Early on in yesterday’s half marathon, just after entering Bonelli Park, I thought of La Virgen de Guadalupe. December 12th is her feast day, and it’s a big deal for Mexicans. I’ve been celebrating the day La Virgen Morena appeared to Juan Diego in the hills of Tepeyac in 1531 since I was a kid. I was born in to a family of Guadalupanos; we always participate in a big party at our home parish.

As I ran and admired the scenery, I imagined that my parents and grandparents were in Mass. Afterward, they would continue the celebration at the O’Callaghan Center. While I neared the finish line, they’d probably be eating tamales and drinking champurrado while enjoying the mariachi and the danzantes Aztecas. I attended the celebration Mass and party afterward for the first time in years last year.

Since I wasn’t there with them, I thought of the half marathon as my “Mañanitas”, my dedication in honor of La Virgencita. “Las Mañanitas Tapatías” is always sung for her on the feast day. Whether it was good or bad, my run would be for la Virgencita.

It turned out good. Better than I could have imagined.

After the race, Sean and I drove to my parents’ house so I could shower and change. Dad was at work getting the house ready for Christmas. My grandparents were supervising, er, relaxing and enjoying the late morning. Mom wasn’t around.

Something was off.

“Was there no celebration for La Virgen de Guadalupe today?” I asked dad.

“No,” he shook his head sadly.

It finally dawned on me. There could be no party. The party was always held in the O’Callaghan Center. Since the fire destroyed St John Vianey in April, all Masses have been held in the large multi-purpose room.

This year, the celebration for La Virgen de Guadalupe had been downsized. SJVs Guadalupanos still came together at dawn for the traditional rosary and “Las Mañanitas”. However, instead of a big party to bring the community together, there would be a low key gathering with pan dulce and chocolate.

I’m sure the low key celebration for La Virgencita was still nice, but it saddens me to think about all that the SJV community lost in the fire.

Note: The mosaic above is from Virgen de Guadalupe shrine outside SJV. It survived the fire (see lower left in this photo)

I talked about having the wedding at SJV with my mom. We discussed Sean going through RCIA (he has to become Catholic first). She was really happy to hear a Catholic wedding was part of our plans.

Less than ten days later, SJV was burned down by an arsonist. After I processed the news and watched the video of the fire and viewed the photos, I immediately thought of the fall 2012 wedding I wanted. It’s not going to happen in the same church where I made my First Communion, celebrated my quinceañera, and was confirmed.

I cried when I saw the burnt doors on the LA Times photo gallery. “Those were the doors I was supposed to stand behind on my wedding day,” I thought. I’m not going to stand nervously in the narthex (foyer, sorta) with my arm hooked through my dad’s arm. He isn’t going to walk me down the aisle. I’m not going to kneel at the sanctuary in front of the altar and say my vows there in front of my family and friends. I’m not going to hear the pianist play Canon in D on the gorgeous pipe organ. My mom and Sean’s mom won’t light the candle in front of the lectern. I won’t take a bouquet to the statue of the Virgin Mary on the left side of the church. Sean and I won’t walk down the aisle together. And we won’t be greeted and congratulated by friends and family outside.

I felt somewhat selfish thinking all this, but couldn’t help it. I never envisioned what my wedding reception would look like except that it would be big and there would be a mariachi, those things were a given since I’m Mexican. But the ceremony? That was a different story.

And now it’s changed

I realized that I have very few digital photos of events in the church or even outside the church, but I have memories. Re-posted below is something I wrote for the old blog about some of the oddest moments I ever experienced at St. John Vianney. Two involved the founding pastor, Msgr. O’Callaghan (RIP), and all occurred during the average Sunday Mass. The photo above is from a Christmas concert with the Spanish language adult and children’s choir around 1988.

weirdness in church
04.19.05 // 9:58 p.m.

Growing up, I never missed Sunday Mass. Even if we were out of town or on vacation, my parents would find a Catholic church in the area and make us go. I saw a lot of interesting and weird things happen during Mass.

Once an altar boy named Eric whom I knew from catechism and high school got sick during the consecration of the host. This is one of those times during the Mass when the assembly (or congregation) is supposed to kneel. The altar servers kneel at uncomfortable kneelers on the wooden steps of the altar. Anyway, Eric stood up to go to the bathroom in the sacristy. He didn’t make it. All I saw was Eric’s breakfast fly out of his mouth in a stream that went remarkably far. Yeah, that was weird and kind of gross.

