It was one year ago. A random text from the homie Dr. P.

“Are you ok if we do a fundraiser for you & G? Nothing big but we are going to sell iced coffees and tell everyone the dinero goes directly to y’all… Leslye even made a menu.”

Dr. P & the ladies of La Casita —Leslye, Yvette, Jamie & Vaneza—were in motion, and there really wasn’t much I could do about it. The text wasn’t a request for permission, it was just a courtesy call.

Not that I had any room to resist support at that moment. We already moved in with my parents. The bills were screaming for our attention. My FMLA ran out. I hadn’t received a full check in a couple of months. Our financial cushion vanished in a flash of doctor visits, back and forth to Stanford, food, gas, and bills that didn’t care if wifey had cancer.

Ginger was starting radiation treatment—three weeks of daily doctor visits to the Stanford Cancer Center. That meant more time away from work. More debt that I had to answer for.

Dr. P’s text hit us during one of the most financially delicate moments of my life.

“Yes, please. Thank you!!!!” I was driving but I text my reply as fast as I could.

Responding with the quickness was the final measure of how far I had come in accepting help. Journalists and school administrators aren’t supposed to ask for assistance. I was convinced that asking for help was akin to failure.

When cancer and chemo came for Christmas, it erased every illusion of self-sufficiency. In order to get through, I had to learn how to accept aid in a hundred different forms.

There were text messages from friends that I couldn’t ignore. Hugs and hope from Mom and Dad, along with daily child care support while we trekked to Palo Alto. There were DoorDash donations to make sure the kids could order whatever they wanted while G & me spent long days away from home.

Leaning into my new caregiver job, I tried to absorb every burden myself. I hated inconveniencing others. I could figure it out. Asking for help meant relinquishing my independence. I had to hold it all together for the sake of my ego.

That became selfish in its own way.

Pride interfered with the needs of the person I was caring for. Every ounce of energy spent protecting my ego was energy taken away from Ginger. I had to learn to let go.

My Tia Teresa, a licensed therapist who works specifically with cancer survivors, helped change my perspective. She said that people want to help, and not out of obligation or sympathy. Lending help allows the people who care for us to feel connected. It gives them something tangible to do during a moment of helplessness. If I refused help, I wasn’t protecting anything but my ego. I was taking away an opportunity for someone to show they cared for us.

Which brings us back to the ladies of La Casita. Those five mujeres saw what was happening to Ginger and our family and decided to sell iced coffees for us. Nobody told them they had to. No assignment. They just did it.

Dr. P called it “nothing big,” but they went in. Like she said, Leslye made a menu. But not a simple menu. Mazapán Fusion. Dulce de Leche Burst. Mocha Delight. Chilled White Chocolate. Brown Sugar Iced Bliss.

Ten bucks a cup, they said. Here’s an order form. Venmo and Zelle QR codes. They scheduled two days, 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. Right there on the menu were the words: “All proceeds will go to the Cabrera family to support their cancer journey.”

Our cancer journey. That’s what life had become. I still have trouble comprehending those words. The ladies understood that support came in multiple forms—financial and emotional.

When the institutional leadership seemed unable and unwilling to support us, La Casita stepped up to show that someone cared.

And on the morning of August 27, I got to show Ginger exactly how many people did.

She was receiving radiation treatment when I texted Dr. P:

“Ginger is getting treatment right now. She wants you and everyone to know how grateful she is. Thank you again and again.”

A little while later, Dr. P sent me a picture.

The coffees were lined up on a table. Our picture was sitting behind them next to the Venmo and Zelle codes. A little chalkboard in front read:

Coffee for a Cause.

Then came another message:

“Orders coming in!”

My favorite part was whenever we received a donation, there was a name attached to it that I could share with Ginger.

I could say, “Oh, that’s Hermisa. She worked in Accounts Payable before she transferred to a site. She is super nice!”

“Oh, that’s Moises. He’s one of the restorative justice facilitators. He’s incredible at what he does.”

“That’s Ariane from HR. We’ve worked together so many times—she’s awesome.”

Each name wasn’t just a transaction. It was a story. A memory. A connection.

And sitting there while Ginger received treatment, I could tell her those stories. I could tell her who these people were. I could tell her how I knew them. I could tell her why seeing their names pop up meant something to me.

For a few minutes, cancer wasn’t the only thing we had to talk about. We could talk about people. Our people.

