My parents eventually saved enough money to move us out of the garage and into our first tiny apartment in Duarte, California. It was not as nice as the apartment we’d had in Ecuador, but it was a step in the right direction. The apartment complex was next to a freeway, a bit rundown, and full of minority families. Funny enough, I was starting to understand that, in this country, my fate was more intertwined with minority families than with any white person I idolized in the American films I always loved.
The year was 1989. I said bye to all my cousins and Oswalt Elementary, and we moved to Duarte to live close to my mom’s cousins, my aunt Betty, and my uncle Pete. I had never met them before coming to the States, but like all my American relatives, they were very welcoming. Duarte felt like a nice, quiet little conservative town. I was excited. In my head, we were finally going to live our vision of Americana. The large electrical cables and transmission towers around the neighborhood were dampening our perfect American painting, but you got the idea.
At that time, my parents were fighting to stay in front of their vastly accumulating debt after getting the apartment and a new used car. They were shocked by how eager credit card companies were to preapprove them for new lines of credit. Unfortunately, financial literacy is not anything they teach you once you cross through customs. My mom received her first credit card in Ecuador only after proving she had several years of work under her belt. In the United States, she received a credit card without ever having a job. I noticed that my dad started to have anxiety over money around this time. Getting bills in the mail was a surefire way to ruin his day.
One day, my dad received an unexpected flyer in the mail. I was just grateful it wasn’t another bill. It was a flyer from a local nonprofit apparently trying to help immigrant workers. The flyer was intended to provide some financial literacy to the surrounding immigrant communities. I helped my dad translate it: “If you want to make it in this economy, you need to keep two jobs at all times to ensure you can survive a recession.” That’s all my dad needed to hear. He started looking for a second job immediately. He had the sleep center job Monday through Friday, and found part-time work doing medical reports for clinics Saturdays and Sundays. I never saw my dad again. Except for our ampm Sunday trips, of course.
ampm was a chain of convenience stores on the West Coast, not unlike 7-Eleven, that also sold fast food. They were always attached to gas stations. My dad insisted on taking my mom and me out on Sundays to ampm for hamburgers. In those days, I couldn’t care less about the eating ambience. ampm was a phenomenal experience for me because it was my first exposure to Heinz Ketchup. Why didn’t anybody tell me how good America tasted? I almost signed up to canvass for John Kerry’s presidential campaign after I learned he married into the Heinz family. I am certain Heinz puts crack (the same drug as cocaine, but with harsher sentences for people of color) in their ketchup. In other words, Heinz Ketchup tasted remarkable on my Sunday ampm hamburger. I was completely clueless that my dad took us there because he could not afford more than the “ninety-nine cents for two hamburgers” promotion that ampm had at the time. ampm was how my dad fed his family on Sundays, and you know what? I loved it. I would not trade any expensive meal today for the memory of eating a fifty-cent hamburger at a gas station with my mom and dad. Many years later, my dad shared with me that his lowest point in this country was having to take my mom and me to ampm for dinner. Crazy… that was the highlight of my childhood.
Shortly after moving to Duarte, my anesthesiologist mom was finally able to land her first American job. I had been inside a Kmart only once before. I remember thinking it was way too big. Ecuador didn’t have bargain stores the size of Kmart. Every aisle looked vast and endless. I feared I would get lost forever. I stayed close to my mom at the time because I felt this was the kind of store that swallowed little children. Our local Kmart was not close and my parents had only one car between them, so since my dad had to drive the farthest, my mom volunteered to walk an hour to get to the outskirts of town where her new employer resided. After her first day of American employment, my mom came home and told my dad and me that she had found something interesting on the Kmart floor. She had found two lonely hundred-dollar bills miraculously waiting there for her. Two Benjamins were not nothing to a newly arrived immigrant desperate to start making cash to provide for her family. But as opposed to pocketing the money and buying her well-behaved, angelic child a much-deserved G.I. Joe action set equipped with its own army Humvee vehicle, my mom turned in the two hundred dollars to her supervisors. My dad thought she had done the right thing, although I could tell by the tone of his voice that he would have pocketed the money. The next day, my mom discovered through her Spanish-speaking coworkers that the two hundred dollars on the floor was a trick that local Kmart management played on new employees to see how honest they were. This, of course, was pretty disgusting, but it did not seem to faze my mom. She proudly shared this story with us as we ate the Chef Boyardee can of raviolis she’d brought home from work. If God was indeed testing her character, my mom felt like she was passing with flying colors. I’m not sure if they implemented that two hundred-dollar-bill policy at all minority-heavy Kmart stores, but regardless, my mom would have turned that money in.
