He carves deeper into the ground. “It’s good, I guess, because she makes my dad happy.”
“What about you?” I ask, and start pulling the extra dirt out of the hole.
He pauses and gulps in a bunch of air like he’s going to cry. “I’m on my own,” he answers coldly. He jabs the shovel back into the ground again and catches the side of my hand, slicing my skin.
I scream when I see the blood pouring out.
“Oh no!” Wolf cries. “Aw, jeez! Alex, I’ll get you help right away.”
I’m too scared to move. Wolf pulls me up off the ground, tells me to hold my hand above my heart (tips from his soldier survival guides), and runs me inside the house.
“Doña Salazar, Doña Salazar, help!” he calls.
Wolf and my nana bring me to the bathroom. My nana washes my hand, which makes it feel like it’s on fire, which makes me scream again. And then we can all see that the cut is not as bad as it looked when it had blood all over it. My nana rubs my hand with a cotton ball and peroxide, which makes my skin fizzle. Then she puts a huge bandage on top of it. Once I see my hand all cleaned up, I’m okay again.
“Let’s finish the job,” I say to Wolf.
Wolf looks at me anxiously. “You can’t even move your fingers.”
“Duh, I’ve got another hand,” I say. “And we can’t leave a big hole for when my mom gets home.”
“You’ve got a point,” he says.
We go back outside and kneel beside the hole again. Wolf pushes the shovel away and digs with his hands instead. I look down inside the hole and see that he’s carefully moving his fingers around something in the earth.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Just roots,” Wolf says. “Probably from your dad’s rosebush.”
“Shoot, I guess we dug too close. Be real careful,” I warn.
“I am,” he says defensively. But then he pauses. “Hey, sorry about cutting your hand.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
Wolf nods. “I think it’s deep enough.”
“Let me try.” I stick my good hand into the hole and rub it around in the dirt. “Those are tough roots. I don’t think we hurt them any.” I wrap my fingers around one of them to feel how thick and strong it is. My thumb pushes against something plastic.
“There’s some trash in there or something,” I say.
“Really?” Wolf perks up. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Probably some dumb kid throwing his Toys “R” Us trash into our yard.” The only thing our street is famous for is that it winds into the only
Toys “R” Us for miles.
“Can you pull it out?” Wolf asks.
“I’m trying,” I say, grasping the plastic between my fingers. “It feels like a bag.” I pull a corner free from around the root.
“See?”
“I can do it.” Wolf pushes his hand in next to mine and grabs at the edge.
“Dig some more around it,” I suggest.
Wolf starts rounding out the hole so that we can see more of the plastic bag on either side of the root.
“It’s so dirty,” I say.
“I think it’s a Ziploc,” Wolf says.
“What if there’s an old sandwich in it or something?” I pull back.
“Eww,” Wolf says.
“Touch it and see if it’s mushy,” I say. “Gross! No way.”
“Some soldier you are, afraid of old sandwiches.” I stick my hand in again and push around on top of the bag. “It’s just flat, like there’re papers in it or something.”
“Oh?” Wolf says with excitement. He loves old papers.
Wolf sticks his hand in and holds tight to one of the roots while I wiggle the bag out from underneath it. It’s covered in dirt, but I unzip the top and a bright white fancy paper is inside. It has black type, with a golden pyramid seal at the bottom. I read aloud.
“Whoa!” Wolf shouts.
“This must be my nana’s,” I say, disappointed. “When she went to community college a few years ago, she read a bunch of books about Aztlán.”
“They let old ladies go to college?” he asks.
“Yep. She even took classes with my cousin,” I say. “He thought it was kind of freaky.”
“I think it’s cool,” Wolf says. “You could study things your whole life.”
“My uncle said it was crazy, and that ‘she needed school like she needed a hole in her head,’” I say.
“I’m totally gonna do that, take classes even when I’m a little old man.” Wolf smiles.
“But you don’t like school,” I blurt out, confused.
“School doesn’t like me,” Wolf counters.
I peer up at him, confused.
“Anyway, the school therapist swears that I’ll do a lot better once I get to college.”
I begin to fold up the Aztlán deed to put it away, but Wolf grabs for it.
“Hey, be careful,” I caution him. “Don’t get it dirty.”
“Aztlán’s the place your nana talks about, right?” he says. “From when she came to the United States.”
“Maybe she somehow put it there for us to find,” I say.
“But how could she have dug this big hole?” Wolf says. “And when? It’s for sure been down there a while.”
I hear the engine first, and then the rumble of my mom’s tires pulling up into the driveway.
“Quick!” I shout. “Fill in the hole!”
Wolf and I madly attempt to fill in the hole, but it’s too late. First, my mom sees a chunk of her yard destroyed and, a second later, the bandage on my hand.
“I better go,” Wolf says, getting up and shaking the dirt off his pants. “Ask your nana about the deed.”