In another instance, Monsignor O’Callaghan snapped me out of my reverie when he mentioned my favorite band at the time, the Smashing Pumpkins. He railed against the lyrics “Emptiness is loneliness, and loneliness is cleanliness / And cleanliness is godliness, and God is empty just like me.” That was weird too.

The third weird occurrence involved Msgr. O once again. This was a few months after the child molestation scandal broke out in Boston. I guess there had been some debate about allowing gay men to be priests. I was really surprised that Msgr. O wasn’t at all opposed to the notion of a gay man serving God in this role because he was rather conservative. He didn’t mention anything at all either about the incorrect notion of gay men being more likely to molest children. In the middle of the homily a woman five rows from the lectern stood up and started loudly proclaiming that homosexuality was a sin. What made me even sadder and more disgusted was that her young son and daughter (about 8-12 years old) stood up and joined in her opposition to gays. I felt like I was in the twilight zone though, because Msgr. O didn’t back down from his position. Instead, he argued with her a little and then the woman left the church.

This was a Sunday Mass. There were plenty of families there. People clapped when she got up and left. Msgr. O asked people to quiet down. He asked the assembly to pray for this woman, and ask God to open her heart. I was with my mom, and later when we got in the car she broke her silence on the outburst, “You know, it’s really sad that people still think like that. You would think that these days they’d be more open minded.”

Needless to say, I was dumbfounded.

Going to Mass almost every Sunday for 24.5 years straight will give you some strange stories to tell. I’ll be back with the weirdest. It has to do with colonization, imperialism and the Church.

Before I went to sleep last night, Adrian sent me a message.

“I have bad news, Chunk. St. John [Vianney] is on fire. Danny called right now, said it’s really bad, that they may not be able to save it.”

That was at 12:38 am.

I was shocked, but it didn’t hit me until the next message a minute later.

“[Danny] was crying saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ talking to Dad.”

I went to bed hoping I’d wake up to find out it wasn’t that bad, the LA County firefighters on the scene were able to save it.

I was wrong. The fire tore through the high roof of St. John Vianney. The church was destroyed, but the rectory was saved. The two priests and seminarian who live in the rectory beside the church awoke when they heard a blast (windows popping) and were not harmed.

Thanks to SJV friends on Facebook, I quickly found some news footage of the fire online. It was surreal to see flames lap at red banners and palm trees up for Palm Sunday services. I wanted to cry as I saw the external damage. My family’s home was destroyed.

My family has been active members of SJV for over 25 years. We were there every Sunday, bright and early for Spanish-language services. We made at least a few more trips during the week for CCD (religious education) classes, choir practices, weekday Masses we were assigned to serve as altar servers, event planning meetings, Bible study and more. For all us Mosqueda kids it was also where we made our First Holy Communion and were confirmed. I hoped to fulfill another sacrament there too, get married next year.

We celebrated festive occasions and sad ones there too. Lori and I both held our quinceañera Masses and receptions at SJV. It was host to the 50th wedding anniversary Masses for both Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni (1993) and Grandma and Grandpa (1994). It’s also where we held the wakes and funeral Masses for Grandma and Grandpa. And there are all the weddings. The last was Heather and Jorge’s in August.

The last Mass I attended at SJV was for the fiesta de la Virgen de Guadalupe in December. The church was packed, there was a lovely shrine set up for La Virgen. Lots of parishioners were dressed in Mexican garb. Aztec danzantes began the celebration with some dances. Afterward there was a big party in the O’Callaghan Center (SJV’s large multi-purpose room). I helped my mom sell drinks before getting some tacos.

That morning, I saw a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a while. People I grew up around and saw weekly hugged me as if it hadn’t been months since the last time I was there. For some it was years, but it didn’t feel that way. I still felt the same sense of community and love I grew up with.

SJV is more than just a beautiful church. It’s the community.

I know we’re hurting, but we’re strong. We have faith. And we’ll be okay.

Video after the jump.

Second photo of the burned church from the Los Angeles Times.

Jorge, my neighbor in Hacienda Heights, posted the news on Facebook last June. He didn’t have any news about the school board vote. Adrian confirmed the news a few days later on our way to pick up some burgers.

“I saw Mr. S and he told me.”

Mr. S, Adrian’s sixth grade teacher, confirmed what I’d initially taken for a rumor.

“So what’s the bungalow in the kindergarten playground for?”

“I don’t know.”

Later, I’d read an article in the Whittier Daily News about the school closure and school board vote. Drat. It was really official now.

Glenelder Elementary, home of the Chargers, sits a block away from my parent’s home. It was close enough for me to make the short walk alone twice a day, sometimes four when I would go home for lunch.

