The Fifth of July

When I was a little kid, we were too poor to afford fireworks. I suppose I can’t blame my pyrotechnic poverty just on being poor, but more on the fact that my mother didn’t think any part of the welfare check should be spent on frivolity. If we got fireworks, we didn’t get clothes, or we didn’t get food. Sure, it was a practical choice, but as a kid, you just want to rip into the hundred dollar “Independence Day” box of fireworks.

Our fireworkslessness meant that in the days leading up to the Fourth of July every year, we’d visit our more affluent friends and watch them light fireworks. Back then this annual ritual led me to conclude that socio-economic status could be identified by the characteristics of your fireworks.

If you had no color, just sound, you weren’t poor, but you weren’t living in a mansion. You lived in an apartment and shared a bedroom with a couple of siblings. The same went for fireworks with no sound, and just smoke.

If you had fireworks that were colorful, but just rolled around on the ground, you lived in one of the houses in a duplex.

If your fireworks shot color into the air, and did so while crackling, at least one of your parents had a full-time job and probably owned a house with a yard and a driveway (or at least they’d found a way to live in one).

In my family, we didn’t have any fireworks before and up to the Fourth of July. We didn’t get to light something and have sound, or color. Maybe, if we got lucky, someone handed us a sparkler. In the bad years, they handed us the punk used to light the fireworks. Yep, there’s the poor kid, the one with the smoldering ember.

Occasionally, when the sounds of Fourth of July were so muddled that you couldn’t tell the fireworks from the gunshots fired into the air, we pretended to be fireworks. I mean, if you’re a nine-year-old and you scream from a low tone to a very high one, you sound kind of like a Piccolo Pete. And besides, by nightfall, no one even knows what’s going on in neighboring yards, driveways, or streets. Everyone is just staring into the sky, looking for something to make the darkness light. That means there is no risk of being seen joining the cacophony of Independence Day sound, while in your pajamas, from just inside your apartment’s living room window.

I watched from the shadows every year until the Fifth of July. That was the day when my cousin Reggie would come over and my mom, and my sister, and my Tía Rosalba, and my other cousins, and I would go to the local park. Salt Lake Park was the one where the big neighborhood fireworks were set off, and the official, city-sanctioned Fourth of July safe zone for amateur fireworks displays.

We never went to the show on the Fourth of July. My mom was scared that going to the park after dark would make us victims of violent crime, and my Tía Rosalba was a Jehovah’s Witness. Her family didn’t celebrate the Fourth of July.

But, on the Fifth of July, Reggie, Virginia, and I made sure to take a magnifying glass to the park. Our families would stake out a spot next to a tree, drag over a picnic bench, pull out aluminum foil-wrapped burritos, and play dominoes.

Virginia, Reggie, and I headed straight for the previous night’s launching pad.

We crawled around every inch of that soccer-field sized patch of grass, looking for unused fireworks. Although not plentiful, and not colorful, little by little, we’d find some fireworks.

At first, we’d find little black charcoal disks. While we weren’t allowed to buy fireworks, and we weren’t allowed to play with matches, we did know what unused fireworks looked like, and how to start a fire without matches, so out came the magnifying glass.

We figured out the sun’s angle, and the length of time needed to create a flame, and voilà, black plumes of ash came up from the earth and “snakes” came to life.

My sister, Virginia, tore holes in the knees of her jeans and Reggie got dirt in his eyes, before we found another unused firecracker.

Lighting our fireworks became easier with each successive find. We’d get sound, and some smoke, and then we’d laugh hysterically and roll around in laughter on the charred firecracker paper and ashes left from the night before.

Although there were never more than about ten unused fireworks for us to light every year, we had gotten the chance to shoot off some fireworks after all. On the Fifth of July we had not been denied the simple pleasure of creating marvels of sound and sight.

We all knew that our scavenging hadn’t made us children of homeowners this year, but it was understood that ingenuity would get us there some year, maybe next year.

From morning to evening, today was full of randomness and oddity. It made for a slightly scary, funny, thoughtful, creepy, strangely sad 24 hours.  In order:

8 a.m.–I notice slightly homeless-looking lady looking at me and yelling while seemingly looking for local church’s food bank.  8:01.20 a.m.–Realize lady is not homeless-looking, she is homeless.  8:01.30–Realize homeless lady is not speaking into a bluetooth headset, but is instead approaching and yelling at me as I pump gas into my car, “You bitch, thinking you’re all that standing there next to your red car . . . .”  8:01.40–Position myself to spray her with gas just in case she acts on her distaste for me and my car.

9:40 a.m.–Hear Farrah Fawcett died.  Sadder than I expected to be.

3:45 p.m.–Hear Michael Jackson died. 

5:00 p.m.–Arrive at Long Beach’s International City Theater to see “Facing East” about a devout Mormon couple’s struggle to understand their gay son’s suicide.  5:10 p.m.–See “Square Dancing Straight” street sign, wonder if square dancing is straight, what is line dancing? 5:15 p.m.–Notice dozens of couples in very country looking outfits.  6:30 p.m.–Figure out that the National Square Dancing Competition is taking place next door to the play we’re seeing.

