The Beat of My Own Drum
Page 3
Pops would park somewhere we couldn’t be seen, open the trunk, and we’d clamber onto the backseat. We’d snuggle together under blankets or in our coats if it was really cold, eating the popcorn, candy, and other snacks Moms had packed. On summer nights, we’d risk being caught by lying on the roof to watch the movie. Once in a great while Pops would give us some money to buy something from the snack bar, although my mother always resented the expense and complained she could make something for a fraction of the price.
Moms still sneaks food into movie theaters, by the way, even though the hot dogs for senior citizens are only a dollar. In her seventies she looks pregnant because her pockets are so stuffed with popcorn, candy, and soda. If anyone ever asks to check her purse she suddenly pretends that she’s forgotten her medicine and rushes back to the car to hide even more food in her coat.
I especially loved going to my grandparents’ house as a child, even though my grandmother had a strangely mean streak. As soon as we arrived, we had to stand in line from the back porch and greet her one at a time for an obligatory ritual no one ever seemed to question. She’d be in her rocking chair with a sly grin on her face. One by one we had to peel off our shoes and socks, sit in her lap, and let her pull on our toes until they cracked. It must have been a Creole thing. The more we cried out, the more she laughed. Mama was a tough cookie, and you couldn’t tell her no—she was a Gardere, after all.
The upside was that she was the most incredible cook, so going there meant we could eat meat and fish instead of our staple diet of tortillas, rice, and beans. (I swore that when I grew up I’d never eat rice and beans again.) The best days were either when we went to Mama’s or on a special Sunday when Pops was paid after working in a big club on a Saturday night. Then we’d get pork chops and applesauce after church—small compensation for being in that drafty old St. Anthony’s Church with its boring music that didn’t connect with me at all. Old hymns with no melody never touched my heart, but I endured it because going to church meant something to my parents.
One time when I was still very young, I felt deeply honored when my grandmother asked me to help her make her famous gumbo with chicken, shrimp, and crab. That was, until she insisted I drop the crab into a pot of boiling water. I picked it up—not realizing it was still alive until its claws started snapping at my fingers. I began crying and shaking my head, but Mama wouldn’t let me—or the crab—off the hook. The more I cried, the more she howled with laughter. When I reluctantly did as I was told, peeling the rubber bands off the creature’s claws and carrying out the death sentence as it snapped at me angrily, I could’ve sworn the poor crab let out a scream.
My other grandmother, whom we called Nanny, was an eccentric, fun character. Having fallen on hard times and given up her children when her husband left her, she kept in touch and was later reunited with them. A hairstylist who had her own shop, she was the woman from whom Pops inherited his beautiful hair. Even when they both went white, there was never a hair out of place. She had a lewd sense of humor, and her house was filled with all sorts of rude items featuring naked men. Her apron had a string you could pull on to reveal an erect penis, and even her light switches were naughty. When I introduced her to Lionel Richie years later, she reached out and cupped him in her hands, balls and all!
Because my mother came from such a big family, there was always a reason to celebrate, and celebrate we did. Everyone took turns hosting family events, which were accompanied by music and dancing. Best of all, there was always good food—with the exception of the stinky sardine sandwiches provided by Papa, which no one but he ate.
Knowing that every little bit helped in our household, we kids became very enterprising and would try to bring in some extra money to help out. One day we sat around brainstorming how we could surprise our parents and contribute. While they did their best to hide their stresses about lack of finances, we’d pick up on it—especially when we heard them talking through our thin walls late at night.
My brother Juan even went through a phase of eating as little as he could and refusing seconds for three weeks straight. He’d glare at me if I dared ask for more.
After ruling out several ideas (it was too cold for a lemonade stand and we didn’t think people would pay to see us dance), we settled on shoe shining. We borrowed Pops’s prized shoe-shining kit—which I still have to this day—and walked over to the Safeway market by Lake Merritt.
My brother Peter Michael was the littlest and the cutest, so we used him to lure customers over. He also didn’t look as black as Juan and me.
“Please, sir? Do you want your shoes shined?” he’d plead. “We’re raising money for charity.” Few could say no to his cherubic face.
We stuck at it all day, and then a helpful supermarket employee walked us through our financial options, aisle by aisle. While we were sorely tempted by the ice cream and candy, we were determined to stick to our plan. The sun was setting as we made our way home, proudly carrying milk, eggs, and a loaf of bread.
Our efforts weren’t always entirely selfish, either. We raised a lot of money for the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon. Jerry was a big deal in our house, so his telethons were especially important to us. I was deeply moved by the cause and consumed with sadness at the thought of all those innocent children in need of aid. My brothers and I sent away for the fund-raising kit, and when it arrived we eagerly examined its contents, which included information about distributing publicity materials, building booths, and organizing games.
One year we threw a carnival for family, friends, and neighbors, charging them twenty-five cents per ticket to see our show, take a ride, or play a game. We excitedly explained to them that this was their chance to have fun while helping “Jerry’s kids.” Another time, we created a haunted house over the garage of a house we were renting. It was dark in there, and we hung creepy things from the ceiling and had a tape recorder playing screams and other haunted sounds. We jumped out at people who climbed a ladder to get there. We had so much fun!
No one had anything like that in our neighborhood, and it was a big deal. Moms made us a little food to sell, of course, and it felt to me like we raised a lot of money—although it was probably only a few bucks.
Those were my first independent philanthropic endeavors as a kid, and they gave me a glimpse of how fulfilling it could be to use what you had to help others in need, however limited your resources.
Because of the dark days of his childhood when he and his brother Coke had been sent to an institution, Pops made a point of visiting children’s homes and detention centers in his spare time. Keen to remind us how lucky we were, he took us along from an early age. He’d load Moms, my brothers, and me into his crazy purple station wagon along with a bunch of drums and some percussion instruments. “The kids we’re going to see today,” he’d tell us gravely, “are in the system and don’t have families of their own. We need to show them a bit of family love, okay?”
In a chilly room in one of those horrid children’s homes with bars on the windows, scant facilities, and dormitory beds, we’d help him unload the instruments in silence. After Pops introduced us, he’d share how he came from a large family whose father left home and how his mother couldn’t cope with so many children.
“I know what you’re going through, because my kid brother Coke and I were sent to an orphanage for a couple of years,” he’d tell them, always choking up a little at that point before forcing a smile. “But we overcame the odds. It was in the orphanage that I first discovered art and where I developed my love of music. I’ve always drawn and painted, but once I started playing music, I knew that would be my life. So we’re going to play you some music today and see if you like it.”
“What did you say your name was, mister?” one of the children might ask.
“You can call me Pops,” he’d say quietly. “Everybody does.”
Whenever I heard him say that, I realized what a father figure he was to them and to us all. Pops’s heart
is huge; he and Moms have more than enough love to go around. It’s like the whole world is their family. His childhood always served to remind us that even though we sometimes thought we had it hard, we didn’t know what real hardship was.
Inspired by his words, we’d gather around and start jamming for the kids and encouraging them to join in. They were a tough crowd. Despite their initial resistance (and the few who refused to have anything to do with us), we managed to get most playing something. Putting a smile on the faces of those frightened, damaged kids made it all worthwhile.
The worst part was having to pack up and say good-bye. The children, especially the tiny tots and usually the girls, would cling to us—especially Moms, who can’t walk by someone without giving them a hug. “Please take us home with you? Can’t you adopt us?” they’d beg, their arms wrapped around her legs. That part was heartbreaking, especially for Pops, who used to push the cuter Coke to the front whenever prospective parents came to visit their orphanage. Nobody ever picked the Escovedo brothers.
Tearfully, I’d ask Pops, “Can’t we take one of them home?”
His eyes moist, he’d shake his head and remind us to smile and wave as we got into the car and left them all behind, with the promise that we’d be back soon. I’ll never forget their faces as we pulled around the corner out of view.
It was an image that would stay with me always.
4. Pitch
The quality of a sound governed by the rate of vibrations
All that’s left are memories
Of how it used to be
We can’t erase the past
We can’t change our destiny
“FADED PHOTOGRAPHS”
SHEILA E
My earliest childhood memories reflect an almost pitch-perfect life, complete with caring parents, close siblings, and an abundance of love and laughter to go around. Music was always at the core of it, and whenever the adults stopped jamming because they couldn’t play anymore and needed to take a break, we kids would rush to the instruments like it was a game of musical chairs.
Sure, there were times when we’d have liked more meat on the table, shoes that weren’t so scuffed, or a real vacation. I remember wanting a Barbie doll so badly but having to wait years until I was given a secondhand one. I also desperately wanted to be a Girl Scout at my school, but my parents couldn’t afford the uniform. It took me a long time to understand that they really didn’t have the money. Nevertheless, it was hard to see my friends going off in their uniforms, earning their little pins, or talking about the camping trips I couldn’t go on.
Then I heard about traffic school, where you learned to walk younger children across the street. It came with a free uniform and even a hat, so I jumped at the chance and ended up being promoted to sergeant. I had to stand to attention and press a button before ferrying the little kids across. It was a job that required a lot of responsibility, and I was so proud to be in charge.
The golden days of my childhood changed for me when we moved to what I think of as that house, a duplex on Thirteenth Avenue and East Twenty-third Street. Up until we relocated there, the world seemed safe and harmonious. My life and everything in it was pitched just right. Something went badly out of tune for our family the day we shifted our raggle-taggle belongings into that duplex, though, and the effects of it resonate through my life to this day.
To begin with, we suddenly found ourselves visited frequently by the police—something that hadn’t happened much before. First they came to answer noise complaints from our neighbors about the music. We’d had complaints before, but the new and aggressive hammering on our front door was an unwelcome addition to our percussion.
If men in uniforms weren’t yelling at us to turn the music down, they’d be banging on a door upstairs, where one of my aunts and my uncle would yell and fight all the time. Once, in the middle of the night, I was startled awake by the sounds of furniture flying in the apartment above ours. Scared, I ran into the front room, where I found my parents looking equally worried.