At a workplace where it often felt like the institution had turned its back on us, La Casita reminded us that institutions don’t love people. People love people. Leadership titles don’t comfort families. Human beings do.

Those five women reminded us that compassion doesn’t require permission from an organizational chart. It simply requires seeing someone else’s pain and deciding it matters.

The money they raised helped us. Absolutely. We needed every damn dollar. But a year later, that’s not the part I think about first.

I remember sitting next to Ginger while she was being treated and watching names appear on my phone. I remember telling her who they were. I remember her knowing that people she had never met were rooting for her. I remember feeling seen. I remember feeling like Ginger wasn’t fighting alone.

During a period when it felt like so much of our lives was completely beyond our control, five women selling mazapán iced coffees inside a school district office gave us something I desperately needed. Hope.

As I write this now, I also need to say something I never got to say properly when I left the district in April.

I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye in person to so many of the people I worked alongside for years. I didn’t get to tell them what I should have told them face to face—that it was an honor, truly, to work with so many good people inside that system. People who showed up every day with care, integrity, and heart, even when the work was hard and the system wasn’t always kind to them either.

So let this also be that. A goodbye. A thank you. To the good folks at the district—there are so many of you.

I saw you. I worked with you. And I will always be grateful for you.

And I will always be grateful for La Casita. They didn’t just give me coffee, or money, or help. They gave me evidence that in one of the loneliest moments of my life, I wasn’t alone.

When the homie says some out-of-pocket shit, that’s the breaks.

He’s one of my best friends. His life partner/baby momma was president of the board that oversaw the district where I worked. I had access. I had relationships. I knew them. And I knew the minute shit got bad for me, I couldn’t pull on 30 years of friendship to protect my job. I didn’t want to call her and ask for a favor. That was the grimy route. That was violating my G Code.

We were road dogs going back to the ’90s. Before school boards. Before superintendents LARPing as reality TV stars. Before careers, titles and all this other shit that people accumulate over decades. So I bared my truth.

I took Family and Medical Leave to be a caregiver and figure out what the hell I was going to do next. I told him that a week later, my boss said I was being let go for performance issues. I down bad.

Sitting across from someone I’d known for more than 30 years, from someone who helped manage my performance opportunities, who once paid me to write an eight-page essay with 2 ounces of shake weed and $40, I heard:

“Isn’t this like a break?”

A break? Thirty-plus years of carnalismo asked me that straight to my face. My wife is in chemo. My career at the district is over. I’m taking protected leave because my wife needs a caregiver, and somewhere in all of this I’m supposed to figure out how we’re going to survive whatever comes next.

That’s a break? No foo, that’s The Breaks.

That comment forced me to reconsider where I stood with people. His life partner and I went back decades, too. Before she became board president, before she even joined the board, there was a text conversation between the three of us about an open trustee seat. They initially reached out about somebody else they endorsed. Would I vouch on their behalf to my boss, the Superintendent? Not a favor, but a request.

I wasn’t putting my neck out for somebody I didn’t know. I told them something else: if one of you wants to run, that’s different. I know you. I can pass the info along to the superintendent, FWIW.

Eventually, she threw her hat in the ring. I remember the sentiment in those conversations and texts: Whatever you need, Marcos.

I joked about needing a raise. I knew that wasn’t how it worked. It was cap between friends.

Whatever you need, Marcos.

Once she joined the board, I backed away. She was now one of my bosses’ bosses. The board had difficult decisions to make. I didn’t want our friendship complicating her job. I didn’t want to be the guy walking around the district acting like I had a board trustee I could run to. That was my G code. You don’t exploit your people. You don’t put your friends in fucked-up positions. You don’t suddenly remember who your friends are because you need something from them.

When my own shit hit the fan, I kept that same boundary. I didn’t call her. That was my mistake. And that’s what bothers me. I don’t walk away from this feeling noble because I honored some code. I feel fucking dumb because of it.

My mistake wasn’t crossing some line. My mistake was that I wasn’t desperate enough. I wasn’t grimy enough to try and leverage that friendship.

I had access and refused to use it. I had relationships and refused to lean on them. I was worried about putting a friend in an uncomfortable position while my wife was in chemotherapy and my career was shoved off a cliff. I was trying to keep everything clean. For who? I don’t know. And I don’t know what the lesson is yet.

I know how I felt. I know I was doing the right thing by keeping friendship separate from somebody’s position of power. And I know how stupid I felt afterward.

Maybe I was naive for honoring my G code. