That's the first thought that pops into my head, then the other internal voices chime in with "5-0" and lastly the "La Jura", but I'm unmoved by it. I turn onto the residential street off the main road. A street I must of looked down a thousand times as we passed heading home, never even pondering that 32 years later I might be helping here. I notice a sheriff's vehicle is parked at the intersection. His lights aren't on. Further up the road several unmarked police SUV's line the road, those lights are. I look into the sheriff's car and a square jawed, blonde, and buzzed cut county deputy, sits tapping at a mounted laptop. I looked down the road and something is definitely going down. I don't know what's happening, and what scares me the most is that I'm not shocked or weary.
I am not judgmental of the poverty that I find myself driving through. I haven't lived in a poor neighborhood for many years. But this is where I am from, where I called home. One of my many homes. I turn into their apartment parking lot, unaware of how unaffected I am with the situation happening not even 100 meters away.
I get out of the car and ask a young vato with tattoos scattered on his neck, face, and forearms, "is everything cool?" He shrugs and I get that he didn't know. I look like I don't belong here. He is dressed in all baggy black clothes, and has the burque fade. I just don't fit anymore. He gets on his cell phone, while pacing, and asks without asking, gesturing. He throws up to me a backwards peace sign, bringing his two fingers to his puckered lips with a quick single head nod. I know he wants a frajo, a cigarette. And as if I never left, I respond, "Nah bro" while shaking my head and showing empty hands. I find myself surprised that the accent I put away long ago surfaced so innately. I only bring it out now for nostalgic reasons. I am not home and a part of me never left.
Now session complete, I am driving away. I am leaving the neglected sidewalk-less streets behind. I look back into memories of what my life had looked like, and now, as a visitor. I'm jolted by how versatile my perceptions have had to be. I find myself in tune with the progress that I have created. I am feeling the accomplishments of my family's work. At the same time I am dealing with the surprise for how numb I was to seeing the chaos, the police vehicles, and raggedness. It was a norm and that hit home in a self compassionate way.
I got on the freeway leading me to the privileged, blessed, and fortunate neighborhoods. My heart literally hurt, it hurt with remorse, like if I just learned my girlfriend cheated on me. I still don't understand the pain. Maybe I hurt because I can't do anything more than I am right now. Maybe I hurt because I get to leave and they don't. I no longer see La Jura surrounding homes near me daily. The families I work with have to find their way through the viciousness this place can create.
I get to my office having to prepare for my next client, sitting there, amazed at how far my mom and I have come, and I cried. It wasn't just me and her. We had a lot of help. We had so many chances to fail and fortunately we found our way. I don't like to think of us as rags to riches, but I do know we climbed out of some ditches. I am now able see how beautiful it is to be apart of the bosque, despite having to spend some time in the muck of the ditches. I want to say we made it out, but I am more proud to say I found my way back.