They ordered me back to bed, but while I was still there my aunt began banging on the door, begging to be allowed in. She then stumbled into our home, covered in blood. Moms and Pops ran to help her, and I almost passed out at the sight of her blood all over Moms’s blouse.
After a while, I came to dread the flashing blue lights on the walls and the noise of the sirens, which only added to the cacophony already in my head.
Soon after we moved to that house, I went for a walk down the street and came upon a German shepherd tied up with a rope. Assuming he was friendly like all the other dogs I’d ever known, I went to pet him. He shot me a strange look and then suddenly lunged at me. I turned to run but I wasn’t fast enough, and the rope was longer than I realized. He sank his teeth into my backside and began shaking me like a rag doll. I screamed and fought him off for what seemed like forever before finally breaking loose.
When I burst into our duplex with blood pouring down my legs, Moms rushed me to the emergency room. The wounds were deep, and I had to have a tetanus shot. It took me a long time to feel comfortable around dogs again.
In a matter of weeks, my kid brother Peter Michael went missing. He was only two years old. Everyone gathered on the street as our neighbors stood watching. Moms and Pops were close to hysterics. For a while the situation seemed hopeless. The police came to take statements, but their presence only made me feel more insecure.
Seeing my mother’s tears, I convinced myself that my brother had been kidnapped after accepting candy from a stranger, something we’d repeatedly been warned against. Thankfully, Peter Michael (or Peto, as he was known until the day he announced that he wanted us to call him by his full name) was returned home safely after several hours. Someone had apparently spotted him alone outside and assumed he was lost, so she took him home. Despite the happy ending, my world felt increasingly unsafe, and I continued to harbor a terror of one of us being snatched.
That house seemed forever to be associated with blood in my mind. We were in that house when my mother suffered a miscarriage. I don’t remember much about it except that she came home late one night and looked wired to me. I asked her what was wrong because I saw blood on her. She said she cut herself and was fine and she told me to go back to bed, but I know she was very sad. Later on Juan hurt himself when the two of us were racing around the backyard. We were weaving in and out of tall weeds when he tripped and landed on a piece of glass, which embedded itself in his knee. I carried him inside as blood dripped down his leg. We spent hours at the emergency room that night.
Juan still has the scar and sometimes points to it affectionately—a symbol of his big sister’s heroics.
We were back in the ER a few days later when I had another of my nosebleeds, which had become increasingly frequent since we moved there. One day the bleeding just wouldn’t stop, despite Moms’s usual remedies like pinching my nose or placing a cold towel on the back of my neck. I drank a glass of water and watched in horror as it turned red. The doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding either, and I ended up vomiting up what I couldn’t help but swallow, which scared me even more. It seemed like hours before anyone was able to make it stop.
The memory of that incident remains—panic, Moms’s helplessness, and my own terror that I’d bleed to death.
I learned of President Kennedy’s assassination in that house too. Moms and I were sitting on her bed in front of the TV while she folded laundry. Walter Cronkite interrupted whatever we were watching with a report that the president had been shot. Moms gasped and then let out a scream, holding her head in her hands and rocking herself to and fro. I looked up at her and then back at Walter Cronkite and didn’t understand. Was it for real? Hearing Moms’s cries, I realized that it had to be.
Three days later, I was in front of the TV again when the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald was inadvertently broadcast. There was a shot and screaming and lots of men shouting as I sat open-mouthed and mesmerized. The assassination promp
ted the news station to air footage of JFK just before he was shot. There was our president on the screen, smiling and alive. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why was he smiling? Wasn’t he dead? It was too much for my five-year-old mind to take in.
It was in that house where I witnessed my parents have an argument for the first time, too; the only time I ever saw my father lose his temper. That really frightened me, as he never got angry or yelled or hit us—Moms had all the southern fire that one family needed. I have no idea what it was about—money, probably—but I’ve never forgotten it.
As if there wasn’t enough going on within our four walls, the next thing to happen was that people warned us that our new next-door neighbors were Gypsies. We lived in a mostly black neighborhood, and the newcomers were exotic looking, like Indians, and they didn’t send their children to school. At such a young age I didn’t know about the Gypsy stereotype, but I detected that it was something not to be envied.
Their arrival all seemed part of the dark power that house held over us.
My fears were allayed when one of the dreaded Gypsies turned out to be a friendly nine-year-old boy. It was the 1960s, and everybody’s children played openly in the streets or in their yards, moving carefree from one house to another as games or faces changed.
“Go outside and play,” Moms or Pops would say, and none of us would be expected home until Moms whistled loudly, which would be our cue to come inside for supper.
One day when I was wearing a dress (so we must have just come back from somewhere special), I ran outside to play in front of the house as usual. Our Gypsy neighbor spotted me and urged me to crawl with him into the gloomy two-foot space underneath his house.
“I have something to show you,” he told me with a smile.
Being a natural tomboy, I was all for an adventure and followed him eagerly, completely forgetting about my dress.