Life Has Its Revenge When Taken For Granted.

 Life Has Its Revenge When Taken For Granted.

By kiki

Most of us are guilty of taking life for granted at times—well, not life per se, but everyday activities like showering, dressing, eating, driving, etc. And I am probably more guilty of abusing life than most other people.

We cruise through life doing all those things without giving them a second thought. And then, one morning, we are awoken by that day that we thought would never arrive; on that day, we find that we need help to do all the things we used to do automatically. 

Now that old age has us by the huevos, life will take its revenge on our sorry old asses for being so abusive in the early years of our relationship. What's that old adage saying, "What goes around, comes around?" It sure does, and it comes back in spades!. 

Fernie and I

 By kiki

About three weeks ago, my son Fernie fell as he was getting out of bed (he has pugilistic dementia and Parkinson's disease, and he had been falling about once a day for about the last month before this fall). My wife Connie and I helped him get back on his feet, and we told him to go to bed as he did not need to get up (he didn't have any doctor or haircut appointments). I stayed with him until he was safely back in bed. About twenty minutes later, I opened his door to check on him, and I found him on the floor again; by that time, Connie was into a well-deserved nap, so I helped the former #1 world junior lightweight (130 pounds) boxing contender, who now weights about 200 pounds to his feet. It was a struggle, but he got up for a brief second before his legs caved under him, and this time, he took me down with him; I landed hard on my back on the bottom part of an aluminum portable closet fame with Fernie and his 200 pounds on top of me. We might have made a loud noise when we went down because we woke Connie up from her nap. I kept saying to her, "Call 911 because I think that I broke my back. But when I saw that I could move my legs, I told her to forget 911. The following day, I could barely move, never mind trying to get out of bed. Fernie and I stayed in our respective beds for the day. The following day, I couldn't move without screaming out in pain. At about mid-morning, Fernie got up and told Connie that he was going to shower; Connie told him to be sure to use the shower chair and to be careful. He has never been the type of person who likes to be told what to do, so no, he didn't use the shower chair. Connie's yelling woke me up from a painful nap. "Fernie fell in the shower, and he is out cold." Hearing that, I jumped out of bed. Forgetting my pain, I went into the shower, and sure enough, I found Fernie out cold. I yelled at Connie to call 911, and within minutes, the 911 crew arrived, and they took Fernie to the ER; he was admitted to the hospital. The hospital doctor did tell Connie that Fernie's falls were caused by Parkinson's disease; about three days later, after making sure that he was okay from the shower fall, he was transferred to a nearby nursing home, where he is still residing.

I didn't go to the ER till two weeks after the fall, and the ex-rays show no broken bones on my back, but it still hurts awful when I stand up, even for just a few minutes. I, too, have Parkinson's disease.

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I asked about the Pico Palace because I wrote a short story yesterday about how a boxing trainer used to take us kids to box at the palace, among other places, back in the late '40s...The Pico Palace was on Whittier Blvd (north side) just west of where the 605 Freeway is now, somewhere close to where the steakhouse is now....The Pico Palace was a dance hall, like Betty's Barn in Irwindale...Besides dances, the palace also held amateur boxing about once a month. In Later years. the palace became a furniture store. At some point in time, it was razed down, I am not sure when that happened, though.

Dementia Up Front

 By kiki

There is nothing more horrible than watching loved ones as they suffer from dementia day in and day out. The disease will rob its victims of their dignity and self-pride, as they no longer care about their personal hygiene or their appearance.

They are no longer the person you had known for decades; yes, they may still be around you, and you may see them every day, but you are just seeing the shell of the person you once knew because dementia has taken that person's mind and soul away and just left a body masquerading as your loved one. And it's hard for non-medical persons to understand what the victim does or won't do.

 Seeing a once robust individual revert back to babyhood breaks one's heart. One of the hard things for the victim's loved ones is seeing them suffer as they go through hell and not being able to do anything about it. That feeling of helplessness can ruin relationships or, worse, kill you.

The one thing not to do is try to make the victim remember things as his memory is gone, and he will never get it back.

Parkinson's Disease .

Parkinson's Disease.

By kiki: Parkinson's Patient

Parkinson's is a very challenging disease, one that robber you of voice and body muscles. With the loss of voice, you have difficulty communicating with loved ones. You get frustrated because they can't understand you, and they get frustrated because they can't understand your baby talk. Soon, nerves get raw, to the point that causes most to throw their hands up in the air; it's really kind of comical because we all look like the cops have their guns pointed at us. With muscle loss, you slow down so that a Tortuga (turtle) would be a 10 to 1 favorite to beat you in a foot race. And you're always in danger of falling down, so to be safe from that, you use a walker and hope that the walker is in a good mood and not out to get your ass. The hard part for me is staying positive and maintaining my sense of humor  - And there are very few days where you can say,  "Today was a good day for me." 

A word to those who have loved ones who are struggling with Parkinson's: at the present time, there is no cure for the disease, so your loved one will never be the same person he was. You can't change that, but you can change how you react.

Prodigy with the Golden Fists and Veins

I have been working on this story for the last six years, and now, due to health issues, I will not finish it, so I have decided to post it unfinished. The title is not set in stone. 

                                                       
By kiki                               

                                                             

                                                          Chapter One

Babyface Andy Madrid couldn't wait to get out of his six-grade class at Brooklyn Elementary School so that he and his best friend and classmate, Gil Garcia, could jump on the streetcar to go to the Teamsters Gym on Stanford St. in downtown Los Angeles, where they were learning how to box. Boxing trainer Art Chavez had taken both boys under his wing.

Andy and Gil had started school together in 1938, although they were from different East Los Angeles barrios. Andy from Arizona Maravilla and Gil from Kern Maravilla had become best friends.

Andy and Gil jumped on the streetcar when they were out of school.

"Andy, are you going to spar today?" Gil asked Andy as they were riding the streetcar.

"Don't know, I'll see what Art wants to do. But I want to spar. You know we have the Junior Golden Gloves coming up in a couple of months, and it's been over two months since we had a fight," answered Andy.

The boys got off the streetcar at the corner of 7th St. and Stanford St. They walked one block south on Stanford to the gym; as they walked in, the gym's doorman, Joe Kelly, looked up at them from his game of solitaire:

"Boys, Art wants you to prepare to spar a few rounds. Louie Cruz will have a smoker here on Friday, and you might be fighting. Art will be back in a few minutes; he just went to the store to buy me a beer," said Joe Kelly as he went back to his game of solitaire

"Art, who are we sparring with?" asked Gil just as Johnny Navarro from the YMCA walked in with some of his boxers.

"Looks like we are in for some good sparring, Gil," said Andy.