All four of us Mosqueda kids attended kindergarten through sixth grade there (except Lori, she transferred for her final year). We often had the same teachers. Our involvement with the school extended to my mother who was active in the PTA. She was even the president at one point and was honored by a former principal for her service.

In my seven years at Glenelder, I came to love school and so much more. I learned to see myself as Danny’s nerdy and shy little sister. I was scolded by teachers for talking too much, which my mom later insisted was only because I was smart, done with my work and thus bored. (Thanks for defending me, mom!) Later, a teacher recommended I be tested for the GATE program and I began to be tracked as one of the smart kids. Glenelder is where I learned to compete with other top students like Jason and Jessica to be the smartest in my class. I wasn’t always confident. In second grade, I skipped a reading lesson with Mr. Cantu because I didn’t want the third graders to make fun of me for not knowing how to write in cursive nor use a dictionary.

I can still recite all of my teachers in order: Mrs. Draughn, Mrs. Flamenbaum, Ms. Buxton, Ms. Butcher, Mrs. Springfield [RIP] and Mrs. Miller for fifth and sixth grade.

Despite my connection to Glenelder and penchant for nostalgia, the news of the closure didn’t affect me much initially. In the past few years, I’ve become somewhat inured to stories about the negative effects of revenue shortfalls and massive budget gaps. Glenelder and it’s decreasing student body was just another casualty, I figured.

When I returned to HH, Glenelder looked the same as always. Since I’m rarely around during week days, I was accustomed to the absence of children and the empty parking lot.

The physical changes, and sense of loss, came a few weeks later. First, workers began to dig up the playground equipment. Piles of dirt surrounded the swings, slides and other relatively new equipment in the main playground. I played on the swings with Sean despite this in an effort to cheer myself after Mexico’s loss to Argentina in the knock-out round of the World Cup. Pumping my legs up and down, laying back and feeling the warm sun on my bare legs didn’t fail me. For the past ten years, I’ve gone to the swings whenever I felt down. When I left the playground that afternoon, I didn’t realize the swings would likely be gone by the time I returned to Hacienda Heights.

A few weeks later, I was home again. As usual, I took VR for a walk and caught up on some short podcasts. We walked usual route around to and around the school. VR paused as he always does at the lawn outside the kindergarten classrooms. From here, I could see through the chain-link fence. The playground was gone. No swings, no slides, no jungle gyms or platforms to climb, no sand and no wood chips. Just dirt.

VR pulled me along.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I wasn’t a kid anymore.

[Note: the K-5 students at Glenelder were sent to Cedarlane, the school where I attended middle school.]

Through high school, my family’s Sunday morning was rather routine:

6:00-7:45: scramble to get six people ready (with one shower!), out the door and into the car. If my dad or Danny had to be early for choir or altar boy responsibilities they would leave earlier.

8:00-9:15: Spanish Mass at St. John Vianney, our home parish. Dad played bass with the choir. Mom was a Eucharistic minister, which means she handed out the host (consecrated bread) during Communion. Danny, Lori and I were all altar servers. Adrian just sat in the pew and pretended to be ill. He was always fine as soon as Mass ended.

9:15-9:30: help dad pack up his bass and music books, greet fellow parishioners, say hi to Grandma, Grandpa and tío Rick before they left (they always sat toward the back of the church while my mom preferred the first pew).

9:30: drive out to West Covina and wait in the Mariposa Inn (sometimes we’d go to another restaurant) parking lot or on the front patio until the doors opened at 10.

10:00-11:30: brunch at Mariposa Inn. Greet the owner, Raudel. Exchange pleasantries with our server — usually Nacho or my mom’s friend Mary. Then stuff ourselves silly on fresh fruit, Mexican breakfast dishes, giant burritos, fruit-filled pastries, chocolate-dipped strawberries. Wash it all down with Shirley Temples (kids) or coffee (adults).

11:30: say ‘bye to the grandparents, go home and take care of the ‘itis with a nice nap.

Sunday brunch hardly happened once Grandma got sick with complications from diabetes. After her recovery, we resumed the usual Sunday morning routine, but this time with the wheelchair in tow. The trips ceased after Grandpa was diagnosed with cancer and passed away a few months later in 1996. The restaurant held too many “tristes recuerdos.” Plus, Sunday brunch for a family of six was too pricey and we were going through some tough times.

