Becoming a Cholo

 Phil choloBECOMING A CHOLO

Sr Felipe/Phillip I. Elkins

Can be heard doing his radio show “LA Sounds with Sr Felipe” broadcast live on 90.1 FM Chico every Tuesday night from  7:30 – 10:00 PM and streamed live on KZFR.org

People have been asking me when I’m going to read the stories again on my radio show that I wrote about growing up in East LA and becoming a cholo and getting drafted into the army and going to Vietnam. So maybe I’ll start with the story how it was that I grew up as a cholo and became Sr Felipe.

To answer that question you have to understand where I grew up. It was a part of East LA called City Terrace and there were a lot of cholos at the time. Cholos were also referred to as low-riders, vato locos or crazy guys. In the 50’s they were called pachucos.

But let me start with a story of visiting the de Young Museum in San Francisco.

A couple of years ago Sweet Lady T and I went to the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park to see an art show of Chicano art collected by Cheech Marin. You know, the guy from Cheech and Chong. There were some fabulous works of art at the show painted with all my favorite bright colors and big, exciting images and bold artwork. It’s all the stuff I love and when I paint, it’s the style I use. That’s why I went to the show because my oldest brother Bob lives in Novato, CA and he called me up and said: “Hey, man you’ve got to go see the exhibit at the de Young Museum because the art work is the same painting style you do. You’d gotta go see it.”

So I went to the show and, man, the artwork collected by Cheech Marin knocked me out. Cheech obviously also loves it too because he published a book called “Chicano Vision (American Painters on the Verge.)” It has some beautiful pictures of some wonderful Chicano artists. I liked the book so much that I sprung for the hard cover edition that is very carefully done with high quality work. I love the book.

A good friend of mine named Nacho and I grew up together in City Terrace – And Nacho told me that Cheech also grew up somewhere nearby City Terrace. I remembered Cheech mentioned City Terrace in his song and movie “Born in East LA.” We always called City Terrace by it’s initials; C.T. I also happened to grow up and went to school with two of Cheech’s cousins named Bobby and Ralph.

The oldest friends in the world I have are a girl I grew up who lived across the street from me named Sally and her younger brother, Jerry. We’ve been very good friends since we were little kids and we still are good friends today.

Jerry is a friend with a guy who lived a few houses from us in City Terrace named Willie Herron.

Cheech writes about Willie Herron in the introduction of his Chicano Visions book. He mentions Willie and writes in the introduction of the book: “It was late at night in City Terrace in 1972, Willie Herron, a young Chicano artist, was walking home alone when he heard groans coming from a nearby alley. He made his way down the dark, gravelly pathway of debris and broken glass and saw his brother lying in a pool of blood.

As Herron tells it, ‘He had been stabbed maybe 12 times…tissue, blood and stuff was coming out of him.’ Seeing his brother so badly hurt by gang violence filled Herron with a rush of ambivalent feelings. The next morning he walked into the bakery whose backside faced the very alley where he had found his wounded sibling and asked if he could paint a mural on the wall.

By the end of a feverish day, he had produced a stylized rendering of muscular arms bursting up through a cement street. Integrating the texture of the rough, concrete wall with angry gang graffiti into his work, Herron had distilled a situation he knew all too well, and created what would become the most famous Chicano mural in the world, The Wall That Cracked Open. By metaphorically breaking open the wall, the artist took the Chicano art of his time beyond illustrative poster design and into the symbolic realm.

The mural became a tour de force of Chicano art by depicting familiar Chicano imagery – the praying madre (mother) with her crucifix, a calavera (skull) symbolizing death, conjoined with a Mexican wrestler’s mask – near an emotionally infused site. To this day the wall work is a testament to the social, economic, political and psychic violence prevalent in the poor barrios of Los Angeles.

Herron’s mural marked a new phase in the growth of the Chicano community’s artisti expression – its presence signaled the birth of fresh themes and styles. Earlier influences, such as Mexican muralism and European and New Your art trends, were subsumed by the socio-economic realities at hand. Something provocative and unique to Chicano art was born that day in the East Los Angeles alley in City Terrace.”

The mural done by Willie Herron is in the alley about 25 feet out the back door from the house I grew up in. I know the mural very well because I saw it every time I left the house.

CT mural

If you look to the right going out the back door of my house you’ll see the mural by Willie Herron that Cheech Marin is talking about.

You’ll also see some graffiti that says “CT.” My bedroom was just behind the wall of the 2nd house on the corner of Mandalay and Carmalita Drives. You can just type in “Willie Herron murals” in Google Search and you’ll see the mural I’m talking about as well as many other murals Willie Herron has painted.