"Good, because we need it," counter Gil

"Now, boys, I want you to box and not slug with these guys. I want you to work on your jab and sharpen your boxing skills. In this game, sluggers don't last; they have a short career, and boxers last longer; just look at my son Carlos, who has been a pro for over eight years and is still going strong. By the way, he is fighting the main event at the Olympic Auditorium in two weeks against Mario Diaz," Art Chavez said to his two protégés.

The sparring went well for the boys. And this been only Monday; they thought they would be ready for Louie Cruz's smoker on Friday.

On Friday night, Andy arrived at the Teamsters Gym for the smokers with some older guys from the Arizona Maravilla barrio. Then, he went downstairs to the dressing rooms, where Gil awaited him.

"Andy, I am not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't hang around with those guys. They are sixteen, seventeen, and you are only twelve; they'll get you in trouble."

"Don't worry, Gil, I'll be alright; I don't do some of the things they do. Summer is coming, and they said they would take me to the beach with them."

Andy fought a guy from the Simons Brickyard Boxing Club and easily won by a second-round T.K.O. As he left the ring, a fan yelled to Art Chavez: "Art, you have a real prodigy there; take care of him, and he'll be a champion."

Gil had a more challenging time winning a three-round decision from his opponent from the Stanton A.C.

                                                  
                                                Chapter Two

By summer, Andy was getting to be quite a boxer, fighting older opponents and beating all of them. But he was also spending lots of time with the older guys who were drinking and doing drugs. Andy was drinking some but not doing drugs, and the older guys kept trying to get him to do so.

Andy and Gil won the Junior Golden Gloves in different weight classes at the Hollywood Legion Stadium in early summer.

With the Junior Golden Gloves out of the way, Andy stopped going to the gym and started drinking more and more. On his thirteen's birthday in July, Andy was invited to go to the beach by one of the older guys, but with one condition, Manuel said.

"What do I have to do?" asked Andy

"You have to take a shot of this," replied Manuel

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, if you want to go to the beach with us."

Andy thought, 'What the hell, I can do it just once; I don't have to do it again, and I do want to go to the beach.'

Andy closed his eyes as Manuel stuck the needle in his arm. The heroin soon had Andy feeling like he was on cloud nine. On the beach, the guys kept asking Andy if he thought good: "How do you feel, Andy? Asked Rudy Lopez

"Man, I feel like I am walking on the clouds, this is better than drinking!" replied Andy

Andy thought that though this was the best he had ever felt, he was not sure he wanted to do heroin again, as he had seen some of the older guys from Arizona Maravilla go to jail for using drugs, and just last year, Albert Ruiz had died from an overdose. He sure didn't want to wind up in jail or dead from an overdose. He also had his boxing to think about. Andy wanted to make money in boxing so his mom, Lupe, didn't have to work cleaning the Southern Pacific Railroad cars into her late years.

The end of summer came without Andy going to the beach again but, he couldn't get the feeling he felt from the heroin out of his mind but; he couldn't get himself to go looking for Manuel either.

                                                     
                                                         Chapter Three

Andy was sitting down having breakfast on this first day of the school year. He would be starting Belvedere Junior High and wanted to look his best since he would meet many new girls.

 "Mom, be sure to iron my pants and shirt how I like them, okay?" Andy, always the sharp dresser, said to his mom, Lupe

"Si Mijo, I will iron your clothes just how you like them; you must look good for the new girls you will meet, right? By the way, Gil Garcia called while you were out; he said he would meet you at school and wanted to know when you would return to the gym."

Andy and Gil, who hadn't seen much of each other during the summer, got together at school and soon talked about the good-looking girls at their new school and returning to the Teamsters Gym.

I'll get over this first week of school before I return to the gym; how about you? Andy said to Gil.

"Think I'll do the same. By the way, are you going to the dance on Friday night?

"At Our Lady Of Lourdes? Yes, I met one girl, Sally Torres, over the summer, and I hope to see her there. You have a girl yet, Gil?

"No, not yet, but maybe I'll meet one at the dance," answered Gil

Andy and Gil arrived by bus at Our Lady Of Lourdes Church on Fourth St. in Boyle Heights dressed to the nines; as they were walking up the stairs to the dance hall, they could hear the Armenta Brothers playing 'Because of You' Andy also spotted Manuel Castillo talking to some guys. Before Manuel could see him, Andy approached him and said: "Hi Manuel, I didn't know you were going to be here."

"Andy, it's great to see you looking sharp, dude. Haven't seen much of you since we went to the beach; where have you been keeping yourself?"

"Been around, just taking it easy," Andy asked Manuel in a hushed tone, "You have anything for me?" Andy couldn't believe what he had just said, but before he could say anything else Manuel answered him: "My little baby face friend wants some 'H'? "Step outside with me, and I'll fix you up."

For example, in his first pop, Andy just closed his eyes to the needle; in a minute or so, Andy stood with half-closed eyelids, rocking to the music inside the dance hall.

Andy went inside the hall looking for Sally Torres, the girl he had met during the summer. He found her talking to some girls just as the Armenta Brothers started playing 'We Belong Together.' Andy asked Sally to dance, and she accepted. As they were walking to the middle of the dance floor, Andy spotted Gil slow-dancing with a beautiful girl. Andy took Sally in his arms and started slowly dancing but was having trouble keeping his balance.

"What's wrong Andy, are you feeling sick?" asked Sally

"No, I'm feeling great, let's dance."

They danced every song together till it was time to end the night. Andy then walked Sally to her mom's car, where she was waiting for her.

"Will I see you again?" Andy asked Sally

"Yes, but it won't be in school as I am going to Stevenson Junior High, and you are going to Belvedere Junior High, but we'll see each other around town," Sally answered Andy.

Andy looked for Gil and found him saying good night to the beautiful girl he met as she got into her mom's car.

Andy and Gil started walking to the bus stop a block away. A police car pulled over, and two cops stepped out of the black and white.

"Where are you two boys coming from, and where are you going? You know it's kind of later for underage boys to be out on the streets. You, how old are you, nine?" one cop asked as he pointed to Andy.

"I am thirteen years old, sir," replied Andy

"Sir, we just left the church dance, and we are walking to catch the bus at the end of the block," said Gil

"You come with me," one cop told Gil, "and you go with my partner," he said to Andy.

The cops had the boys roll their shirt sleeves.

"My guy is clean; how is yours?" the cop with Gil said to his partner.

"My guy has a needle mark, and he is rocking on his heels, I think we have a junkie here. We need to take him to the juvenile hall."

Andy was cuffed and put in the back of the black and white to be driven to juvenile hall, and Gil was allowed to wait for the bus.