My mom got into her groove at work. All her Spanish-speaking coworkers loved her cheerful demeanor. She even liked the long walk home. She thought it kept her fit. One evening, however, as my mom made her way back to our apartment, she glanced across the street and saw a white man of roughly her same age coming out of a real estate office. At first she didn’t think anything of it—the man was wearing a suit and wasn’t very remarkable. But then he smirked at my mom, unzipped his pants, and exposed himself—he couldn’t care less who was around to see. Fearing she would be assaulted, my mom ran. Panting and almost completely out of breath, she headed toward the first restaurant she saw. Luckily, it was a Mexican restaurant. She felt safe. In Spanish, she told the host what had happened and they allowed her to use their phone. My mom did not call the police. Calling the police was more frightening than a strange man holding his dick in his hand. The host and a few servers went outside to confront the man, but he had since disappeared. My dad had no choice but to buy a second car. He didn’t know how they were going to afford it, but he could not let my mom walk home from work anymore.
My mom now had a new used car, and the two of us used it whenever she wasn’t working. Mostly to go visit my aunts, uncles, and cousins who did not live near Duarte. The car was a bit of a jalopy, but it got us from point A to point B. One day, when my mom and I were driving home from a faraway aunt’s house, the car broke down on the rough, industrial side of town. We weren’t even halfway to point B. My mom and I were alone, but we managed to push the car to a nearby mechanic, who needed to keep the vehicle overnight. I stood next to my mom at a corner pay phone as she called my dad and all my aunts and uncles with the few quarters she had in her cupholder in hopes that someone could pick us up. Nobody could. My mom hung up the pay phone, and with no rideshare apps for another twenty years, she grabbed my hand and said, “We’re walking home.” I was a little concerned because of the shady neighborhood we were in, but I looked up at my mom and she showed no fear, so I felt safe.
We started our long trek home from the auto repair shop. We walked through dirty streets, past seedy bars, by some warehouses, and across a long freeway overpass. Cars would slow down as they drove past us. I could hear the men catcalling my beautiful, petite mother, but I was never scared, because every time I looked up at her, she showed no fear. She was determined to get us home safe.
After a while, my feet started to hurt from all the walking. I was very tired and asked if we were almost home. My mom said, “Almost.” Twenty minutes passed and I asked her the same question. Again, she responded, “Almost.” We walked for over four hours that day. We made it home to Duarte at dusk. My dad got home roughly around the same time. He was so worried for my mom and me that his fear had turned into irritation. “I can’t believe no one in your family could pick you up,” he said, upset that nobody in my mom’s large family could give us a ride home. But to be fair, neither did he.
Between all the canned food during the week and all the ampm burgers on the weekends, I was starting to gain a lot of weight in this country. Canned food, fast food, processed food—I had never been this cruel to my body. If my mom would buy an international calling card to call my grandparents, I would grab the phone and declare with glee, “Grandma—I’m fat now!” People could not believe how much weight I had gained. I was always a skinny kid in Ecuador. Maybe it was the equatorial sun that made me sweat a lot, or perhaps it was the homemade food that was healthier for my tiny body. Whatever the case, my waistline was expanding faster than American Imperialism. It was time for me to join a sport.
As you may have guessed, my aunt Betty and my uncle Pete had three Ecuadorian American children of their own. The oldest, my cousin Raul, was one year older than me and was obsessed with baseball. This meant that I, in turn, started to get obsessed with baseball as well. Besides, baseball was America’s pastime! We mostly played soccer in Ecuador, but there was too much running and athleticism required for fútbol. Baseball. Now there was a less-tiring sport I could get behind. You hit the ball as hard as you could three or four times a game, stood in the same spot in the outfield for hours on end waiting for something to happen, and you ate a lot of hot dogs after the game. Baseball was definitely the sport for me.
Raul and I would play baseball at the park near his house all day and would stop only to watch the televised Dodgers games. We were still hot off the Dodgers ’88 World Series win a year earlier. And if you recall, 1988 was the year I arrived in this country. People can argue that Babe Ruth (was he Black?) or Jackie Robinson (definitely Black) or Ted Williams (half Mexican!) were better baseball players. But to me, the greatest player ever to pick up a bat will forever be Kirk Gibson. Gibson was not supposed to have an at bat in game one of the ’88 MLB World Series, and was out of that crucial first game against the highly favored Oakland A’s due to two knee injuries. Nevertheless, with no other options and the tying run in scoring position at the bottom of the ninth inning, Gibson hobbled out of the dugout and onto the batter’s box to a deafening stadium’s surprise. I watched the game with my cousins glued to the TV. The count got to three balls, two strikes. A full count. What happened next is baseball legend. Now imagine watching that World Series at bat as a newly arrived immigrant boy in Los Angeles. When Hall of Fame announcer Vin Scully called that game-winning home run, he might as well have been talking about me coming to America: “In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!” Kirk Gibson never had to have another at bat again. That home run will forever be the welcome to this country that I needed.
Raul had one actual valuable possession displayed on his shelf that he had gotten a year before I had moved to Duarte. It was a baseball signed by former Dodger Steve Garvey. Garvey was by then a retired first baseman that was a ten-time All-Star, a past National League Most Valuable Player winner, and held the National League record for most consecutive games played. That is a work ethic any immigrant parent could admire! Raul explained to me that he got to meet him at a Dodgers game he attended with his Little League team. Curious, I asked, “That’s all you have to do to meet the Dodgers? Just join Little League?” Raul confidently nodded his head. I begged my mom to sign me up for Little League that same night. It was the only way I could ever meet the Dodgers, since I knew my parents could not afford taking me to an actual game. My mom said she would look into it. As long as it was not too expensive, she would sign me up.