So back to how I grew up as a cholo. When I was 15 years old I had a girlfriend  who was in a gang called El Hoyo Mara. Nonie had a brother a year older than she was her brother was also in El Hoya Mara.

You may have heard of the gang called White Fence. It’s the oldest gang in LA. El Hoya Mara and White Fence have always been rivals fighting over territory. One night my girlfriend’s brother was outside of El Hoya Mara territory and was caught by White Fence. He was stabbed to death and hung over a chain link fence in City Terrace.

My girlfriend found out who killed her brother and she was on the run because White Fence knew she knew who did it and they were going to keep her quiet. She was staying at my house and at other friend’s houses waiting to testify in court against the guys from White Fence who killed her brother.

Early in the morning a few days later the police came to my door and told me my girlfriend was raped and murdered.

She was 15 years old. Naturally I didn’t believe it but when I saw it on the front pages of the newspapers it began to sink in.

What’s all that got to do with the story? Well, who you are and where you grow up have a lot to do with how you present yourself to the world.

If I wasn’t a cholo when I grew up in City Terrace, I probably wouldn’t be here talking to you now.

Becoming a cholo was pure and simple a survival technique for me.
And to this day I still have friends who grew up in City Terrace who I love and who love me. They’re no longer cholos on the outside but maybe they are a little bit in the inside.

And some of them are still listening to the music we grew up with and are listening to me right now on KZFR.org on the Internet.

And I want to say hello to you and thank you for helping me become who I am toady, an old vato loco from City Terrace who somehow or other wound up in Chico and in Forest Ranch, California still kicking and still grooving to the music we grew up with.

In future blogs I’ll continue telling my story about growing up in City Terrace and how I somehow or other managed to survive all that long enough to get drafted and sent to Vietnam and have to survive that crazy life too.

 

 

 

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Burlake Creek

As a kid in the 4th grade sometimes, instead of going to school, I’d walk out the back door of my house in East LA to the ally and I’d go a couple blocks to the San Bernadino freeway underpass, go under the freeway and walk a few more blocks to the rail road-tracks. Sometimes my older brother Richard and my best friend Eddie would go with me.

Richard was 3 years older than I was which made him 13 years old. We’d walk down the rail-road tracks a couple miles to a different world called Burlake Creek. It was like being in the wild-land swamps of Louisiana with nobody else around but the tall eucalyptus trees towering overhead with their powerful fragrance clearing our nostrils and the cold water rushing over the banks of Burlake Creek.

Burlake creek Burlake Creek in the 1950’s

We’d bring along our BB guns with us and shoot frogs or anything else that moved or looked like it might be a good target. The musty aroma of the soft, gushy, rich soil underneath our feet got our tennis shoes black up to our ankles and got our socks and pant legs caked with thick mud. The jack rabbits were running by and the stink from the skunks was ripe. Coyotes and other wild animals scared us silly. We were sure there were mountain lions and bears nearby just waiting to pounce on us. There were rumors that people disappeared in Burlake Creek and were never seen again.

We’d usually bring along something good and healthy to eat like peanuts or cookies or a candy bar and soda pop and lots of extra BB’s to shoot in our Daisy BB rifles.

Then when we got tired and/or lost we’d scare each other that this was going to be our new life and our new home where we were going to have to live from now on and we weren’t going to have to go to school anymore and have to do any more boring homework or anything else we didn’t want to do.

There was a very large rock that we’d all climb up  on and just below it was a deep, cold swimming hole. We’d shoot our BB guns into the water to try and hit the fish swimming below. If it was hot like it was a lot of the time in LA, we’d take off our clothes and jump into the water and go skinny dipping and scare each other that we were drowning. My older brother would say, “If one of you punks need rescuing, I’ll have to knock you out to save you so you don’t make us both drown.”

One time when we ditched school and went to Burlake Creek there were six older, bigger kids swimming in our swimming hole. They were mean, tough looking guys who were called pachucos. They talked with funny accents and spoke with a lot of slang. The biggest guy looked to be a full grown man of about 18. He towered over all of us. He had homemade tattoos all over his arms and neck and he had two tear drops tattooed under his right eye.

I heard his friends call him Veto. Veto just stared at us giving us the meanest look I’d ever seen. He took a look at our BB guns and came over to me and grabbed my BB gun and said: “What are you guys doing here? Shouldn’t you punks be in school?”

Suddenly I was wondering the same thing. My brother Richard tried to act tough and said: “We come here all the time. What are you punks doing in our creek?”

I hoped Richard meant what he said about knocking me out if I needed rescuing because I think we all needed rescuing and I wished our BB guns were real guns or that Richard might actually know how to knock somebody out. The other 5 guys with Veto came up to Richard surrounded him and began shoving him with Veto saying: “You ready to die here now punk?!”