                                                     

                                                         Chapter Four

A week later, on Monday morning, Andy was taken in front of Los Angeles County Juvenile Hearing Judge Ernest J. Adams after visiting with his mother.

 Judge Adams addressed Andy: "Andy Madrid, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way, son, is for you to take responsibility and admit that you were on drugs, or you can deny you were, and we'll be back here again in a week or two; it's up to you which road you're going to travel."

Andy conversed with his mother and a family friend, Bill Voigt, who, though not a lawyer, was well-versed in juvenile law.

"Andy, I talked to the juvenile officials, and they told me that if you take responsibility, you will do no more than two years in a juvenile camp, most likely up in Preston. That's in Northern California," said Bill Voigt

"Mijo, the officials also said that if you denied using drugs and are found to have, in fact, used drugs in later juvenile court proceedings, you will be kept in a juvenile camp till you turn eighteen," Andy's mom, Lupe, said to him.

"Mom, Bill, I will admit to having used heroin, but I will not say who I got it from; if they agree to that, we can get it over with today," said Andy, sounding older than his thirteen years.

Bill Voigt presented the deal to the juvenile officials, who accepted it and gave it to Judge Adams. Once it was approved by Judge Adams, Andy was sentenced to two years in the California Youth Authority Juvenile Camp at Preston, California.

                                                           
                                                       Chapter Five

The following Monday, Andy and some other youths traveled north on California Highway 101 on a county bus. After twelve hours of travel, the bus arrived at the youth camp in Preston, California. Upon arrival at the camp, the boys were marched off the bus and lined up to be addressed by a camp guard:

"Boys, this camp will be your home for the foreseeable future. How easy or hard you make your time here with us is up to you. We can be easy to get along with if you work with us, or we can be son-of-bitches, it's all up to you."

'Well, sir, I am going make it easy for you and me, especially if you have a boxing program,' thought Andy

Andy, housed in a cabin with three other boys, quickly fell into a daily breakfast routine at seven in the morning, followed by four hours of school and four hours of cleaning bush around the camp. Dinner was at six, and lights-outs at ten. The camp did have a boxing program, run by two ex-pro fighters, Rudy Savala and Steve Thompson, that Andy could join after he had been in camp for three months. Two of Andy's cabin mates, Ruben Campos and Allen Shaw, were already in the boxing program; the other boy, Jerry Roberts, was taking music lessons. He wanted to become a jazz musician.

Andy wrote letters to his mom and Gil Garcia during the next three months. He would tell his mom not to worry about him, that he was doing fine, but he knew that he, being his mom's only child, worried about him. He, too, worried about his mom, about her working those long nights cleaning the railroad cars. He promised himself that once he was back home and he turned eighteen, he would start his professional boxing career and make enough money so that she could quit her job. To Gil, he would ask about his boxing and his now-girlfriend, Emily Ponce, the girl Gil met at the dance the night he got busted; Gil would only say in his answers that they were seeing each other.

 

There were nights when he couldn't sleep; on those nights, he would lay in bed and think about his father, whose name he couldn't get himself to utter, the man who abandoned him and his mom when he was only five months old. He wondered where he was and what he was doing. But every time he thought about his father, the thoughts always ended the same way 'fuck you old man.'

Andy walked into the boxing gym the first day he was allowed to. The gym was housed in what used to be a barn.

"So you want to box?" asked Coach Thompson when Andy walked in

"Yes," replied Andy

"How much do you weigh?"

"About one hundred and five pounds, and I would like to get in the ring now," answered Andy

"You just walk into the gym and say you want to spar, just like that, huh? You're going to get your ass kicked with that attitude, son."

"Coach Savala, can you get one of your boys ready to teach this kid a lesson?" Coach Thompson yelled at Coach Savala, who was at the other end of the gym

"Yes, I'll get Eddie Davis ready; he is about ten pounds bigger, though," said Coach Savala

Andy hadn't been in the ring since early summer when he won the Junior Golden Gloves, but he felt good; he thought it must be the clean air he had been breathing the last three months.

Eddie Davis popped Andy right off with a good right cross. 'Okay, let's see if you can take it.' Andy nailed Eddie with a beautiful jab and a hook of the jab followed by a short right hand, and Eddie went down

"Okay, that's enough!" yelled Coach Thompson

"I see that you have boxed before. What's your name, kid?" asked Coach Thompson.

"My name is Andy Madrid, and I would like to join your boxing program," answered Andy

"Okay, Andy, you are on the team. Next month, we will be boxing the boys from the camp up in Clear Lake; we can use you on our team. Is that okay with you?"

"Yes, I'll be ready to fight in a month," Eddie said

When Andy told Coach Thompson he had just won the Los Angeles Junior Golden Gloves title, Coach Thompson thought Andy might just be the best boxer in the camp.

It didn't take long for Andy to be recognized as the best boxer in the camp, and it was okay with the rest of the team. It had to be since Coach Thompson and Savala didn't allow any egos to be displayed.

After training for a month, the team was ready to take on the crew from Clear Lake.

The fights were held at the Preston camp gym, "The Barn," as it was known. There were 10 fights on the card. The Preston top boys were bantamweight Eddie Davis, lightweight Ruben Campos, middleweight Allen Shaw, and flyweight Andy Madrid. Andy's fight was the main event.

Eddie Davis and Ruben Campos won their fights by 4 round decisions, and Allen Shaw lost on a second-round T.K.O. The teams standing at this point were Clear Lake, with five wins, and Preston, with four wins. Andy needed to win his fight so that Preston could break even.

Andy was matched with Billy Logan, a black kid from Oakland, California. Since arriving at Clear Lake two years before, Logan had had seven fights, winning five and losing two; nobody knew how many fights he had before arriving at Clear Lake. Andy had eleven fights, winning all but one, his first fight, which he lost by decision.

Billy Logan was the first one in the ring. As Andy made his way into the ring, he looked at Logan's corner as Logan was on his toes and jabbing at the air with his left hand, and the first thought that came into his mind was, 'Is that Sugar Ray Robinson?'

Billy Logan was looking at Andy and thinking, 'Why are they putting this kid in with me? He looks to be all of ten years old,' which is what most of Andy's past opponents would think when they would lay eyes on baby face Andy for the first time.

Referee Ernie Johnson called the boxers to the center of the ring for their instructions; as Johnson was giving his instructions, Logan looked at Andy's eyes and saw something that he had never seen in any opponent's eyes before, he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but he knew that this baby face kid was going to give him a fight.

As the first round began, Logan moved to his left, pumping his jab, and Andy moved to his right, trying to cut the ring off on him. Andy blocked a jab and countered with a right that hurt Logan, but Logan came back to land a beautiful left hook. The rest of the round had the crowd screaming as the two boys fought on even terms, with both scoring some good shots.