Nowadays, our trips to Mariposa occur on special occasions. It’s the go-to restaurant for birthdays, anniversaries or other special occasions. The last time I went was for Lori’s birthday in January. The guys turned into gluttons and feasted on giant burritos. My mom had machaca, dad had huevos rancheros, Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni shared a dish. I had chilaquiles.

Once again, Nacho was our waiter. Nacho was the kind of guy who could make you feel better with his infectious cheerfulness. During Sunday brunch, he usually tried to cheer up Lori who was grumpy for some reason or another. This time, he didn’t have to cheer up Lori because she was in a good mood for her birthday. Instead, he plopped a sombrero on her head, placed a piece of flan in front of her and called the rest of the waiters to sing “happy birthday, Panchita.”

Before we left, we made sure to greet the owner, Raudel, always gracious and friendly. My parents met Raudel way back in the ’80s when they first started visiting the restaurant. Our neighbor, Mary (Summer’s mom) was a waitress and bartender there. Raudel had worked his way up the chain and at the time was the assistant manager. By the early ’90s he was the owner. I suppose he and my parents had a connection. They were all Mexican immigrants, and moreover he was a Zacatecano who loved tamborazo like my mom.

Even though the staff got older, just like we did, they never stopped making us feel welcomed even if we stopped visiting for months or years at a time. Some things just don’t change.

Except, they do.

Last night, my dad informed me that Raudel Guerrero, 57, passed away early in the morning on Thursday June 26th. He gave a busboy a ride home and fell asleep at the wheel. His van slammed into the rear of an 18-wheel tractor-trailer in Chino (link).

Services were held Tuesday night and Wednesday morning in Rowland Heights. Unfortunately, my parents learned of Raudel’s passing after the services and did not attend.

Raudel Guerrero is survived by his wife Julieta and their four children.

Yesterday’s singular alert was far from frivolous:

POMONA, Calif. — Three men pleaded not guilty Thursday to the October 2002 slaying of a 17-year-old Baldwin Park girl whose body was found on a Hacienda Heights street.

Abraham Ruben Acuña, 33, Matthew Andrew Garcia, 26, and Victor Manuel Monge, 31, are each charged with murder for the October 12, 2002, killing of Gloria Gaxiola.

Authorities have not disclosed how the girl was killed. Her body was found on Hacienda Boulevard, north of Colima Road.

The three defendants were named in a felony complaint for arrest warrant filed less than two months ago.

They remain jailed pending an April 1 hearing in Pomona Superior Court to determine if there is enough evidence to require them to stand trial. (Source: KNBC)

A little over a year ago, I wrote about the sunny Saturday morning Lori and I came upon the crime scene where Gloria Gaxiola’s body was found after being dragged four miles by a car (link). The gruesome murder shook us up. In 2006, Gloria’s murder was described as a cold case.

I hope there will be justice for Gloria and her family.

*Hacienda Heights has about an even number of Asians and Latinos.

Saturday morning, 7:30 am. I should have been asleep. But instead I was assigned the honor of driving my 18-year old sister to work.

“Should we take Colima or Hacienda?” I asked Lori. Both routes would get us to the Whittier dealership where she was a receptionist and cashier.

She shrugged.

Her indecision didn’t matter, because a few seconds later we came upon a crime scene on Hacienda Boulevard, the main north-south thoroughfare through Hacienda Heights. Ahead of us, other drivers turned their cars around rather than crash into police tape, LA County sheriffs, their vehicles and a conspicuous coroner’s truck.

It was the first time I had seen one, but I knew whatever had occurred on Hacienda Boulevard that night or early morning was not good.

“I wonder what happened,” I told Lori. She seemed as lost as I was.

Lori and I made our way around Hacienda Heights and five minutes later arrived at the intersection of Hacienda and Colima. Once again, we didn’t need to decide which road to take. Colima Road was also closed off to traffic.

I got Lori to work that day. We took Hacienda Boulevard south to Whittier and pretty much forgot about what we had just seen.

Later that week, Lori called me.

“I heard on the news about what happened last Saturday. Remember when you took me to work?”

She filled in what she knew. A woman had been dragged by a car east through Colima Road and then north on Hacienda Boulevard.

The woman was young, about Lori’s age. The thought of such a gruesome murder in my hometown freaked me out, but I forgot about it.

September 2006

Thanks to Google News and its alerts, I find out about anything newsworthy in Hacienda Heights as it happens. Gloria Gaxiola’s 2002 murder came up as a “cold case” and I go curious. I found more in the Whittier Daily News Archives, such as this story two years after Gloria’s murder.