A few weeks later, Raul was invited to another Dodgers game with his Little League team. I was incredibly jealous, but I could not wait for Raul to get back home and tell me all about his experience at Dodger Stadium. I needed to know what the players looked like in person. Did he catch any foul balls? Did Kirk Gibson ask about me? As soon as Raul got home, I begged my mom to drive me to his house. I ran in, gave my aunt and uncle their mandatory kisses on the cheek, and sprinted to Raul’s bedroom. I bombarded him with a million questions. Raul smiled with the poise of a media mogul talking to an aspiring journalist desperate for a big break. Not only did he watch the whole game in person, but he also got to see the players warm up. Manager Tommy Lasorda even waved at him. In my opinion, Raul could have died a happy kid at that point. What else did he need to live for? Raul then pulled out a brand-new baseball signed by most of the Dodgers players. I was transfixed. I could not believe my very own cousin, a son of Ecuadorian immigrant parents, was able to get the Dodgers to acknowledge his existence, let alone sign his ball. Taking in my utter amazement, Raul then decided to do the nicest thing he had ever done for me, before or since: he gave me the other signed Dodgers baseball he owned. “Here,” he said, handing me the ball inside its clear plastic case. “My signed Steve Garvey baseball. It’s yours.” Holy Shakira. I didn’t know who Steve Garvey was at the time, but it didn’t matter. He was a Dodger! I cradled that Steve Garvey autographed ball like an infant. On our drive home I showed my mom, but I would not allow her to touch it. Steve Garvey was no Kirk Gibson, but this signed Dodgers baseball still became my newest and most valuable possession in my room.
My dad was not into baseball. He grew up playing basketball in South America—a vertically challenged Ecuadorian sporting thick bottle-framed glasses in love with hoops. My dad lacked height, but he could shoot a mean jump shot. If you put black frames on John Stockton, that’s exactly what my dad looked like in those days. That was probably why I never cheered for the Utah Jazz—every time they played, I felt like I was going to get grounded! My dad wasn’t into baseball, but that didn’t stop him from asking one Sunday morning, “Why don’t we go to the park and play catch?” I forcefully rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming. Was he serious? Playing catch with him was all I ever wanted to do.
My parents and I walked to Royal Oaks Park together. I was giddy beyond belief. I was nine and about to play America’s pastime with my dad. I felt like I was in an episode of Leave It to Beaver, except that the sun was bright yellow and not black and white. My mom set up a picnic for us with the leftovers we had from the night before, while my dad did something he had never done—he put on a baseball glove. Maybe he had picked up on my love for the sport. Or maybe he felt bad that we had never played catch in all of our time in the United States. Whatever the reason, this Sunday he was going to play catch with his son.
The first few throws were not bad. At least my dad was trying. I had better technique than he did from watching all the Orel Hershiser highlight reels, but he had the strength. My dad also had good hand-eye coordination. He had to as a pediatric surgeon—children’s lives depended on it. I got so caught up playing catch with him that I nearly cried when I accidentally threw the ball over the wall and into someone’s backyard. The wall was impossibly tall, and no matter how much I yelled, there didn’t appear to be anybody home. Shit. It was the only baseball I had to play with. Why didn’t I have another ball? This was a travesty. My dad felt terrible about the situation and asked, “What should we do?” My mind raced. The sports store was not close enough for us to go buy another ball. Who was I kidding? We didn’t have the money for something as extravagant as a new baseball. Only our apartment was close, but I did not have spares. I had used them all with Raul. My dad tried to put me at ease by saying that we could come back and play catch next weekend, but I knew that was not going to happen. Playing catch with me was reserved for days he didn’t have to go to work, which up to that point was exactly one day—that day!
Against my better judgment, I told my dad to hang tight and I raced home. As I ran full speed to our apartment, it dawned on me that this was all I ever wanted: to play baseball with my dad. I held on to the hope that I had a misplaced ball somewhere under my bed. I barged into my room, looked around everywhere—but nothing. Then I remembered: there was exactly one baseball left inside the apartment. I stared at the signed Dodgers ball still enclosed in its protective plastic case. It was either protect Steve Garvey forever or keep playing catch with my dad. The answer seemed clear.
I ran back to Royal Oaks Park yelling: “I found one! I found a ball!” My dad got up from my mom’s picnic blanket, put his glove back on, and shouted—“Shoot it!” (I warned you he didn’t know much about baseball.) I looked at the autographed ball in my hand. My most prized possession in this country. I’m not going to lie, that first throw was painful. I could feel the ink evaporating midair… the oxygen scraping against the ball. Then there was my dad’s throw that was short and bounced off the grass. I winced. I could see the green of the grass grab on to the white of the ball. But as we continued playing, the joy I felt superseded any love I had for the entire Dodgers organization, Kirk Gibson notwithstanding. I laughed as I threw the ball as hard as I could and my dad pretended to have a hard time catching it. The California sun was shining bright on three Latin American immigrants that day.