Richard pulled his belt off that he always left unbuckled just in case he might need to use it as a weapon. Richard began swinging it like a whip at Veto and his friends and he began screaming in a crazy manner in some language he must have made up because nobody including me and Eddie ever heard it before or knew what he was saying but he looked like a mad man.

When Richard did that we all flinched and stepped back and didn’t know what was happening. Suddenly Veto looked at his friends and calmly said “I know this guy. He goes to the school I used to go to and he’s deaf. He’s probably crazy too. Let’s get out of here.”

I never looked at Richard the same way again after that. I’m sure he saved our lives that day.

The next year Burlake Creek was fenced off and the bottom of the creek was paved with concrete much like the LA River is. Cal State LA was built right next to where the San Bernadino and the Long Beach Freeways intersect and on the other side of the freeway they built a huge four story women’s prison.

If you look carefully when you drive by on the freeway you can see what’s left of Burlake Creek flowing into a culvert underneath the off-ramp for Cal State LA and the Long Beach and San Bernadino Freeway interchange.

You have to look quickly as you drive by at 60 plus mile per hour to can see our old swimming hole down below in the middle of both freeways. It doesn’t look attractive or anything at all like it used to.

Whenever I’m in LA and I’m driving by Cal State in my old neighborhood, I remember fondly our days of ditching school and Richard saving our lives and I think to myself, I have to go there again just to look around and smell what’s left of the wilds of Burlake Creek. What’d I ever do with my BB gun?

10 & 710 Burlake Creek today

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Was Iraq Worth It?

Now that the war in Iraq is winding down, what exactly did we get out of it? Supposedly it was fought because Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction (WMD). If that was the reason for the war, why didn’t we go after Iran and/or North Korea? We knew very well they were building WMD but no, we didn’t go after them. Then why Iraq?

I believe the real reason for the Iraq war was so that George W. Bush could prove to his father and show the world and that he could “finish the job” by getting Saddam Hussein that his father did not do.

So, what happened after the “nary-do-well” (Ronald Regan’s description of George W. Bush) “Mission Accomplished”? Three trillion dollars and 4,400+ Americans killed and tens of thousands of others coming home disabled and injured and we got what? The most obvious result: Iraq can no longer keep Iran in line which it was doing before the war, we’re three trillion dollars more in debt for fighting a war without funding it and, as a Vietnam Vet (1st Cav ’66-’67), I’m hoping that the Iraq and Afghanistan vets will be treated a whole lot better than the disdain and contempt the Vietnam Vets were treated with after Vietnam because I don’t see how those wars are going to end any differently than Vietnam did. It’s every bit as bad as it was before the war began 10 years ago with bombings and mass killings going on just about every day.  More than 1000 people have been killed in Iraq the past month and it doesn’t seem to be letting up. And let’s not forget we also have a lot more people hating us. Nice

I’m also hoping that the voting public now knows better than to buy the not very well thought out ideas of another politician like George W. Bush because he does have a brother in Florida who people are talking about running for president next time — just in case we haven’t had enough Bushes. And, let’s not forget there’s also Rick Perry, Paul Ryan, Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann. Yikes!

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Aunt Rose

Aunt RoseMy mother’s name was Rose and my uncle Morrie had a wife named Rose and my brother Paul is married to a lady named Rose and I had a girlfriend named Rosie. But what I want to talk about is my father’s sister named Rose and who we called Aunt Rose and was known by everybody else as “Rosie The Barber”.

Aunt Rose had 4 brothers including my dad and she was the only girl in the family so the boys taught her how to take care of herself and Aunt Rose was considered a tomboy. She wasn’t afraid of anything. You wouldn’t want to get in her face. She had strong arms from working on the farm she grew up on and she was a very hard working woman – but she always seemed to have a smile on her face and was always cracking jokes and laughing.

Aunt Rose lived in a town called Bremerton across the sound from Seattle. Her first husband was killed in a logging accident and her second husband was a very hard working man named Roy Christiansen who immigrated from Sweden but everybody knew Aunt Rose was the boss.

They owned a farm and a lumberyard. Attached to the lumberyard was a barbershop and my Aunt Rose was the barber. She cut everybody’s hair from miles around for more than 50 years. Aunt Rose was constantly written up in the local as well as distant newspapers and magazines showing pictures of her at the barber chair with her scissors and an apron on and cutting away at a customer’s hair. She had a laugh as loud and as boisterous as any laugh you ever heard and she could cuss like a sailor. Probably even better.