He waves and runs off before my mom can cross the yard.
chapter 9
I REMEMBER YOUR STORIES
“I remember specifically telling you not to listen to your nana’s dramatic stories because then you could get yourself hurt.” My mom is rubbing my shoulders, then pacing, then rubbing again, then pacing. “And what did you do to the front yard? There’s a big pile of mud next to the rosebush where there used to be grass! Why would you need more mud when you’ve got a whole street full of it?!”
“I don’t know.”
“You could’ve cut into the roots of the roses. Didn’t you notice them right in front of you?” She throws up her arms.
“The sun was shining in my eyes?” I offer.
Johnny laughs loudly at my pathetic attempt at an excuse as he walks by us from the kitchen, a bag of chips in his hand.
“That doesn’t help,” my mom snaps at him.
“Oh, that’s fair,” he snarks. “She wrecks your precious yard, but you still find a way to yell at me.”
“I didn’t yell!” she yells.
He shifts his head so that his long dark hair covers most of his face. “Whatever,” he says and disappears into his bedroom.
“Ugh.” My mom shakes her head and turns her attention back to me. She examines my bandaged hand. “Why isn’t Wolf more careful with you? Just because he’s a soldier doesn’t mean you are.”
“I’m just as tough as he is,” I argue. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t be a soldier.”
“That’s true.” She nods. “But you could be a girl who gets a PhD instead.”
“That sounds totally boring.” I groan. “Anyway, it was an accident.”
“Baby, don’t you understand? Your hands are precious. You write with your hands. You draw with your hands. You cook with your hands. You can’t risk hurting your hands.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.” Jeez, if she’s this upset about a cut on my hand, what’ll she do when she finds out that I’ve got big sore spots growing next to my heart?
My mom gets me some juice and crackers, and Hops the Kangaroo, and sits me in front of the TV next to my nana to heal. When Johnny comes by on his way to the kitchen again, he sees m
y nice little setup. I smirk and stick my tongue out at him. He gives me a devilish grin and a contorted stinky face in return.
As soon as I hear my mom leave for her Hispanic Professional Women’s Association meeting, I try to talk to my nana, but she’s watching Magnum, P.I. She loves that guy. “He’s got a mustache like Pancho Villa’s,” she likes to tell me. I’d rather watch M*A*S*H.
“I think I found something that belongs to you,” I say.
“Wait, mija. He just found a new clue about the killer,” she says, hunched forward, staring at the TV.
“But this is important,” I tell her.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, triumphant. “I did not trust that plumber.”
I try again. “Wolf and I found a deed.”
A commercial finally comes on. “What kind of deed?” she asks.
“A deed to Aztlán.”
My nana laughs. “That’s impossible. Nobody owns Aztlán.”
“I’ve got it right here,” I say defensively.
She pulls on her reading glasses from the cord around her neck and takes a look at the letter. “Ahh, what a beautiful golden pyramid,” she says, her tone full of admiration. “And the words,” she says. “The seeds and fields and crops. They come from the Chicano Movement.”
“What’s a Chicano movement?” I ask.
“Oh!” she gasps. “I forgot to tell you about the Chicano Movement? That’s terrible. I’m forgetting too many things, mjia.”
“Don’t worry, Nana.” I reach to hold her hand. “I remember most of your stories, so that means we’ve got them safe in both of our heads.”
She smiles. “You’re a good kid.”
I get embarrassed when grown-ups compliment me, so I change the subject as fast as possible. “What about the Chicano Movement, Nana?”
“Oh yeah.” She takes a sip of her tea, turns down the volume on the TV, and begins. “Mira, way back in the 1840s, when the gringos stole a bunch of México, they made a whole lot of promises to us. They said we would keep our liberty and property rights. But they didn’t follow their own rules.”
“Like how?”
“You know Dodger Stadium, right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer. “I love Dodger Stadium.”
“Well, that used to be Chavez Ravine, which was stolen from Mexican Americans.” She shakes her head sadly. “Your grandpa was so mad about that he resigned from his job with the city.”
“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“And Rosemead is full of Mexican kids, but how much Spanish have you learned at your school so far?” she asks.
“None, Nana,” I admit. “I’ve only learned a few words from you.”
“We had a right to our language, but they don’t give us the chance to learn it.” She sounds angry now.
“That’s true.” I feel sheepish. I wish I knew Spanish better so my nana wouldn’t have to be so upset.
“Bueno,” she resumes, “we started getting really mad that the gringos weren’t keeping their promises. And also that they could be really mean to us, saying racist words and even beating us up sometimes, kicking us out of school, not paying us enough money at work, deporting us, a thousand kinds of awful things.”
I lower my head. I feel kind of ashamed of the stories she’s telling. Even though I’m part Mexican, I’m also quite a bit American. It’s like one part of my body was mean to the other.
She sees my head down and says, “Don’t worry, mija, we’re just getting to the good stuff.”
“There’s good stuff?” I ask.
“About twenty years ago, a whole bunch of Mexican Americans started fighting back, marching on the streets, striking in the fields, and demanding better schools and jobs and all the rights we deserve. Some of the ones who were fighting for justice even wore uniforms and called themselves the Brown Berets. In East LA they put together free health clinics for Chicanos, and one of the leaders, Gloria Arellanes, graduated from El Monte High.”
