Tag Archives: public transit

Lost in Translation

28 Jan

I was 15 and missing class for the day as I walked along my dad to an immigration one stop shop to renew his green card. By then, our relationship was distant, making for awkward conversation as we waited, mostly in silence, for his number to be called.

He had walked into my room the previous evening, looking slightly nervous, to ask me if I could take the day off school and help him with paperwork and translating questions. He didn’t mention what kind of paperwork and I didn’t ask. I simply said, “Claro que si papi!” And he walked back out, his shoulders noticeably relaxed.

The following morning we got up early and briskly walked to the bus stop. As we waited, he asked if I would miss much school work. I shook my head and we rode in silence, using the noisy backdrop of multiple conversations, music, arguments, and laughter from our fellow bus riders as noise filler.

“Numero 143!” The loudspeaker was all base and garbled sound that you had to strain to hear it, followed by multiple questions of, “Que dijo? Cual numero?!” I looked down at our number, #257…

I looked around and saw the snaking line in front of us, and even longer mess of a wait behind us. I had the large manila folder close to my chest, its contents all neatly filled out and in the appropriate order. We went through the questions: Color of Hair -, “Negro no?”, Color of Eyes -, “Cafe”, Height -…and so on. What year did you enter the US? Have you ever illegally done this, that, and other idiotic questions that were meant to trick you into losing your green card.

“Numero 257!” We hurried up to the window, my father a step behind me, and I beamed brightly at the zombie-esque employee behind the window. I pushed the paperwork toward him and he rattled off a litany of questions, each to which my father would look to me before responding in the affirmative or negative. He looked so serious, that face that I came to know every time he was in front of a figure of authority, that face that thinly masked the knots of nervous terror that threatened to snake through his pores. His yellow pallor and slight suffle from his left to right foot reflected his fear, this precarious arrangement by the US government that allowed him to be in the North side of the Mexican/US border with his family – his wife and kids that is. I was standing next to him so I did the only thing I thought to do, I reached for his hand and held it in mine and gave it a slight squeeze. To my surprise, he squeezed back and released a pent up breath. Those long heavy breathes that you release when you forget to breathe.

Thump. The stamp of approval came down on my father’s paperwork and the zombie gave me the proof of renewal as well as intructions of things to watch out for in the mail.

As we stepped away I saw hundred of people just like my dad, a yellow tint betraying their fear, their unsteady stance on slippery ice of the INS.

As we left that dimly lit and dingy building and walked out into the bright sunshine of Olympic/Soto, he cheerfully asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. “Quieres una Hamburguesa?” I didn’t. I wanted to go home and rid myself of the depressing images of hope and broken dreams that the building had left behind in my mind. I wanted to stop the awkward company of my father and lock myself up in my room to listen to music and read a book. But his smile was so rare, it seemed out of place in his usual solemn face, and I remembered how he had returned the squeeze when we held hands that I nodded my head and smiled so he could remember his five year old Chuchi that had always quickly done anything he requested.

Instead of hopping on the bus we walked to Tom’s Burgers on 4th/Soto and ordered burgers, fries, and a shake for me. I told him about how my swimming was going, about my history class, about all of the subjects that I enjoyed. That afternoon I had my father back; the one that used to help me with homework art projects, read to me and protect me when I was in pre-school.

It dawned on me then how hard and embarassing it must have been for him to ask me for help for a matter that I would never have to face since I won the lottery at birth and was born in this country.

My mother always came to me when she needed translating, documents filled out, appointments for me to attend with her, but my father… He had never asked for my help before then and I was happy that I had quickly assented, that I had agreed energetically to having lunch with him.

He told me about his adventures as a young man; stories about crossing the border, the comedy he peppered in didn’t quite hide the perils and unfortunate events that crossing illegally with a pollero invited. The fry scratched my throat as I chewed and tried to swallow the mouthful along with my sense of shame of not having wanted to prolong my stay with my dad. But the shame was nothing compared to the ache that I felt for the millions of unfortunate undocumented fathers out there whose standing on the North side of the border was even more precarious than my father’s.

President Obama will release his immigration reform plan tomorrow and I have a seed of hope hesitantly sprouting that his plan includes a major upheaval of our class system: the third class that suffers in silence and moves noiselessly from unwanted job to job without any right to vote or voice their injustice, the second class that holds green cards but are not yet citizens and do not have the right to vote, and the rest of us – US Citizens (via birth or naturalization) that are free to enjoy 100 % of our rights, as disparate in education and economic mobility opportunity as they may be, there is still a door for us that grants us 100% of the right to seek those opportunities. And with shame I acknowledge that I have often forgotten how fortunate I am for having a US birth certificate, that sacred paper that allows me to live the life I have led…

I hope that President Obama pushes his immigration plan forward and doesn’t allow for the stories of suffering undocumented millions to be lost in translation.

How to Live Without a Car M-F

3 Dec

Living in Downtown, Working in DTLA AND being lucky enough to have a school for kids in DT… I had to get rid of my car.  Big savings on NO car payment, insurance, parking or gas. 

Sounds great on paper but it takes getting used to in practice.  Here’s a taste of what it takes..

5:00 AM Wake up, make coffee, stumble for gym clothes and shoes (half-asleep) and go for a run out on the cold streets.

5:35 Walk in the door, rummage for office clothing, and clothing for the girls (that’s 3 outfits..), take a shower

6:00 Wake up mini-adults and serve them breakfast.  Pack lunch. Drink coffee and pack coffee to go in my Stanley Coffee Mug (DWR..love it)

6:20 Get dressed, dress girls, comb my hair, sun-screen, get shoes on (hopefully on the right foot on the first try)

6:45 Grab purse, keys, heels, lunch, coffee and off we go.  I always take a treat (raisins/nuts/chocolate milk) to persuade (bribe) Bella and Iza to hurry up.

7:00 We hopefully make the Dash A on 7th/Figueroa and hop on, all the while curious Financial District Employees stare at the girls as if they are beings from another universe. The bus ride usually takes about 25 minutes to take us to 3rd and Alameda.  We chat, they sing, I read..put on make-up. We get stared at..a lot!

7:30 I drop them off at the Higashi Honganji Center on 3rd/ Central.  Kiss, kiss! Hug! Bye..ok another hug and I am off.  I have given up on taking the dash back to City Hall because to retain my dignity I refuse to keep running after the bus or angering myself when they leave without stopping.  The weather is nice and cold so walking briskly to work doesn’t get you sweaty or stinky. 

7:45 I walk into my cubicle at City Hall and start my day as a bureaucrat!

********

5:20pm Turn off the computer, do a quick assessment of my desk to make sure I don’t forget anything and then rush off to the school to pick up the girls.  I make record time walking back to the school (funny how much more determined you are in your navigating when the direction is home) and say hello to the security guard (sweet old man always with a smile).  I look for my tiny tots and sign-them out.  After 3-4 times of false attempts, we finally leave. (I don’t remember ever hugging each of my classmates before I left..such popular girls)

5:39 We walk back to 3rd/Alameda and hop on the bus. This is where the popular bunching occurs. Bunching meaning when two to three buses are at the same stop, at the same time.  This is their break spot which is bad if you are on the other side of Route A in City West waiting.. but good if you are like me with two little girls walking in the dark. 

6:00 pm We hop off on 7th/Flower and walk home..sweet home at Hope/9th. 

6:10 Shoes off, toys out and pots and pans are clanking. I make dinner, we eat, relax and wind down our fleeting day….

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