When I was a kid, Aunt Rose and Uncle Roy came visiting my dad and our family in LA. We all went swimming at the local public swimming pool. Rose climbed up to the high diving board, drove off and came slamming down into the water to make the loudest belly flop you ever heard. She came up without her bikini top on. She kept going under the water trying to find it but she was laughing so hard that she could hardly catch her breath so she couldn’t retrieve her bikini top. Finally they asked her to leave the swimming pool. She laughed all the way to the ladies dressing room and you could still hear her laughing from the pool.

In the summer of 1969 when I was a long haired, bearded hippie, (after getting back from Vietnam) I decided to take a drive from LA where I lived at the time to North Vancouver, Canada to visit a girl I met in Palm Springs during spring break from College. Since Aunt Rose’s farm, lumber yard and barbershop was on the way to Vancouver, I decided to stop by for a visit. But once I knocked on the door and Aunt Rose saw my big old beard and long, frizzy hair half down my back, she came running at me with her scissors in her hand, a smile on her face and was laughing like crazy so hard that I had to run and guard myself from her chopping away at my fuzzy head and face.

After a couple of days of that, I was on my way up to Vancouver to visit the girl I met in Palm Springs because Aunt Rose was determined to cut my hair off and I remember how she used to cut my hair when I was a kid – and the only haircut she seemed to know how – the old bowl on the head and chop it all off style.

Everybody loved Aunt Rose and were sorry when she passed away recently. All her old customers came to her funeral and said how much they loved her.

Aunt Rose was buried with her barber sheers and her apron on and I swear she still had that smile on her face and I could still hear her laughing and cracking jokes.

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My Favorite Teacher

High school 1

Someone recently asked me who my favorite teacher was. At first I drew a blank but then I didn’t really have to think about it for very long. In the mid-fifties I was in the 7th or 8th grade at Wilson High School in East Los Angeles, CA. It was a combination junior high and high school that went from the 6th to the 12th grade. I didn’t really care much for school but I didn’t hate it either. It was just something we all had to do and it seemed to take forever. Not just the 6 years at Wilson but the 8 AM-3 PM school day also felt like it took forever.

Hanging out with my friends was nice but most of the classes and teachers were not very memorable. All except for one teacher that I liked very much. His name was Mr. Grief. (Yes, that was really his name). I don’t really remember but I think he taught math or maybe it was science but it didn’t really matter what he taught. Out of all the teachers during those six years at Wilson, he was the only teacher I remember at all. He was a tall, quiet man who wore glasses and had thick, rather longish (for back then) straight black hair and he always seemed to need a shave. I felt bad for him because he never smiled and he always looked like he was less than comfortable. He seemed out of place as he never raised his voice, which was unusual, as most of the other teachers seemed to have to sternly yell at the students to quiet them down.

Mr. Grief had an unusual way of quieting the kids down; He would just stand at the front of the classroom and be perfectly quiet for several minutes. Sometimes it would seem to take forever. I would look around at the other kids in the classroom and wonder why they didn’t want to hear what this nice, quiet man had to say.

Eventually the kids realized that something was amiss and they took notice of Mr. Grief, quieted down and he taught the lesson for a few moments until they started talking again and it was time for Mr. Grief to become quiet again.

Mr. Grief was so different from everybody else. He was not threatening in any way. He was just a nice, seemingly tired, gentle man. It must have felt like a long day and a long career for Mr. Grief too.

I don’t know what ever happened to him but, for some reason, I believe I learned more from Mr. Grief than I did from all the other teachers I ever had. And honestly, I don’t even remember what subject he taught.

School's out

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Hello world!

Phil at kzfr Phil doing his “LA Sounds” radio show at KZFR 90.1 FM, Chico, CA

My name is Phil Elkins but most people know me as Sr Felipe. I grew up in East LA, was drafted into the army and sent to Vietnam as a medic from 1966-1967. I survived that and went to East LA College and Cal State LA and became a social worker in Ventura, CA. I moved up to Chico to go to graduate school. I had a business making Sr Felipe’s Salsas (and enchilada, BBQ and pasta sauce) sold at many of the natural food stores across the country from 1980 to 2005. I’ve been doing a weekly radio show on KZFR, Chico 90.1 FM (streamed live on KZFR.org) every Tuesday from 7:30-10:00 PM called “LA Sounds” where I play oldies, doo-wop, folk, country, bluegrass and gospel music, make some social observations and interview interesting people from our local community.

I have four books published on Amazon Kindle under the name of Phillip I. Elkins including, “Running From the Fire” about growing up in East LA, getting drafted and sent to Vietnam as a medic and “Coming Home from the War” about how I and the world changed after Vietnam. To read more about them go to my web site, srfelipe.com

“The Real World” is my blog making observations about how I see things going on today and how we got here.

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