The second round went the same as the first one. In the third round, Andy begins hurting Logan with hooks and uppercuts; near the end, Logan is gassed, and his corner wisely stops the fight. With Andy's win, the two teams broke even in wins.

In the dressing room, Coach Thompson said to Coach Savala: "this kid is the coolest kid under fire that I have seen in many years. If he stays clean once he is out of here, he will be a world champion when he gets older, no doubt about it, Rudy".

"I agree. I wish we could be with him when he turns eighteen. I always wanted to train a champion, and this kid has all the tools to be one," said Coach Savala

Going to school, working, and boxing helped Andy's two years go by fast. Andy was released on his 15th birthday. Coach Thompson and Savala drove him to the Greyhound depot in downtown Preston. The coaches gave Andy a big hug and told him to stay clean so that he could become a champion. He told them he would remain clean, become champion, and want both to be there when he won the title.

                                                         
                                                        Chapter Six

Andy arrived at the Greyhound depot in the City of Angels at 3:00 AM. Since it was Sunday, he had to wait till 6 for the buses to start running so he could get home in East Los Angeles.

Andy found a bench to nap while he waited. An old man sat beside him and rubbed his leg as he lay down. Andy jumped up, yelling, "Get away from me, you fag!" and chased him out of the depot and down Main Street but lost him when the old man ran into an alley. 'Dirty old man,' thought Andy as he returned to the depot to wait for a bus.

Andy got off the bus at the corner of Whittier Blvd and Kern Ave and walked the three blocks to his home on Arizona Ave, where his mom was waiting for him.

"Mijo, you're home! I'm so glad to see you, Mijo!" said Andy's mom, Lupe, as she hugged Andy.

"Mom, I'm sorry for all the pain I have caused you; I promise to make it up to you. I'm going back to the gym, and as soon as I turn eighteen, I'm going to turn pro and make enough money so that you don't have to be cleaning any more railroad cars," Andy said to his mom as he laid his head on her shoulder and cried.

"Don't worry about me, Mijo; I'll be fine. Just take care of yourself and stay out of trouble!" Lupe sternly said to her son.

"I'll stay out of trouble, Mom, don't worry."

The following Monday, Andy and his mom rode the streetcar to Boyle Heights to register Andy at Andrew Jackson High School, a high school for trouble boys. Andy was told that he could start school the following Monday.

                                                        

                                                          Chapter Seven

The following Tuesday, Andy arrived at the Teamsters Gym by streetcar, ready to get in shape for what he thought was his and his mom's way out of the barrio.

"Joe, where is Art?" Andy asked the gym's doorman, Joe Kelly

"You'll find him down in the basement fixing the showers."

Andy found Art inside a shower stall working on a water faucet.

"Hi Art, I'm back and ready to start training so I can fight," Andy said to Art as Art was turning a wrench on the water faucet.

Art dropped what he was doing, exited the shower stall, and hugged Andy.

"Andy! When did you get back? Art asked Andy

"A couple of days ago, I thought I could get in shape and fight in the amateurs?"

"Yes, you can get in shape, but I don't think you're old enough to fight in the amateurs; you have to fight in the smokers till you turn sixteen," Art said to Andy.

"No, Art, I want to fight in the amateurs; I can fight at the South Gate Arena and Eastside Arena, where they give out wristwatches to the best fighter of the night; if I can win some, I can then sell them and make a few bucks, Art, I need money!"

"Hey, Art, have you seen Gil Garcia?' Andy asked Art

"Yes, he has been training and fighting. He won the Junior Golden Gloves this year and got his amateur license. Gil will be fighting at South Gate on Friday night; why don't you come and see him fight?"

"I will be there if I can get a ride."

While riding the streetcar back to East L.A., Andy thought about who to drive him to the South Gate Arena on Friday. He didn't mind riding the streetcar or bus to get there, but he didn't want to hang them back home late at night; too many crazy guys out late at night, he thought.

Manuel Castillo was traveling west on Whittier Blvd on his 1948 Chevy low rider when he spotted Andy getting off the streetcar at the streetcar end of the line across from the Calvary cemetery at Eastern and Whittier Blvd. Manuel made a U-turn and pulled up to Andy.

"Need a ride, Andy?" asked Manuel.

"Sure, Manuel, I could use a ride home," said Andy as he opened the car door and jumped in.

"So, what have you been doing lately?' Manuel asked Andy as they drove east on Whittier Blvd.

"I've been busy since I returned home a few days ago. Register at Jackson High and will start school on Monday. Right now, I am just coming back from the Teamsters Gym. I was talking to Art Chavez about getting back to boxing, and he said anytime that I am ready, he will work with me. Art told me my friend Gil Garcia is fighting Friday night at the South Gate Arena. By the way, Manuel, what're ye doing Friday?"

"Not much that I know of. Got something in mind?" Manuel asked Andy

"Well, we could go see Gil fight; I Gil think would like some support from some E.L.A. friends," replied Andy as Manuel pulled up to Andy's house on Arizona Avenue.

"That's a great idea; what time do I pick you up?

"Well, the fights start at 7:30 PM. How about picking me up at 6:00 PM?" Replied Andy.

"Okay, see you at 6 on Friday."

The following Wednesday, Andy rode the bus and the streetcar to the Teamsters Gym and started working out to get back in boxing shape. When he was not in the gym, he was looking for Sally Torres, but to no avail.

Late Friday afternoon, Andy got dressed in tan slacks, a brown shirt, and a brand new pair of Florsheim Cordovan shoes that his mother Lupe had bought. He looked in the mirror and was pleased with what he saw. A little dash of Old Spice Cologne and baby face was ready.

Manuel Castillo pulled up in front of Andy's house a little before 6 and honked the horn as Andy came out the door. Walking behind Andy was Lupe telling her son to be careful. Andy stopped and turned around, kissed his mom on the cheek, and told her not to worry and that he would be okay.

As Andy jumped in Manuel's 1948 Chevy Low Rider, Manuel said, "Wow! Dude, you're looking sharp; where are you going? Are you going to have your picture taken?"

"No picture, Manuel; I just like to look as good as possible."

They drove east on Whittier Blvd to Atlantic Avenue, turned south on Atlantic, and soon were in South Gate. They found a parking spot to park the low rider where it was in plain view, which they hoped would make it harder for the local vatos to steal it.

As Andy and Manuel entered the old arena, Andy spotted two girls at the snack bar. He locked eyes with the taller of the two who were facing him. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place her. While the shorter girl was turning to meet him, one thought came to him: 'statuesque in miniature.' When her face came into full view, and Andy recognized Sally Torres, his heart started beating so hard that he thought it would fly through his chest.

