La Bad Ass 1954/2004
San José, Califas
for my children
I.
Gramma Pauline did some time in la pinta, for we don't know what. We were afraid to ask. Maybe she stabbed someone, my older sister Sofia whispered all dramatic like-her god damn eyeballs glittery with the possibility of gramma's criminal past. But then my little brother Diego shook his head violently in disagreement. You’re so stupid, Fia! I bet you Gramma shanked plenty of people back in the day, and she never got popped for it. It was like her pachuca super power! Diego made some lame sword fighting move, hardly a shank, while Sofia and I rolled our eyes at our little brother, always the clown. Stabbing, shanking, whatever. The speculations made us drunk on family story. Who cares if they were true or not?
II.
Before she was Gramma Pauline she was Paulina, Pau for short. The youngest of many between a bracero who fluidly crossed borders and a cannery girl who’d never crossed. Pau was the last kid left-often alone- the original latch-key chava. After walking home from school, she would cook herself hot dogs en tortillas while the Virgen tapestry above the TV served as her holy babysitter. Secretly in love with Ricky Ricardo and openly in hate with Lucy, she longed for a life of mad cap antics like theirs. That’s only for white people scoffed her older sister Letty one day. Not for you, Pau. Letty had a chip on her shoulder about everything. Especially white people.
Life was lonely until she was thirteen, when Pau meet Irena, who taught her how to dance, and fight. They would sneak out of the house to go cruising on East Santa Clara Street, flirting with the chucos from Salinas porque they always had the best rides, verdad? Pau became a good time girl, no shame in that game. She milked two years out of it. Then, de repente-with child-not immaculate at all, either. Irena said Frank, the baby’s dad, was no good. She was right, but that pissed Pau right the fuck off. The two best friends would not speak for two decades. The Virgen who had taken care of her when she was little suddenly looked down disapprovingly at Pau’s puta ass. Judgmental bitch. Pau was alone again.
When her son was born, Pau refused to be seen with the baby, considering it beneath her-a straight up jefa! -to be perceived as motherly. Fuck that! She dropped her baby boy at her sister Letty’s house while she got into more and more trouble with Frank, our Pop’s dad. We call him DBG for short. Dead Beat Grandpa was clunky in our mouths. Only Sofia met him. By the time Diego and I were born, he was long gone.
We still don’t know what happened to Frank, our grandpa. We don’t know what he did to land Gramma Pauline in jail either. The chisme was that Gramma took the heat for DBG. The time she did at Elmwood when our Pops was a baby solidified the distance between them. Even when Pauline was released, Tia Letty kept the baby.
It’s better this way, Paulina. For the boy. You’re so young, mija! Enjoy your life! Pops told us three kids a different story. You wanna know the truth? She fucking abandoned me so she could be a fucking whore. Your grandmother was one of those hookers on First Street who traded her concha for uppers. The end.
We didn’t know who to believe. We only knew that Pops and Gramma were full of mean. Years later, when we three were grown, we would see that the howling hurt between them was the only language both understood. But only when we had children of our very own to fuck up. DBG was hiding out in Mexico, last I heard. But this ain’t about him.
III.
Sometimes Gramma was nice to us, especially when our Moms picked up her scrip of oxy. Gramma and Irene would come over for dinner and talked mad shit about the neighborhood Pops chose to raise us half breeds.
Pinche Willow Glen! The words hissed out of the corner of her her mouth. She refused to go to any of our school activities. I ain’t going to some pinche tree lighting bullshit, no way Jose.
It was just as well. All of the other kid’s grandmas wore puffy vests and Dansko shoes, while our gramma was a god damn gangster with a War sticker on her Rascal Scooter and a shit ton of poker chips in her coin purse, given to her by the boys at Joe’s Casino Card Club on Post Street. We were proud she belonged to us. We were also mortified. We sat on many fences, unsure of who we belonged to or what to claim. Halfers. Pochos.
IV.
Oye, Chicos! You ever hear about my wild days? Moms, unpacking the take out from the Cal Mex restaurant on Lincoln Avenue, looked concerned, but we three kids were all over that shit. Tell us what was up, Gramma! Leaning on her cane with her massive arms for support, the oxygen tube in her nose distracting us from the Hawaiian print of her enormous mumu, Gramma started spilling, but only after she took a bite of her goat cheese and organic corn quesadilla.