Two years ago, Gloria Gaxiola was dragged by a car four miles through Hacienda Heights and dumped on a busy street where a passer-by later found her body…

At first, it appeared that Gaxiola was a hit-and-run victim. But the evidence proved otherwise. Officers followed a blood trail.

Detectives believe Gaxiola was killed on Turnbull Canyon Road and Skyline Drive then dragged to Hacienda Boulevard near Colima Road, where she was found facedown Oct. 12, 2002.

They declined to say whether she was already dead when the car started dragging her.

A driver saw a late model, silver four-door car with tinted windows dragging something on Hacienda Boulevard that morning. As he approached the car, the man realized it was a body.

“He honked at the car and said they were dragging someone,’ said sheriff’s Detective Toni Martinez.

A man was driving the silver car, which stopped.

The car’s passenger, a woman, got out, screamed and got back in the vehicle, Angelina Gaxiola said. The silver car then sped away.

Another story addressed the shady reputation of Turnbull Canyon Road as site for devil worshippers to gather. Kids who grow up in Hacienda Heights know this. I knew Turnbull Canyon Road as both the street my church was located on and further south, a windy road through mysterious canyons you wouldn’t want to be in late at night. It seems like I’m not much different from those quoted in the story:

Growing up in nearby La Puente, Steve Chavez said he heard rumors of devil worshippers and occult happenings in the canyon rumors he now takes seriously after the death of Gaxiola.

But the rumors about Turnbull Canyon, which stretches from Whittier to Hacienda Heights, are just as convoluted as the 7- mile road that cuts through it, those familiar with the area say.

“There’s a strong rumor that the (Ku Klux Klan) is there,” said Nancy Armero, a senior at California High School. “There’s this sacrificial rock where they perform their rituals. My brothers have told me this same story, and they are older in their 20s. I’ve never seen the rock.”

Stories of occult rituals and devil worshiping in the snaking ravines of the canyon have been passed down for generations.

The rumors are unfounded, according to those who live and work in the canyon.

The extremity of the crimes committed in the canyon fuel the myth surrounding it, they say.

Gaxiola’s killing is characteristic of the types of violence in the canyon methodical brutality.

“It used to be a good place to execute people, dump bodies off, and for stolen cars,” said Los Angeles County firefighter Forrest Philips, who has worked 13 years out of Station 91 on Turnbull Canyon Road.

Philips remembers two teenage gang members executing a rival gang member in the canyon about eight years ago.

Every few years, a person is killed or a body is dumped down Turnbull’s crinkled ravines.

Since 1995, four murders have taken place at, or have been connected to, Turnbull Canyon, according to statistics from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.

In some cases, killers take the extra step of torturing their victims, as in the case of one man who gouged out the eyes of an other man before killing him.

But most of the trouble along Turnbull Canyon Road and the dozens of narrow, windy capillary roads branching from it is typical adolescent mischief, like drinking or smoking minor narcotics.

February, 2007

All the creepiness associated with the hills between Hacienda Heights and Whittier came back yesterday when I checked my email and found this:

The burned corpse found after a weekend fire was that of a man in his 20s to 30s, coroner’s officials said Tuesday.

The man has yet to be identified.

Craig Harvey, spokesman for the Coroner’s Office, said the coroner will check to see if the fingerprints are intact enough to identify the man. An autopsy could be conducted as early as today.

Detectives said county firefighters mistakenly identified the body as a burned mannequin after they put out a small fire on the side of Turnbull Canyon Road, south of Blue Sky Road, in Hacienda Heights on Sunday.

A driver had knocked on the door of county fire station 91 and reported a brush fire, according to County Fire Department Inspector Sam Padilla.

Padilla said the fire took about 10 minutes to put out.

County public works employees cleared the road of the fire’s remains and then discovered Monday that they had carted away a burned body.

Turnbull Canyon’s reputation is just an urban legend, but I’m a bonafide miedona (scaredycat). I think I’ll be staying away from those hills, at least late at night.

The people who actually knew about HH had one basic response, “oh… you’re from the suburbs. You must be rich.” I’d then have to clear up their misconception, at least about my family being rich. HH is a suburb and plenty of middle and upper-middle class families call it home, but my family isn’t one of those. My mom always used to say, “we don’t live in the heights of Hacienda Heights.” Translation? We’re not rich or comfortably middle class.

Sometime around my senior year at UCLA, I got a different and unexpected reaction.

“Oh, Hacienda Heights… hmmm,” my friend said. “I have to drive my uncles there all the time. They like going to the strip clubs.”

“Oh.”