Sally was the first one to make a move. She walked up to Andy and said, "You remember me?"

"Of course I do; I have been looking forward to seeing you since I returned home. By the way, is Emily, Gil's girlfriend, with you?

"That's her, she pretty, huh?" replied Sally

"Yes, she is, but let's talk about you," Andy told Sally. While Manuel and Emily sat in the second ringside row, Andy and Sally found some seats away from the small crowd about nine rows back from the ringside. Andy let Sally do most of the talking. She told him that she was now attending Roosevelt High School in Boyle Heights as a freshman and that she had an after-school job just down the avenue from the high school at a shoe store on the corner of Soto Ave and First St. When Sally stopped talking Andy took that as a cue that it was time for him to tell her something about him. Andy told Sally all about the night two years ago when he and Gil left the church dance, and he got busted. He talked about how he made the best of his time in Preston by boxing for the camp's boxing team. But now that he was back home, he was returning to school, staying in the gym, and getting his amateur boxing career back on track, hoping to turn pro soon.

"Andy, how old are ya? About fifteen?, I don't know much about boxing, but I do know that you have to be eighteen before you can get a professional boxing license; at least, that's what Gil has said," Sally said to Andy

Sleepy Lagoon

 By Louie Davila

Sorry for the delay Frank but I finally got busy with the promised story. This is for you too Norma“ From the Sleepy Lagoon to the Zoot Suit war, when Marines and Sailors made their score, stomping like Nazis through East LA…” El Pachuco, Zoot Suit, 1977.

It was the spring semester of my high school social studies class in 1975 when I first learned of the injustices perpetrated against the Chicano and Mexican American communities of the City of Angels during the height of WWII, and against zoot suited youths in particular. However, it certainly would not be the last time I breached the topic because I became highly intrigued, as to not only how it could be allowed to occur by law enforcement, but literally encouraged and ignored by them. But make no mistake; I was just as captivated by the estilo of the Pachucada, as I was baffled by the associated injustices I learned about. It was then, that my interest and subsequent studies on the era began.

Two years later, I began to see the first advertisements of an original play, Zoot Suit, by a Chicano author (Luís Valdez) that was about to make its debut at the Mark Taper Forum in the Music Center downtown. I knew that I had to see it, but because it was only part of a limited run of several plays in the New Theatre for Now series, it was quickly sold out and I thought that I had missed my chance to see it. I didn’t realize it, but the following year, it was brought back to the Mark Taper Forum for part of the 1978 season, but by the time I discovered this, it was again sold out just as quickly. It was then that the Music Center realized how wildly popular the play was, and that they needed an exclusive, long-term venue to accommodate the play’s demand. In the latter part of 1978, the play began its long run at the Aquarius Theatre on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood.

My dad treated some of his friends, my brother, and me to see it the first time, and as expected, I was mesmerized by the captivating performance of Edward James Olmos and cast in their portrayal of the Sleepy Lagoon Murder and ensuing riots of June 1943. After that first show, I must have seen the play so many times (20x) that Phil Esparza, who was connected to the play, singled me out of the bargain ticket line one day and gifted me with two orchestra pit tickets! Friends of mine who attended at least one performance with me during that stretch, also loved the play and we’d often mimic lines from the play. As a direct result, one thing led to another and before long I found myself being recruited to coordinate a cast of 25 who were actual gang members (or gang-affiliated) in our own amateur production of the play.

We never charged for performing and couldn’t if we wanted because of copyright laws. We did it out of passion and performed it primarily in the Whittier/Norwalk area. My grandfather, whom I would later discover had an indirect connection, had already passed away in 1969, but this all occurred (Hollywood’s production and ours) while my widowed grandmother was still alive. Despite my interest in the incident, she never mentioned anything about it to me. Then again, she may have been unaware of what went on at the office. Besides, I’m pretty sure that my grandfather, and those personally involved in the fiasco of Sleepy Lagoon, never imagined that this incident would ever be transformed into a play or movie.

Several decades later in the fall of 2017, I found myself at community college in pursuit of an education higher than a high school diploma. That diploma was sufficient to make a decent living and raise a family, but the “powers that be” at the corporate offices of the company that employed me 25+ years decided to close our location, so it was time for me to move on. Although late in life, this was also an opportunity to return to something for which I had very little interest as a teen… school. It was also my chance to bolster my chances of providing more than just "sufficiently…"

(Part two coming tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve posted a photo of the 38 Street guys at San Quentin, two primitive photos of our production in 1978, and one of me un-zooted, holding the prized prop, a three-foot switchblade, 1979)

Sleepy Lagoon case and grandpa Joe (Part 2)

About halfway through the semester, my history professor assigned an assessment (or term paper) to our class. My chosen topic was social activism, so in addition to referencing some of the Chicano pioneers and organizations in this category, I chose to feature the 1942 Sleepy Lagoon Murder and its unjust trial, which was immortalized in Luis Valdez’ play, Zoot Suit. Besides, this was a topic with which I was already very familiar because of my past interest and research of those incidents. I thought it was going to be a slam dunk because I could write it from memory and quickly complete it, but anyone who’s ever attended college knows that it isn’t done that way. Assessment or Term papers require that you back up your information with citations from your sources, which should be reliable and/or academic sources. This meant I had to research anyway, but at least I had an idea of what and where to search.

While researching online one day, I discovered some documents in UCLA’s online archive that mentioned J.L. Marty as chairman of the Citizens' Committee for the Defense of Mexican American Youth. This committee was the precursor to, and previous name of the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee (SLDC). It was a citizen’s activist group in pursuit of obtaining a reversal on the wrongful conviction of the seventeen Mexican American youths accused of murder and conspiracy to commit murder in the Sleepy Lagoon case. My eyes, exhausted from hours of research on the computer, instantly popped opened like silver dollars, as I quickly scooted forward in my seat to read it more closely, and I almost exclaimed out loud (excuse the language), “NO F****** WAY! J.L. Marty? Grandpa’s name was J.L. Marty!”

It was a good thing I contained myself, as the college librarian would’ve kicked me out! I thought to myself, “It couldn’t be! There must’ve been another man with those initials and surname. Besides, someone in the family would’ve surely mentioned it, especially after noticing that much of my wardrobe had gone zoot at that time, complete with tandito, cadena, tírantes, and double-soled calcos!” But the more I read about this man, the more parallels to my grandpa I uncovered, including his position as a C.I.O. representative. Although I had already been aware of his C.I.O. affiliation in the 30s and 40s, I had no idea that he could’ve had any part of fighting for the release (on appeal) of the Sleepy Lagoon defendants until I discovered a document on the UCLA online archives. After regaining my composure and re-reading this several times, I saved a PDF copy of my discovery to approach my mom about it upon my next visit, which was going to be much sooner than planned. Despite all the similarities, I still wasn’t convinced that it was gramps and wanted more proof before making this declaration on my term paper!