Mira. I used to work at the Del Monte Cannery with the other mujeres, but on the floor, eses. I wasn't picking no fruit en la Valle like those pinche mojados. After my shift ended, I would run to the bathroom ahead of all the other girls to wash the apricot guts off my hands first. I kept my pencil skirt and my tailored jacket in my locker, see? All perfectly pressed and ready to go. Saddle shoes y todo, fui muy fancy. I would paint on the brightest red lipstick I could find and I would tease my hair high...so high!”
Gramma paused, all dreamy with memory. Diego snuck in a nosy question.
Oye, Abuela, dime la verdad: Did you hide knives in your hair? I saw that on TV once. It was bad ass!
She slipped back into mean face mode when she snarled Don’t call me abuela! I ain’t no wetback!
I glanced at Moms who had that uncomfortable look that white people get when they hear a racial slur. I caught Diego blinking back tears before quickly composed himself and rolled his eyes at me.
Gramma was meanest to Diego. Years later, our Moms would explain why, placing Diego’s baby picture next to Pop’s. Diego’s little face served as a reminder of a failed life. Still, she didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. This time, sitting in that grandiose monster house that Pops had built for us, I shrugged my shoulders at Diego. Asi como fue. That’s how she was. He shrugged his shoulders back, managed a tiny smile back at me. Solidarity always helped.
V.
Oh, Irene, I had the best pompa, remember? Irene, sucking on her fake teeth, agreed.
Órale, jefa. I remember! We was the original cholas pero mas classy, verdad? Irene sighed, her eyeballs glassy like Gramma’s. Diles! Gramma continued,
The night might bring fighting, or maybe dancing. I was a good dancer! I was fearless of the flips, flew so high, hijole!
She smiled for a bit, leaning on her cane. You know that Coca’s Furniture on Santa Clara Street? Hank Coca wanted to marry me, te digo la verdad! Irene nodded in affirmation, always the trusted side kick, willing to go along with whatever Pauline was selling that day.
Later, Gramma slipped into a narco-nap, her chest wheezing on the intake of breath. Moms started to wash the dishes with her back turned to us while Irene, seizing the opportunity, rooted around the kitchen island drawers, pocketing plastic silverware and hot sauce packets. Gramma the drug addict and her side kick, Irene the klepto. Priceless. Fuck those other grandmas at school! We liked what we got. Until we didn’t. We heard the front door slam. Pops was home. Story time over.
VI.
Gramma Pauline kept her old zoot suit under her bed, saddle shoes too, all pristine like-carefully folded in stiff white tissue in a giant box better suited for a wedding dress or a baptismal gown. I didn't dare try it on, but I wanted to. Sofia? She was moving towards hating Gramma. I didn’t blame her. I just wasn’t there yet.
One time, when we went to her condo filled with bullshit décor from the T. J. Maxx around the corner, we snuck the box out while she was sleeping, a dangerous feat considering how possessive she was of her things, especially precious contrived memories. Even though Sofia was nearest to Gramma when she came raging blindly towards us, it was Diego that she threw a furious whack with her three footed cane, which landed on the side of his head. Don’t fuck with my shit, nino. I will fuck you up. de veras. Understand?
Diego skipped past the hurt this time, and went straight to anger, but not the flailing kind. His rage was cool and collected, and while I knew my little brother, nothing prepared me for the blankness of his face as he calmly sneered, Yes, Abuela, I understand. He calmly walked out, closed the door behind him. No slamming necessary. His transformation terrified me. Gramma continued to lose her shit, practically making herself sick with rage, spittle on her chin from sputtering nonsense at my brother. Or was it her son? Who knows, who cares. She had damaged both of them.
I walked out too, Fia right behind me. We caught the 22 home, past the old hospital, long deserted by that time. past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where Moms had gone to school when her own parents participated in the great social experiment by moving into downtown San Jose, full of hallway houses back then and well meaning liberals who did more harm than good. We three rode in silence all the way down Santa Clara Street until it turned bougie. We hopped off at the Shark Tank, the bloated sports arena-one more edifice to remind us that the consequences of San Jose is Growing Up had actually displaced people like Tia Letty. Irene. Our people. Not our people. We caught the 64 at San Carlos Street and Bird Avenue, back into Willow Glen, over the 280 and under the old train trestle. We never told Moms what happened.
for my children
I.