7:25 p.m.–Take Long Beach’s free shuttle from Shoreline Village to theater. Asked by woman on the bus to watch over her six-year-old son who has been separated from the family on the bus and who has been befriended by an older man who “was adamant about having the boy sit with him.” Creepy.

10:20 p.m.–On drive home from play, see 75 people with veladoras camped out outside Jack in the Box.  They are there with 11 television vans and an army of sheriffs to mourn Michael Jackson, whose body has been transferred to the coroner’s office across the street.

Days where there are too many strange goings on make me nervous.

My favorite line from Sonia Sotomayor’s speech this morning was the one where she recognized the incredible role of a mother’s devotion.  The full speech is here.

Thank you, Mr. President, for the most humbling honor of my life. You have nominated me to serve on the country’s highest court, and I am deeply moved.

Thank you again, sir.

I could not, in the few minutes I have today, mention the names of the many friends and family who have guided and supported me throughout my life, and who have been instrumental in helping me realize my dreams. (See pictures of Judge Sonia Sotomayor.)

I see many of those faces in this room. Each of you, whom I love deeply, will know that my heart today is bursting with gratitude for all you have done for me.

The President has said to you that I bring my family. In the audience is my brother Juan Sotomayor — he’s a physician in Syracuse, New York; my sister-in-law, Tracy (ph); my niece Kiley — she looks like me.

My twin nephews, Conner and Corey.

I stand on the shoulders of countless people, yet there is one extraordinary person who is my life aspiration. That person is my mother, Celina Sotomayor.

My mother has devoted her life to my brother and me. And as the President mentioned, she worked often two jobs to help support us after dad died. I have often said that I am all I am because of her, and I am only half the woman she is.

Sitting next to her is Omar Lopez, my mom’s husband and a man whom I have grown to adore. I thank you for all that you have given me and continue to give me. I love you.

I chose to be a lawyer and ultimately a judge because I find endless challenge in the complexities of the law. I firmly believe in the rule of law as the foundation for all of our basic rights.

For as long as I can remember, I have been inspired by the achievement of our founding fathers. They set forth principles that have endured for than more two centuries. Those principles are as meaningful and relevant in each generation as the generation before.

It would be a profound privilege for me to play a role in applying those principles to the questions and controversies we face today.

Although I grew up in very modest and challenging circumstances, I consider my life to be immeasurably rich. I was raised in a Bronx public housing project, but studied at two of the nation’s finest universities.

I did work as an assistant district attorney, prosecuting violent crimes that devastate our communities. But then I joined a private law firm and worked with international corporations doing business in the United States.

I have had the privilege of serving as a federal District Court trial judge, and am now serving as a federal Appellate Circuit Court judge.

This wealth of experiences, personal and professional, has helped me appreciate the variety of perspectives that present themselves in every case that I hear. It has helped me to understand, respect and respond to the concerns and arguments of all litigants who appear before me as well as to the views of my colleagues on the bench.

I strive never to forget the real world consequences of my decisions on individuals, businesses and government.

It is a daunting feeling to be here. Eleven years ago, during my confirmation process for appointment to the Second Circuit, I was given a private tour of the White House. It was an overwhelming experience for a kid from the South Bronx.

Yet never in my wildest childhood imaginings did I ever envision that moment, let alone did I ever dream that I would live this moment.

Mr. President, I greatly appreciate the honor you are giving me, and I look forward to working with the Senate in the confirmation process. I hope that as the Senate and American people learn more about me, they will see that I am an ordinary person who has been blessed with extraordinary opportunities and experiences. Today is one of those experiences.

I’m never going to have children, so I’m sure I’ll never do some of those weird parental things we’ve all seen. 

I do, however, have a mother, which means I am constantly subjected to odd quirks.

Today, for example, I discovered that my mom hides things around my house.  Fortunately, they’re not gross or illegal, they’re just fresh.  Air fresh, to be specific.  She hides air fresheners behind my bed, under the clean sheets stored in my closet, behind the cleaning supplies under the sink, and in my shoes. 

I hope she’s not sending me a message.

At a certain point, the beauty of Mother’s Day is found in realizing that you know your mother and that she knows you and that you’re both willing to accomodate each other.  You give up the pretense that there is a perfect gift, that you can plan the perfect meal together, or that you can even figure out on which day you’ll be able to get along in order to celebrate.  

Our realization came Friday evening when my mom looked at me and declared that we’d have Mother’s Day dinner Friday night, “Porque nunca se sabe cuando vamos a salir peleadas.”

Chuckle.  Yes mom, let’s have dinner on Friday because while we do love each other, you never know when how long it’ll be before we’re on each other’s nerves.

(Note, there was no fight Friday night, or Saturday all day, or even on Sunday, but, as my mother says, “mejor tomar precauciones.”)

Or at least some of its hills. Fire seems to be under control now or that’s as much as I can tell by the white smoke and the fact that the helis are gone. Only question I have, why did the helicopters that practice water drops from the DWP property in Montecito Heights every weekend not actually show up when a fire broke out in the neighborhood?