After class that day, I made a v-line to my mom’s house, barely containing my excitement about my recent discovery. This is how the conversation went…

Me: Hi mom, how are you feeling? (Planting a kiss on her cheek)

Mom: I’m ok mijo. Are you hungry?

Me: No mom… uh, well maybe a little. (It’s a sin to turn down mom’s cooking.)

Mom: Did you have class today? How did it go?

Me: You know mom, funny you should ask that. Remember that term paper assignment I told you about in my history class?

Mom: Mijo, you tell me a lot of things. Which paper was that again?

Me: (Containing my laughter while thinking… are you trying to say I talk too much?) My term paper for History mom. It’s a big part of my grade. Remember?

Mom: Oh yeah. Mijo, I hope you’ve been working on it!

Me: Of course, mom. But while I was doing research online today, guess whose initials and surname surfaced, and was mentioned as chairman for the committee that tried to free the guys in the Sleepy Lagoon case back in 1943? It was grandpas!

Mom: Whose grandpa? (With the same incredulous look that I had when I discovered this)

Me: Yours mom, I mean my grandpa, your dad! How come you never told me about his involvement in it?

Mom: (Looking at me, as if I were dingy) Mijo, H-E-L-L-O! I was only three years old at the time! (Ok, I kind of walked into that one.)

Me: Ok, but I mean he never told you about it when you were older? And grandma, she never mentioned anything about it to me either.

Mom: I don’t know why mijo. He was always consumed with union business. You know that they were always fighting for something. Besides, how would anybody know that all those years later, it would become a huge play and then a movie? But come on upstairs, so I can pull out some old pictures of grandpa.

Me: (Stomach now growling) What about something to eat?

Mom: You can wait. It won’t kill you! (Got to love mom!)

Well, up the stairs we went and into her room, when she pulled out this bag. I laughed when I saw it because it looked just like the little bag of tricks that Felix the Cat would pull out of thin air whenever he got into a fix! She was in the process of showing me several vintage photos of my grandpa during various union functions – marches, meetings, rallies, etc. – when suddenly, I come across a framed photo that appeared to show him amongst mixed genders, possibly parents. I then asked my mom if I could take some of the photos home, so I could scan them. She said, “Of course,” then proceeded to remove the framed photo from its frame. As she did, I noticed what appeared to be a small newspaper clipping falling from behind the photo. Whoever clipped it, didn’t do a very good job because part of the caption was missing. However, based on what remained, it implied something about a Grand Jury investigation, Joe Marty of the Mexican Defense Committee, and an arrest on charges of inciting a riot. There was someone standing at a podium and there was grandpa sitting down in the lower left-hand corner… BINGO!! That was exactly the confirmation I needed, the smoking gun. J.L. Marty was in fact, my grandfather, Joseph L. Marty. So, as I hurriedly departed to resume work on my paper, my mom calls out to me, “Mijo, what about something to eat?” I happily replied, “It can wait mom, it won’t kill me. I’ve got work to do!”

(Part two coming tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve posted a photo of my grandfather at a C.I.O. union meeting, a newspaper clipping confirming his role on the committee, photo at a committee meeting, and the document I discovered online with his name and committee role)

Sorry, but better late than never.

Sleepy Lagoon case and grandpa Joe (part 3)

After spending hours in front of a computer screen, I usually don’t want to see another screen for a while, but I was now on a mission. Feeling the need to dig deeper and find more information, I rushed home and skipped dinner – which is huge for me – so I could return to my research and start scanning those photos. The revelation that my grandfather created the group that would eventually become successful in helping to obtain a reversal for the Sleepy Lagoon defendants was an awesome feeling, but what was I going to put in my term paper? That grandpa founded a group and wrote a letter to his fellow union brethren? No. I needed details or the meat and potatoes of what he did; basically, something of more substance to detail the level of dedication he had to this cause. After sifting through numerous documents online, it was just too much for my eyes and besides, my stomach was now screaming at me like Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors, “feed me, I’m hungry!” So I gave in to hunger and sleep. There’s nothing like a fresh start and a cup of coffee in the morning anyway.

Having an off day (from classes) and a fresh start, I was ready and determined to dig up something to give legs to my paper. The night’s rest paid off because on the same site where I found the first document about my grandfather, I also discovered what appeared to be a radio show transcript. In reading it, I concluded that during this era, the C.I.O. sponsored a radio program called Our Daily Bread. This particular segment occurred on Cinco de Mayo, 1943 and was dedicated to the plight of the defendants in the Sleepy Lagoon case and their trial that was shrouded in a mockery of justice. The surprise in this find? My grandfather was the guest speaker in this segment. During the interview, he outlined the events that led to the case, discussed the medical examiner’s findings on murder victim Jose Díaz, and detailed numerous instances of judicial misconduct during the trial, among other related facts. He went on to point out the parallels between actions against the Mexican American community in LA, as well as all people of color in the US, and the tactics that Hitler used in Nazi Germany to cause division in that country, which enabled him to eventually seize complete control. He warned that the same could occur here if no resistance was offered when these types of injustices were levied against fellow citizens. Keep in mind that it wasn’t old news back then; it was simultaneous with what was happening at home! I also learned through his interview that he was in these court proceedings every day, which enabled him to report and appeal to his C.I.O. fraternity, rallying the troops to support this cause.

In digging further, I also discovered the original (not re-created) document generated by my grandfather, introducing the injustice inflicted on the Sleepy Lagoon defendants to his C.I.O. brethren, and appealing for donations to cover the cost of a prominent labor attorney of the time, Ben Margolis, who would be retained to handle the appeal.

Any case that escalates to the appellate courts is a very different, and cut and dry process. These types of proceedings do not review old evidence. The appellate court may consider new evidence that was unjustly omitted from the original hearing, but they don’t re-examine evidence that was already introduced at trial. Contrarily, the appellate court examines court transcripts and each citing (by the original trial attorneys) of judicial misconduct to verify their veracity. Once the briefs (usually numerous) for appeal have been completed, the decision of upholding or reversing the sentence of the original trial court rests with the justices of the appellate court. It usually requires a lawyer very familiar with state constitutional law and the judicial process, with a staff to support the necessary documentation. So, retaining him was a fairly large undertaking at the time.