Gramma Pauline did some time in la pinta, for we don't know what. We were afraid to ask. Maybe she stabbed someone, my older sister Sofia whispered all dramatic like-her god damn eyeballs glittery with the possibility of gramma's criminal past. But then my little brother Diego shook his head violently in disagreement. You’re so stupid, Fia! I bet you Gramma shanked plenty of people back in the day, and she never got popped for it. It was like her pachuca super power! Diego made some lame sword fighting move, hardly a shank, while Sofia and I rolled our eyes at our little brother, always the clown. Stabbing, shanking, whatever. The speculations made us drunk on family story. Who cares if they were true or not?
II.
Before she was Gramma Pauline she was Paulina, Pau for short. The youngest of many between a bracero who fluidly crossed borders and a cannery girl who’d never crossed. Pau was the last kid left-often alone- the original latch-key chava. After walking home from school, she would cook herself hot dogs en tortillas while the Virgen tapestry above the TV served as her holy babysitter. Secretly in love with Ricky Ricardo and openly in hate with Lucy, she longed for a life of mad cap antics like theirs. That’s only for white people scoffed her older sister Letty one day. Not for you, Pau. Letty had a chip on her shoulder about everything. Especially white people.
Life was lonely until she was thirteen, when Pau meet Irena, who taught her how to dance, and fight. They would sneak out of the house to go cruising on East Santa Clara Street, flirting with the chucos from Salinas porque they always had the best rides, verdad? Pau became a good time girl, no shame in that game. She milked two years out of it. Then, de repente-with child-not immaculate at all, either. Irena said Frank, the baby’s dad, was no good. She was right, but that pissed Pau right the fuck off. The two best friends would not speak for two decades. The Virgen who had taken care of her when she was little suddenly looked down disapprovingly at Pau’s puta ass. Judgmental bitch. Pau was alone again.
When her son was born, Pau refused to be seen with the baby, considering it beneath her-a straight up jefa! -to be perceived as motherly. Fuck that! She dropped her baby boy at her sister Letty’s house while she got into more and more trouble with Frank, our Pop’s dad. We call him DBG for short. Dead Beat Grandpa was clunky in our mouths. Only Sofia met him. By the time Diego and I were born, he was long gone.
We still don’t know what happened to Frank, our grandpa. We don’t know what he did to land Gramma Pauline in jail either. The chisme was that Gramma took the heat for DBG. The time she did at Elmwood when our Pops was a baby solidified the distance between them. Even when Pauline was released, Tia Letty kept the baby.
It’s better this way, Paulina. For the boy. You’re so young, mija! Enjoy your life! Pops told us three kids a different story. You wanna know the truth? She fucking abandoned me so she could be a fucking whore. Your grandmother was one of those hookers on First Street who traded her concha for uppers. The end.
We didn’t know who to believe. We only knew that Pops and Gramma were full of mean. Years later, when we three were grown, we would see that the howling hurt between them was the only language both understood. But only when we had children of our very own to fuck up. DBG was hiding out in Mexico, last I heard. But this ain’t about him.
III.
Sometimes Gramma was nice to us, especially when our Moms picked up her scrip of oxy. Gramma and Irene would come over for dinner and talked mad shit about the neighborhood Pops chose to raise us half breeds.
Pinche Willow Glen! The words hissed out of the corner of her her mouth. She refused to go to any of our school activities. I ain’t going to some pinche tree lighting bullshit, no way Jose.
It was just as well. All of the other kid’s grandmas wore puffy vests and Dansko shoes, while our gramma was a god damn gangster with a War sticker on her Rascal Scooter and a shit ton of poker chips in her coin purse, given to her by the boys at Joe’s Casino Card Club on Post Street. We were proud she belonged to us. We were also mortified. We sat on many fences, unsure of who we belonged to or what to claim. Halfers. Pochos.
IV.
Oye, Chicos! You ever hear about my wild days? Moms, unpacking the take out from the Cal Mex restaurant on Lincoln Avenue, looked concerned, but we three kids were all over that shit. Tell us what was up, Gramma! Leaning on her cane with her massive arms for support, the oxygen tube in her nose distracting us from the Hawaiian print of her enormous mumu, Gramma started spilling, but only after she took a bite of her goat cheese and organic corn quesadilla.
Mira. I used to work at the Del Monte Cannery with the other mujeres, but on the floor, eses. I wasn't picking no fruit en la Valle like those pinche mojados. After my shift ended, I would run to the bathroom ahead of all the other girls to wash the apricot guts off my hands first. I kept my pencil skirt and my tailored jacket in my locker, see? All perfectly pressed and ready to go. Saddle shoes y todo, fui muy fancy. I would paint on the brightest red lipstick I could find and I would tease my hair high...so high!”
