Vintage Barrio
Nothing drains the mind of creative forces as does stress, rejection, and uncertainty. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on here – with good reason. My days have been consumed by coffee, monster.com, FedEx Kinko’s, interviews in hotel conference rooms, mapquest directions, slacks, ties, and way too many slightly moist yet firm handshakes. But it’s over… for now. A new job has been found and another chapter in the life o’mine begins… only time will tell where this leads.
Having spent time on the DL, I’ve been hitting the streets of El Monte via mountain bike – I gotta say, it’s the fucken shit. I never knew how beautiful my city was… in all respects too, aesthetic and otherwise. From Garvey to Beverly Blvd the sounds of life and smell of nature make me sad – American Beauty sad. My turnabout point is where the San Gabriel River meets Whittier. I stand at the top of the dam and view the chapel in Rose Hills where my grandma and countless others have been cried for prior to burial. I think of her to say the least. If I’m lucky, I can see the San Gabriel Mountains – that’s quite the sight. I watch old men play golf and young men ride horses – that’s right, horses. All this within city limits.
This may sound weird but the concrete jungle brings about a smile to my face as does the latter experience. One never truly understands the true beauty that our barrios possess until we stop, observe, and reflect. I see parents wetting their little kids with the water hose as they jump around in soggy t-shirts and torn denim shorts, freshly showered 15 year old girls walking to the liquor store to buy lolly-pops, Mexican men staring at me while standing on the intersection of Rosemead and San Gabriel hoping somebody’s in the mood for a bag of oranges, hookers fronting and waiting at the bus stop next to Asian textile workers. No joke, this is my reality – everyday I ride my bike. Friendly El Monte is a complicated little town. Tragedy, love, culture, and America all rolled into one.
I’ve been fortunate… I love where I’m from. It feels good to be the scrappy baby faced mother fucker with street cred everywhere I go. It’s cool to say “I’m from the streets bitch” and actually mean it. It’s easy to know a good cop from a bad one. It’s a beautiful thing to jump off the 10 freeway, hit up Alberto’s, grab and bean and cheese burrito with rice and guacamole, drive up to my parking spot, lock the door and roll up to my spot on Humbert Ave.
C/S
- Lucio
Having spent time on the DL, I’ve been hitting the streets of El Monte via mountain bike – I gotta say, it’s the fucken shit. I never knew how beautiful my city was… in all respects too, aesthetic and otherwise. From Garvey to Beverly Blvd the sounds of life and smell of nature make me sad – American Beauty sad. My turnabout point is where the San Gabriel River meets Whittier. I stand at the top of the dam and view the chapel in Rose Hills where my grandma and countless others have been cried for prior to burial. I think of her to say the least. If I’m lucky, I can see the San Gabriel Mountains – that’s quite the sight. I watch old men play golf and young men ride horses – that’s right, horses. All this within city limits.
This may sound weird but the concrete jungle brings about a smile to my face as does the latter experience. One never truly understands the true beauty that our barrios possess until we stop, observe, and reflect. I see parents wetting their little kids with the water hose as they jump around in soggy t-shirts and torn denim shorts, freshly showered 15 year old girls walking to the liquor store to buy lolly-pops, Mexican men staring at me while standing on the intersection of Rosemead and San Gabriel hoping somebody’s in the mood for a bag of oranges, hookers fronting and waiting at the bus stop next to Asian textile workers. No joke, this is my reality – everyday I ride my bike. Friendly El Monte is a complicated little town. Tragedy, love, culture, and America all rolled into one.
I’ve been fortunate… I love where I’m from. It feels good to be the scrappy baby faced mother fucker with street cred everywhere I go. It’s cool to say “I’m from the streets bitch” and actually mean it. It’s easy to know a good cop from a bad one. It’s a beautiful thing to jump off the 10 freeway, hit up Alberto’s, grab and bean and cheese burrito with rice and guacamole, drive up to my parking spot, lock the door and roll up to my spot on Humbert Ave.
C/S
- Lucio
posted by Lucio Rodriguez at 2:32 AM
1 Comments:
agreed about c/s, though i always feel somewhat threatened by it.
so el monte is simpatico, eh? i believe it and i'll add that it is especially nice when one of it's own can put it down in words, paint a descriptive little picture of it.
i was like a neighbor once you know. in fact, i lived in el monte too but i hardly remember. i do, however, recall alhambra, in the days before the asian invasion when it was surely a brown town. i lived right on garfield just below hellman, attended emerson elementary school, about a half mile away. i remember the odors wafting from the houses, chorizo con huevos y refritos for sure but my thick, white tongue and my gringo brain is always capable of screwing these things up. i remember the sounds of those words, which came from my grandmother who raised me at the time but also from virtually every one of my friends at school. i remember words i didn't even know the meaning of at the time but they were real and it was good, "horale," and "ay que vato," (at least that's how i remember them.) garvey was just down the other way and that's where the town turned distinctly brown AND yellow, (and nothing else.) and i thought it was good i lived where i did since i was white on the inside but brown in the brain and a little bit yellow from my sperm-donor father. instead of a mountain bike, i had a little bike w/ training wheels that i left on it and i used to go 'round the neighborhood collecting bottles so i could roll down hellman to the corner of atlantic(?) where the convenience store would give me cash to uy rc colas with occasional gifts hidden under the cap. yep, i know this flavor you speak of in that area. and i'm sure it's changed some but i'm also sure it's just the same.
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