“Did anyone from Rosemead ever do anything?”
“Pues, sí.” My nana nods proudly. “Vikki Carr, the smoothest Chicana voice on the radio. She’s ours.”
“Oh,” I say. “Is she from the house where the Cardonas live? The one you always point out?”
“That’s right.” My nana smiles. “I didn’t know you were paying attention.”
I roll my eyes at her.
She continues. “And all these fighters, all together, named themselves Chicanos and Chicanas,” she says triumphantly. “And that is our Chicano Movement.”
“But how did the Chicanos take charge of Aztlán?”
“No, honey, Aztlán belongs to the Aztécs, and the Aztécs belong to Aztlán. The Chicanos just feel safer here than anywhere else.”
“Because the Aztécs are nicer to them than the Americans?”
She taps on her mug. “Hmm, I doubt they would be. They weren’t always so nice to others way back when they were in charge of México before the Spanish showed up.”
“Oh, man.” I groan. “Well, where is it anyway? Is Aztlán here? Like under our house?”
“Not really. The land under our house would be part of the traditional territory of the Tongva people.”
“I’m so confused, Nana,” I say impatiently. “Please just tell me where I can find Aztlán and why Chicanos feel safer there?”
My nana pushes her pointer finger first against her temple and then slowly moves it down over her heart. “Aztlán is the land we make in our dreams, mija. It’s the sanctuary we escape to when the United States tries to hurt us.”
“So it’s not actually real!” I am so frustrated.
“It’s very real, mija,” she corrects me. “But there’s no deed for it.”
“Did you bury this paper for me to find just so you could tell me all these stories?”
“Oh, that’s such a great idea!” she exclaims. “But no.”
“Did you bury this for me to find, and then forget that you buried it for me to find?” I try again.
“No,” she says confidently. Then less confidently, “I don’t think so. Hmm.”
“Why would it be buried in our yard?”
“I don’t know, mija,” she says as she turns the volume back up on her show. “But I gotta at least catch the ending of Magnum because he’s chasing after that man in the coveralls.”
“He always catches the bad guy.”
“Yes, and it’s very satisfying to watch him do it.” She grins.
I keep waiting for a better answer.
“Have you drawn up your map yet?” my nana asks. “Better make it before you forget where you’ve buried your treasure.”
“Okay,” I say, and I decide to stop bothering her.
I go to my bedroom and slip the deed into my dresser. I grab my notebook and start working on the map. Holding my hurt hand carefully above the paper, I draw the outlines of all the important landmarks: the rosebush that me and my nana saved from the machines; the long wavy leaves of the bushes that Wolf and I lie under when the days are too hot; the stones that make up the walkway; the metal circle that holds the hose Wolf and I use to fill the mud buckets; the bricks that separate the ferns from the grass; the driveway that hosted the yard sale Wolf and I set up last year; the patch of dirt that Wolf and I use to pack our mud balls; the maple tree that drops sticky sap on our heads. When I finish drawing with my pencil, I fill in all the images with my watercolors, and then I lay the map out on my desk to dry.
Who does the deed belong to? Why would they bury it in our yard?
What did Wolf mean when he said he was on his own? He’s with me. My map would be dumb without Wolf in it.
I go get my nana to show her my work. Her show is finished, so she is happy to come.
She gasps when she sees my bandage. “What happened to your hand, Alex?”
“Wolf accidentally hurt me with a shovel.” I try to calm her. “But you patched me up.”
“I did?” she asks. “Yep.”
“Thanks, Nana,” I say, and point to an X beside them. “That’s where we buried our box, and where we found the deed.”
“Oh, yes, so important to keep a record,” she says. “We used to bury our gold when we lived in México. My abuelo was a shoemaker and would receive eggs, corn, cheese, beans, and all kinds of things in trade for his work. He’d save the bits of gold and silver, and our family would sneak out together and bury it in the night.” She smiles. “I was the lookout so that the neighbors wouldn’t know where it was buried, because there was a lot of stealing during the war.”
She is repeating her story of México once more, but at least she remembers it, even if she doesn’t remember saying it. “Was it exciting?”
“I loved getting to stay up late.” She retells everything she said in the morning.
I’m happy she thinks my map is beautiful. I must’ve done it right if it made her think of México. But I’m a little sad, too, that she doesn’t remember telling me her stories earlier.
She doesn’t remember why the street is full of mud, either. She’s been staring at the street and frowning ever since the machines tore it up. Almost every day she asks, “Why are they doing that to the street?” and shakes her head. “Don’t they know it’s dangerous to dig up the earth?”
“They’re putting in sidewalks,” I tell her every time.
“Oh,” she says, nodding. “Well, that’ll be great. You’ll be able to roller-skate. When I was a little girl …”
And then she always tells me the story of being a little girl who roller-skated down the sidewalks of San Francisco to the library at the Civic Center.
The Street Belongs to Us Page 6