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"The
East L.A. Loop" by
Julián Segura Camacho
Late
1990’s
Come with me buddy, I want to show you something I
learned while on a trip to Chicago that I applied
to East Los.
We approach the white 1965 Volvo in the parking lot.
The Volvo is unlocked but there is a steering wheel
lock rod. The passenger seat has lost the strength
of the back support because the steel coil has given
out. Unexpectedly you ride tilted back.
This is the East L.A. loop. After a few gas stutters,
the Volvo begins and you drive from Floral to Atlantic
and make a right to the 60 Freeway West. At Avenida
Cesar Chavez, one light before the onramp, you lift
the dash board carpet, take the reefer, joint, Mary
Jane, marihuana, you title it. A lighter is a must,
easier to light—make sure your sheriff friends are
not around. Finally connect the flame to the yesca
and passionately inhale. Ya ves, two hits and onto
the 60 Freeway we go.
Did you hold it well? If you don’t, you don’t enjoy
the East L.A. Loop. Depends on the roller. Man, I’ve
been rolling since Nam. I can tell: I didn’t inhale
space or twigs. Keep the windows down, let the air
hit you and keep an eye out for the chota. By then
the air has traversed through every pour of my scalp
and we first past the 710 Freeway.
Greater East L.A. looks different. Downey Road with
the capilla de Guadalupe and the cemetery across the
street look different. Lorena and Indiana streets
pass you instantly because it’s time to connect your
lungs with the grass that tobacco companies keep preventing
from becoming legal (and incarcerating millions of
people of color instead).
Maybe this was the act of defiance, as one catches
the 5 Freeway heading North. Here we ascend on the
majesty of what does not belong to most Chicanos—Downtown.
The beauty and ugliness of downtown Los Angeles depends
on the sun and clouds. The sun and blue sky depict
the skyscrapers as opulent, shining, sparkling. I
don’t know what the clouds would reveal—today happens
to be sunny and it’s your turn, man.
We approach the 10 East and the Bible paper is half
way incinerated. We have tugged along Boyle Heights
that diehards consider different from East L.A. East
Los Angeles begins at Indiana; for most outsiders,
all is East L.A.
Man, I found out about the loop, on a trip to Chicago—you
looped here, then looped there and looped again. You
looped everywhere. I had to make it my own, you know
bring it home, what better, East Los, plus I need
my break: Get up at 5 AM to mop the gym, cut the grass,
trim bushes, check out the rucas—I need the loop!
The
10 Freeway advances on us. City Terrace on the right.
Did you see General Hospital and Cal State on the
left? The final hit and we must let the air rinse
us off. The sheriff’s headquarter is across from Cal
State. Luminarias, the restaurant, is off City Terrace
but they still call it Monterey Park. Sounds more
upscale! We tug the curve as the end of the loop leaves
us behind, exit next on Floral Drive and make a left.
The
air will shake us down. Did you see Carmelita’s, the
chorizo factory? Brother you don’t need any more chorizo.
Next is the CHP station, the Maravilla housing projects,
and then the parking lot. Pull in, comb your hair
with saliva, the steering wheel is locked, you struggle
to stand up from the broken seat and there you are.
What’d
you think of the East L.A. Loop?
****
"Chicharrones"
Julián Segura
Camacho
1969-present
Ever since the year of my birth, as tortillas de harina
or maiz with frijoles reaffirmed my indigenous background,
chicharrones confirmed my Mexicanness in the United
States.
Chicharrones are pork rinds in English. But pork rinds
is not as poetic and lyrical as chi-cha-rron-es. Deep
fried pork skin! As a child, I never recall eating
potato chips. Chicharron was it. My mother made sandwiches
with generic white bread, generic bologna, generic
American cheese but not with generic chicharrones.
I loved eating chicharrones inside my sandwiches.
Harden lard is what flavored the otherwise bland bologna
torta (us Mexicans refer to a sandwich as a torta,
not a pie or cake).
My father rarely cooked, except when he prepared his
triple deck chicharron sandwich. It was amazing to
see the half-foot tall sandwiches on the kitchen chair
that he used as a tray in the living room while he
watched television on Saturdays. Come to think of
it, that was the only time I remember him sitting
with us in the living room. His secret was placing
two skin twirled chicharrones in-between the meat
and avocado. As he bit into his passion, I could hear
the crunch of the chicharron. I believe he could have
eaten the chicharron with the bread only, though it
was pleasant to see him enjoy his addiction.
Chicharrones were a privilege. They were normally
bought at the local carniceria. Good chicharrones
would leave the butcher paper soaked in fresh melted
lard. As you bit into the crunchy rinds, the oily
residue on your finger tips and lips was such an acidic
satisfaction that upon scent of the chicharrones,
your stomach growled.
My mother would deep fry the chicharrones with frijoles.
The pleasure was gastronomically gratifying that until
today, no steak can compare. Tacos de chicharrones
or gorditas (a thickened and stuffed corn tortilla)
would function as snacks. And chicharrones with salsa
verde is measured in greatness by the amount of running
mocos.
Chicharrones were deemed unhealthy because of the
fat content, or culturally critiqued because of religion,
but for me, chicharrones were one of the proteins
of life.
Ironically, a few years before, a medical study concluded
that the protein content of pork rinds was much healthier
than potato chips. My mother’s culinary decisions
were always appropriate.
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