Never let it be said that Latinos do not become involved. By now, you might’ve already wondered, “Latino? How is the surname Marty a Latino name?” Allow me to momentarily digress from the main topic to elaborate a little. My grandfather’s parents (my great grandparents) Lorenzo and Manuela emigrated from Spain before my grandpa was born in San Francisco in the early part of last century. They passed away so long ago, that my mother never even knew them. They arrived by steamship typical of that era such as those of the White Star line from Titanic notoriety. Although Lorenzo was a head chef on that steamship line, I’m not sure if it allowed them to travel at a more affordable rate, but that’s irrelevant to the story.

Upon their arrival in the United States, Lorenzo decided that he would change – actually shorten – their surname. I once asked my widowed grandma how Marty was a Latino name. After all, grandpa’s parents were from Spain. After confirming that they were, she went on to pronounce their original surname. In a blunder that I’ll always regret, I did not have a recorder of any kind, nor did I ask her to repeat the name, so I could write it down. That juvenile mistake would haunt me years later when trying to trace their genealogy. What I clearly remember is wondering how she was able to say that multi-syllabled name without taking a breath! It did begin with Marte or Marti, followed by “de” __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __. But make no mistake; it was an extremely long Castilian name. I just sat there dumbstruck, as she pronounced it, and the only thing I could think of saying to her was, “Wow grandma, it’s a good thing that grandpa wasn’t an athlete! They would’ve NEVER been able to fit that name on the back of a jersey!” Typical juvenile reaction, but nonetheless, a reason why the elders of a family should be revered, and their knowledge absorbed, as much as possible. Once their proverbial lights have dimmed, we won’t have another chance unless, and if we cross heavenly paths.

Because my grandfather was light complected, typical of many Spaniards, and had grey eyes, many Anglos initially thought he was one of them. This probably explains why he was able to speak up to the white population the way he did, without repercussion. But he knew he was of Spanish ethnicity, and that the Mexicano race was a partial byproduct of Spanish heritage, so he always felt that connection. In fact, he eventually married my grandmother, who was born in Zacatecas, Mexico like her parents and ten siblings. Being that he only had one half sister who was younger and not raised with him, he embraced them all as his own blood relatives when he married into the Roldan family and never distinguished himself from them. They were extremely close, and my grandmother’s siblings thought of him as a “carnal from another jefita” until the day he died.

Even though they had different upbringings, there was a common quality shared by my grandpa and Henry Leyvas, who was one of the main defendants in the Sleepy Lagoon case and a frequent target of law enforcement in the area he lived. They both had a strong desire to stand up for themselves and/or others when they felt that they were being stepped on. It was undoubtedly this trait that caused Henry to be a target of police. Based on all accounts I’ve read about Hank, he truly had leadership qualities that his peers admired, but contrary to the belief of law enforcement, was NOT the ringleader of any criminal activities, nor the leader of any gang. But his fortitude was most likely why the organizers of the Brown Berets of the 1960s would seek his advice in later years. They acted as security in many rallies for Chicano rights, so what better person to consult with, than a man with protective senses like Henry? That same type of attitude is probably what qualified grandpa Joe to be a union rep, as well as a social activist.

(Part four coming soon. I’ll try and get it completed so it’s ready for Sunday morning reading, or to begin the work week on Monday – thank you all for your comments and support. Meanwhile, I’ve posted photos of the transcripts for the 1943 Cinco de Mayo radio broadcast of Our Daily Bread and the original document I discovered from my grandfather to his C.I.O. brothers).

Sleepy Lagoon case and grandpa Joe (part 4)

In sharing the story about the discovery of my grandfather’s connection to this case, perhaps I’ve put the cart before the horse by presuming that you were all familiar with its background. So, with my apologies, and for the benefit of those who are unclear about the case in any way, please allow me to provide a summary of the contributing events.

This case involved the death of a young man of Mexican heritage, named Jose Díaz, and occurred in the late hours of August 1, 1942, after a party he attended at the Delgadillo residence in the Williams Ranch, an area of what is now considered to be close to Maywood/City of Commerce. Meanwhile, Henry, his girlfriend, and a small group of youths from the local 38 street neighborhood were hanging out at a nearby reservoir, later dubbed by the press as “Sleepy Lagoon,” after a popular song of the era and its serene appearance. In addition to its use as an irrigation ditch for crops, it doubled as a swimming hole (by day) for ethnic minorities banned from “white only” public pools, and at night it was frequented by teens as a makeshift lover’s lane. In the confusion that occurred that night, Henry and his girlfriend were brutally attacked by a group of rowdies from Downey, who had just departed the ranch following a failed attempt to crash the party at the Delgadillo residence. The group from 38 street left for reinforcements to avenge the attack.

With reinforcements now by their side, they discovered that the group who had attacked their friends had left the reservoir area, so they headed to the nearby party still in progress, certain that the attackers were there. Their arrival at the Delgadillo home was met with violence because the 38 street youths were mistaken by party guests, as the boys from Downey who attempted to crash their party earlier that evening. Evidence suggests it was never established that anyone with the crowd from 38 street attacked Jose Díaz or were even near him in the time frame he was at the party. Nevertheless, they were the focus and only line of investigation ever pursued by the police because Díaz was discovered near death somewhere on the property after the scuffle between the guests – at a party Díaz had already left – and the group from 38 street. The roundup of suspects based on that narrow-mindedness, their arrest, and the trial that ensued was a complete farce.

The trial was filled with numerous counts of judicial misconduct, and violations of the defendants’ civil rights in an atmosphere of wartime hysteria and racial hatred that was fueled by the media of that period. For several months prior to Sleepy Lagoon, the media, now intent on directing their aim at a new scapegoat to sell headlines – in absence of the Japanese who were recently placed into internment camps shortly following the attack on Pearl Harbor – shifted their attack on the Mexican community in LA. Combined with paranoia and feelings of nationalism, the sensationalized headlines in the months leading to this case sold papers and made radio broadcast headlines. After all, this was in alignment with an old media adage, “If it bleeds, it leads.” Numerous headlines such as “Zoot-Suited gangs on the Prowl,” as well as increased usage of derogatory terms like “Pachuco Killers” and “Mexican Goon-Squads” were surfacing everywhere. Consequently, the incident at Sleepy Lagoon was tailor-made for the sensationalized media that gobbled it up and caused an already paranoid public to believe that this event only perpetuated all the media hype of recent months.

The presiding trial judge (Charles W. Fricke) was a known prosecutor’s attorney, and in another distant connection to this case, my paternal great uncle Manuel appeared before the same judge about 3 years before the 38 street boys on some serious but trumped-up charges. The arresting officer was strongly disliked by judge Fricke. However, his disdain for Mexicans/Chicanos outweighed his almost-hatred of the arresting officer, and without any substantiating evidence he sentenced my uncle to (10) years, which was eventually suspended after a couple of years in lieu of military enlistment. Incidentally, my great uncle Manuel also wore the drape shape. Coincidence? I strongly doubt that, and I do remember him telling me that while he was in the holding tank awaiting an appearance before the court, other inmates would ask of one another if they knew which judge was set to hear their case. Each time an inmate would reply that it was judge Fricke, the inquiring inmate would make an over-the-shoulder thumb motion (outta here!), while advising the impending defendant to roll it up and get ready for a trip “up the river.”