Gramma paused, all dreamy with memory. Diego snuck in a nosy question.
Oye, Abuela, dime la verdad: Did you hide knives in your hair? I saw that on TV once. It was bad ass!
She slipped back into mean face mode when she snarled Don’t call me abuela! I ain’t no wetback!
I glanced at Moms who had that uncomfortable look that white people get when they hear a racial slur. I caught Diego blinking back tears before quickly composed himself and rolled his eyes at me.
Gramma was meanest to Diego. Years later, our Moms would explain why, placing Diego’s baby picture next to Pop’s. Diego’s little face served as a reminder of a failed life. Still, she didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. This time, sitting in that grandiose monster house that Pops had built for us, I shrugged my shoulders at Diego. Asi como fue. That’s how she was. He shrugged his shoulders back, managed a tiny smile back at me. Solidarity always helped.
V.
Oh, Irene, I had the best pompa, remember? Irene, sucking on her fake teeth, agreed.
Órale, jefa. I remember! We was the original cholas pero mas classy, verdad? Irene sighed, her eyeballs glassy like Gramma’s. Diles! Gramma continued,
The night might bring fighting, or maybe dancing. I was a good dancer! I was fearless of the flips, flew so high, hijole!
She smiled for a bit, leaning on her cane. You know that Coca’s Furniture on Santa Clara Street? Hank Coca wanted to marry me, te digo la verdad! Irene nodded in affirmation, always the trusted side kick, willing to go along with whatever Pauline was selling that day.
Later, Gramma slipped into a narco-nap, her chest wheezing on the intake of breath. Moms started to wash the dishes with her back turned to us while Irene, seizing the opportunity, rooted around the kitchen island drawers, pocketing plastic silverware and hot sauce packets. Gramma the drug addict and her side kick, Irene the klepto. Priceless. Fuck those other grandmas at school! We liked what we got. Until we didn’t. We heard the front door slam. Pops was home. Story time over.
VI.
Gramma Pauline kept her old zoot suit under her bed, saddle shoes too, all pristine like-carefully folded in stiff white tissue in a giant box better suited for a wedding dress or a baptismal gown. I didn't dare try it on, but I wanted to. Sofia? She was moving towards hating Gramma. I didn’t blame her. I just wasn’t there yet.
One time, when we went to her condo filled with bullshit décor from the T. J. Maxx around the corner, we snuck the box out while she was sleeping, a dangerous feat considering how possessive she was of her things, especially precious contrived memories. Even though Sofia was nearest to Gramma when she came raging blindly towards us, it was Diego that she threw a furious whack with her three footed cane, which landed on the side of his head. Don’t fuck with my shit, nino. I will fuck you up. de veras. Understand?
Diego skipped past the hurt this time, and went straight to anger, but not the flailing kind. His rage was cool and collected, and while I knew my little brother, nothing prepared me for the blankness of his face as he calmly sneered, Yes, Abuela, I understand. He calmly walked out, closed the door behind him. No slamming necessary. His transformation terrified me. Gramma continued to lose her shit, practically making herself sick with rage, spittle on her chin from sputtering nonsense at my brother. Or was it her son? Who knows, who cares. She had damaged both of them.
I walked out too, Fia right behind me. We caught the 22 home, past the old hospital, long deserted by that time. past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where Moms had gone to school when her own parents participated in the great social experiment by moving into downtown San Jose, full of hallway houses back then and well meaning liberals who did more harm than good. We three rode in silence all the way down Santa Clara Street until it turned bougie. We hopped off at the Shark Tank, the bloated sports arena-one more edifice to remind us that the consequences of San Jose is Growing Up had actually displaced people like Tia Letty. Irene. Our people. Not our people. We caught the 64 at San Carlos Street and Bird Avenue, back into Willow Glen, over the 280 and under the old train trestle. We never told Moms what happened.
KATE GEARY is is a writer and a mother whose narratives are centered around caucasity, queerness, and the cult of motherhood. Using pop theory and literature as a back drop, she is working on a memoir called Precious White Woman, where she connects her own life to the larger problematics of a fucked up colonial culture. Kate believes in the power of place, and looks forward to moving back to SJ in the fall.
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