The strip clubs.

The exotically named strip clubs popped up about ten years ago. Ironically, I first heard about them in church. Of course, as Catholics we didn’t like the idea of strip clubs in our community. I think someone organized picketing or a petition, but I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter since the protests were unsuccessful. A few months later, the garish neon signs appeared.

After high school, I moved away to college and never really gave much thought to the fact that there was a strip club half a mile away from my house, and another one about 1.5 miles away. That all chaged early this summer as I made one of my frequent trips home to play with the puppy, have some home-cooked meals, and do laundry.

As I slowed my car at the intersection of Gale and Stimson, I noticed the new sign. Suddenly, it was no longer Cathay Bank Plaza. The half circle at top featured “Showgirls” in pink against a black backgrond. Right below that, “Deja Vu Plaza” was written in pink above a pair of pink stilettos in fishnet stocking-clad legs. An electronic sign announced the opening of a new adult store adjacent to the strip club. Below the LCD screen several smaller rectangular signs showed the names of neighboring businesses.

The strip mall is just half a mile away from the home where I grew up and my parents and siblings currently live. My mom used to work at the intersection of Gale and Stimson as a cross guard for children walking to Glenelder Elementary School. I’ve eaten several times at the greasy spoon, opened an account at Cathay Bank, had my hair cut at a small beauty salon and visited my old dentist just a few doors down from the strip club in the corner.

I was never comfortable with a strip club at that location, but at least back then there was no huge sign and the neon lights only blinked on and off at night. It was never hidden or discrete, but at least I could ignore the strip club.

I suppose my mild outrage comes from a bit of feminism mixed in with Catholicism and a healthy dose of NIMBYism [not in my backyard]. I hate the sign and the fact that a small part of Hollywood Boulevard, Market Street or Times Square has been transplanted to my neighborhood. I don’t want to one day take a precocious child to visit his/her grandparents only to hear “mom, what’s a showgirl?” coming from the backseat.

Sure, my hate for hideous sign, new store and strip club come from the -isms listed above, but I know the greatest one is my general opposition to change. The conservative in me is coming out, and it’s not in the way HP would like. I simply want to conserve my hometown just as it was when I was a kid… when Hacienda Heights was known more for it’s suburban way of life and large Buddhist temple rather than strip clubs.

Up until 4:45 pm I was on my first of four conference calls this week. Since the meeting ended too late, I had no chance to exploit my laziness and drive my car to Lot 3, much closer to Public Policy. So, I walked.

I arrived to the class room exactly at 6. Two students I know well, Marisela and Daniela, greeted me a bit surprised yet happy, “Cindy!” I would have sat next to them, but the seats around them were taken. I found one toward the back and took a seat.

The young, very handsome man with dark gray slacks and diagonally striped shirt wasn’t a TA. There was something obvious about the fact that Prof R was a new hire. He spoke too softly. His jokes fell flat and he tried hard to make connections with his first set of students. I observed him and his body language. He never stood up straight. He smiled a lot. I scribbled my obersvations, which became a list for reasons to not drop the class. I felt myself develop a mini-crush in record time.

Prof R went over his academic background: undergrad at UCLA; law school at Boalt Hall (Berkeley); and a PhD at UCLA. Then the students launched into their introductions. Almost all were Chicana/o Studies and some other social science and humanities major. Most also cited an interest in law as a profession as one of the reasons for taking the course. As far as I know, I was the only “academic” graduate student in the class, but there were also two 3L’s and two MSW students. As students introduced themselves, he followed up with questions or certain connections to his own research interests or biographic information. After a student from Boyle Heights introduced herself, he mentioned he was born at White Memorial. A half Chinese and Mexican 3L said taking the Latinos and the Law course would help her learn more about her other half. Prof R said, “My mom is Chinese and my dad is Mexican.” When a philosophy major from Compton introduced herself, he added that he and his new fiancee hoped to live in Compton. Damn, my crush vanished in record time. One of the last students to introduce herself said she was from West Covina. Prof R said he was raised in Hacienda Heights.

Dude! That’s my hometown. I was born in East LA too, well Monterey Park which is like 3 centimeters east of East Los. I’m not half Chinese, but I get confused for Asian all the time.

I may have not had a crush on Prof R anymore, but I had a new affinity… the Hacienda Heights connection. Seriously, when I meet people from HH outside of HH — especially Raza — it’s almost as if we become instant best friends. When I got to UCLA eight years ago only one of my new friends knew of HH, and that was because she lived in La Puente, a city just north of HH.