Cross posted at L.A. Eastside.

Update: LAFD twitter site actually identifies the area of the fire as Lincoln Park Ave. and Pomona St., which makes it more like Lincoln Heights than El Sereno.

Meant to put this one up earlier this week, but travel prevented it.  It’s Keith Olbermann’s tribute to his mom.

As a kid, the highlight of our family’s weekly visit to the grocery store was being able to hang over the side of the ice cream freezer and inhale frozen air.  For some reason, I thought it pretty cool to suck in frozen air until the insides of my nostrils stuck together.  Looking back on it now, the pursuit of frozen nostrils seems to be why I never learned the general price or availability of certain grocery items (thus forever rendering me useless at “The Price is Right”).   Perhaps that’s why, as an adult, I’m fascinated by the types of things you can find at the grocery store.  I’m not just talking about the 100 varieties of olives or the 60 types of cheese, I’m talking about stuff like the “overripe bananas” bin at my local grocery store.  The winner this week:

Uncleaned lettuce? I just always assumed it was unclean.  New thing learned.

There’s nothing like knowing a candidate from way back in his early years to get you to vote for him.  For those of you who can vote in the March 3 election here in Los Angeles—use your vote to elect Steve Zimmer.  Steve is a dear friend of mine who has been committed to increasing educational opportunities in Los Angeles since graduating from college in the early 1990s.  I’ve known Steve since that time when we both joined Teach for America and committed ourselves to giving all children the opportunity to receive an excellent education.  Back then, our efforts involved days of student teaching English as a Second Language classes at Jefferson High School in Los Angeles (and sharing stories of our day while shagging fly balls at CSUN before our education classes).  Two years later, I went off to pursue journalism and a career in law.  Steve, however, continued his focus on education in Los Angeles. As Steve’s bio demonstrates, his passion and dedication have led him to take several positions within the school where he has worked and in its surrounding community, in order to address those issues that are critical to student achievement.  He continues those efforts today as he looks to bring his broad experiences to the school board of the Los Angeles Unified School District. I look forward to the thoughtful advocacy and tireless efforts he will bring to the body tasked with addressing the critical issues affecting Los Angeles’ schools, students, and families. I hope you will join me in supporting him on the way to March 3.

1. See a good friend for brunch at City Grill, UWS;
2. Walk through Central Park in the early afternoon;
3. Wander the Plaza Hotel in search of a bathroom;
4. See your best friend’s sister for a Korean dinner;
5. See “In the Heights” on the night it wins a Grammy–cry during the show;
6. Enjoy a Brazilian cocktail (and Xingu beer) and tell the young. Brazilian immigrant bartender about the wonderful opportunities this country provides for immigrant children; and
7. Marvel at how NYC public transportation puts LA to shame.

I was at a restaurant tonight where a large painting hung over the bar.  At some point, I discovered that the man sitting behind me was the model for the painting.  I was glad to hear this fact  because I was wondering why anyone would have a painting of John Maynard Keynes hanging over the bar (the man behind me was not John Maynard Keynes).

Things I’ve ignored lately:

• My blog;
• Reading a book;
• Movies;
• Photography; and
• ESPN’s SportsCenter.

I’m sure there are more, but I just can’t muster up any more information right now.  I’m hoping an upcoming vacation restores my creativity.

of today’s inaugural festivities:

• The huge smile worn by Yo-Yo Ma as he played with the quartet;
• The excitement on my colleagues’ faces when the subject matter of our job made it into the inaugural address; and
• The solemnity with which the whole occasion was observed by over 200 of my coworkers.  Although I didn’t know most of those in the room, for an hour this morning, we were united in the hope for a better future.

Last week, the NYT let a councilman from Nashville get away with claiming that he was supportive of an English-only initiative in Nashville because, among other things, he didn’t think it was right for legislative offices to be able to use interpreters, “like they do in California.”  The NYT seems neither to have checked the veracity of his statement nor pressed him on why he thought it was true. 

Today, the NYT corrects itself.

An article last Sunday about an effort in Nashville to prohibit the government from using languages other than English included an incorrect statement from Councilman Eric Crafton of Nashville, the chief supporter of the city’s plan, about the California State Legislature. The Legislature has never had members who needed the proceedings translated into English for them. (Mr. Crafton, contacted after a reader alerted The Times, said he recalled seeing a story about such translators on television, but could not provide specifics or documentation for his claim.)

I’ve always yelled at them.  I yell, because I’m a yeller.  I’m a yeller, and so I yell.  My voice gets so hoarse it sounds like tires crunching over gravel.  During the season, I go through economy-sized packages of throat lozenges.

Last week I watched Tennessee look like it was going to be blown out by Rutgers in a womens’ basketball game.  I wanted to hide when faced with the mere thought of what Pat Summitt would sound like in the locker room at halftime.  Later in the week, as I read the foregoing quote in her book Raise the Roof, I learned I was probably right.