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(1) life flight
by Charles Mariano
life flight
i go back an incredible view wings spread all those days the colors it seems yet awhile ago a concerned friend called the pages turning he said to me and i said i'm flying
poor side of town
it could have been a day like today, the end of summer, a hint of fall in merced. i'd left our house on 12th, and headed down J street towards town. the center of town has always been smack dab in the middle. the railroad tracks being the cultural line of distinction. rich on one side, us on the other. whenever we made a quick reference to locations or directions, it always contained the phrase "across the tracks." you automatically got a visual, and knew.
then one day the people in charge of the town decided to move the freeway over. old highway 99 went straight down the gut of 16th, then split at the other end towards yosemite or fresno. this freeway was going to leap across the tracks about three blocks into our neighborhood. the railroad tracks, our lifelong boundary was now this humongous mountain of dirt about a block from our back yard. as a young boy, this was the greatest, most perfect sandbox ever imagined.
at night, after the construction workers left, we'd gather just below 13th street, and map out our giant playground. my brothers, jimmy and benjie and i, raced around the dusty sand mountains screaming like wild gorillas. tackling, sliding, rolling. we flattened cardboard boxes to sit on and streaked down the side of the mountains at breakneck speed. other kids from the neighborhood joined in on these dusty races, as we careened and crashed down the hill. every night we held gorilla races.
we figured someone plopped down that giant sandbox just for us, and we weren't going to ask questions. the merced sun-star even came one day and took pictures during one our races. i was right in front, dust and sweat turned raccoon eyes, jimmy and benjie racing right behind me. mama cut that picture out, and for awhile, we thought we were famous.
the day they built the big fence with the sharp spikes on top to keep us out, upset us. raymond and i pulled and pulled on the bottom until it bent and curved enough room to crawl under. we climbed to the top with our cardboards and realized we couldn't slide down without running into that fence. they started pouring rocks and oil on top, that further shocked us. when the workers left, my friend raymond and i would sit on top of the mountain, staring down at our houses, and out towards the merced fairgrounds about three blocks away. our sandbox was being taken away, and this mountain, our mountain, was taking on another look. a road. this was going to be a road for cars. the end was near.
now there was not only the tracks to seperate us from the other side of town, but this mountain road called the 99. once the cars started rolling, we were never allowed near that road. mama whipped me when i tried. our mountain became another obstacle to walk all the way around now, to get to the other side. the side where the people with nice houses, nice clothes, lots of food, lived.
i drove home recently, and to that house. 107 west 12th street. our house, and raymond's house, were gone. the huizars across the street had a large fenced-in garden. the campos behind us had the tough older teenagers that always pushed us around. the porras's house to the side, replaced by a parkinglot for the hmong church, that used to be a mexican holy roller church. nothing was there anymore. the street still smelled the same, looked the same. poverty stays.
but the 99, that big ol freeway loomed tall. a monument that stood the test of time, as my neighborhood crumbled beneath it. the cars rolled on top at furious speeds to yosemite, fresno, los angeles. i can see mama holding baby diana on the porch, her head bobbypinned with a scarf wrapped around. i can see the chinaberry tree on the right side, the fairgrounds, and raymond's sister penny, from my window, who i fantasized about for years.
some things never change. | ||
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