In the Sleepy Lagoon case, this judge prohibited the defendants from consulting with their attorneys during the trial, forbid them from wearing clean clothes, and barred the defendants from receiving haircuts during the four-month trial. There were dozens of occurrences of judicial misconduct by the bench that were cited by defense counsel, who themselves were also subject to constant berating and humiliation by the bench… in the presence of the jury! The way the trial was framed by the judge himself was guaranteed to yield a guilty verdict from the jury. Ultimately, three of the defendants received a sentence of life imprisonment at San Quentin, nine defendants received a five-to-life sentence (also at San Quentin), while five others served one year in the county jail. These were extremely harsh and unjust verdicts, considering that there was not one shred of evidence, physical or otherwise, that would incriminate any of the defendants. Even the report from the county coroner or chief autopsy surgeon suggested that the decedent had died from a Cerebral Hemorrhage, and that its severity was also consistent with injuries sustained by being run over with an automobile.

(Part five coming soon. Again, thank you all for your comments and support. Meanwhile, the only photo I posted today is of my great uncle Manuel (circa 1938), who was also my nino and appeared before the same biased Judge who presided over the Sleepy Lagoon case 3 years later.)

Sleepy Lagoon case and grandpa Joe (part 5)

My apologies for the personal issues that delayed this posting.

Sadly, many victims of crimes become lost in obscurity much too often and become just another statistic. But they too had family, friends, and a life with dreams and plans for the future that were ended by an assailant who felt they were judge, jury, and executioner, deciding to extinguish that life. The poor victim eventually loses their voice and identity. Enveloped in all the hysteria, media hype, and the riots that occurred the following year, was the victim in this case, José Díaz. His demise began a chain of events that affected many. Not much is known about José, but before moving forward, let’s dedicate some time to what is known about the ultimate victim of this story.

José Díaz was described as a devoted son. He left school after 8th grade to earn money and faithfully relinquished his weekly pay from the job he secured at a vegetable packing plant to help support his family who lived in a bunkhouse for workers at the Williams ranch. Although modest and hard-working by nature, he also enjoyed the jazz scene and like many who followed the genre’s artists of the day, wore the peg-legged “tramados” (pants) for dances or parties. Called “ankle chokers” by some, they were part of the Zoot Suits worn by the jazz culture and by Pachucos who saved their hard-earned money to spend on the hottest style of the day.

Like many men in the country, the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the subsequent entry of the US into World War II elevated his sense of patriotism and the desire to serve. Six months later in the summer of 1942, José, 22 at the time, enlisted in the U.S. Army. One week before he was set to depart, his mother – in an almost intuitive appeal – sent him to have his picture taken. It was heartbreaking because that photo was the very first, and sadly the only one of José.

On his last Saturday night before departing, José had planned to attend a birthday party at the Delgadillo home on the ranch, and his safety during his impending service was also toasted that night. Not being one to drink very often and feeling its effects, he left for home before the party wound down and it was the last time anyone saw him conscious. His younger brother was home at the time and once he was alerted that his older brother was discovered bloody and comatose, he rushed him to the Los Angeles County General Hospital. He never regained consciousness and passed away not long after arriving. Scheduled to report to duty the day after his murder, his aspiration to serve would never be realized.

Being that agricultural work is seasonal, it was not uncommon for one to follow the work and tragically on the weekend José died, his parents were up north picking prunes. As fate would have it his mother fell ill, and they made an early return with the rest of the family who accompanied them. Imagine the horror upon their return when they were immediately informed by neighbors of their son’s fate.

The media and LAPD viewed José and his attackers as gang members and enemies amongst the public, using his murder to unleash an extensive attack on what was felt by them to be an incontrollable and quickly growing Mexican American adolescent "problem." José’s family understandably felt that he never received the justice to which he was entitled. He ostensibly had been reduced to a mere footnote as these events have been rehashed throughout the years. José deserved so much better.

Prison is a very intimidating place for many, especially for those who are “fish” or new inmates and more so for first time offenders of the same age as the defendants of this case. While most are of legal age, their personalities and ethics are still being shaped at that young age. Some are better suited to adjust to that life and put on a gruff façade, maybe even destined for a life of crime. Others are only on the periphery and most likely "just passing through." However, once entangled in it, the system has a way of manipulating one over the edge and some literally make the transformation into career criminals. The “system,” also known as the Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, often emphasizes the correction aspect more than rehabilitation, so more often than not, inmates actually refine their craft and graduate to becoming polished criminals. Perhaps it’s why some refer to paroled inmates as having “been to college.” With that thought, it was no mystery why the families of these defendants were devastated with the resulting sentences and felt a desperate need to seek assistance to have their sentences appealed.

Immediately thereafter, my grandfather formed a group that sprang into action to reach a broader portion of the public, make them aware of the injustice that had occurred, and raise funds for an appeal. This is when a local, lesser-known group of activists – the Citizens Committee for the Defense of Mexican American Youth – was born. The committee successfully appealed to all demographics and professional organizations to expand the support for the Sleepy Lagoon boys. They worked diligently to coordinate fund raisers and appealed to union locals, as well as the local community for financial contributions. It eventually became and was more commonly known as the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee, and they gave their relentless support to the defendants who were now in San Quentin prison.

Added to the thousands of citizens from every demographic, the group gained even more traction when some of the Hollywood elite of that era – including Rita Hayworth and Anthony Quinn (both of Latino heritage), and Orson Wells – became involved and lent their names to this struggle. The group also included many prominent professionals, prestigious associations, and civil rights activists such as renowned author and attorney Carey McWilliams. It was indeed unfortunate that this case even went to trial in the first place and even more of a travesty that it was conducted like a three-ring circus. However, the silver lining here was that the original trial attorneys, which included George Shibley, cited so many civil rights violations and incidents of judicial misconduct by the bench, it appeared very promising that Judge Frick provided enough legal rope to hang himself. However, as the appeals process and the ongoing war trudged on, no one would dare assume that the verdict they were praying and hoping for would be a foregone conclusion, especially after the injustice that had already been witnessed in the courtroom. The anticipation was agonizing for all involved.

(Part six coming soon. Again, thank you all for your comments and support. Posted is a photo of murder victim José Díaz, as well as court proceedings at various phases, the defendants in San Quentin boxing program and some of the women entangled in this case.)

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1Connie Collins