl and takes the spoon, resumes eating the soggy flakes so he’ll have energy when he works out today.
Senior Explains Poverty
1
“All right, lemme put it to you another way,” Senior says, holding an index finger in the air. He snaps. Looks Uno right in the eyes. “Say you ain’t from round here. Say you just some random Jack who got lost on your way to Mexico. You jump the gun, turn off the freeway into National City. That’s the only way you could know how you livin’, son. Your boys from down the block? They can’t tell you nuthin’. Your moms? Nah. But an outsider, Uno. Wouldn’t need to hear no words neither. The answers would be in his eyes.”
On the walk home from the barbecue joint, Uno asked his old man what would happen if he couldn’t raise all the money. The whole five hundred. Would he still be able to move to Oxnard? Uno watched his dad stop cold. Watched him spit into a gutter and turn to him, fire building in the whites of his eyes.
Senior took Uno by the arm, veered him into Sweetwater High’s parking lot. Up the ramp. Into the football bleachers. And that’s where they’ve been for the past forty-five minutes. Senior talking. Uno listening.
“Get too close to somethin’,” Senior says, pointing at his eyes, “it ain’t no longer possible to
see
. An outsider, though, lookin’ in on shit with virgin eyes. That’s the person who could shed a light on your reality. I mean, I done lived here with your mom, a Mexican woman, for years. So I understand the cultural background and historical symbolic stuff. You follow?”
“I think so,” Uno says. In his head he tries to connect the dots. He brought up Oxnard and Senior’s talking about an outsider. But they have to relate somehow.
“But a true outsider,” Senior continues, “he drives past the Lincoln Acres picnic table area, sees old Indian-lookin’ women sittin’ huddled in the shade, crochetin’. Hardly a word passing between them. The outsider sees bus after bus, filled to the capacity with factory workers, faces like the worn-out leather on your baseball mitt. On they way to minimum-wage jobs. He rolls past an alley full of weeds after school, sees a pack of
los ratas
tape firecrackers to the back of a stray cat—then pop! pop! pop! they scatter away in they rags, laughin’. The outsider passes the run-down taquerias and liquor stores that line Highland Ave like old, broken-down Aztec warriors. Standing at the edge of the street with they arms folded.”
Uno nods. He’s no longer sure what these things have to do with Oxnard, but he’s
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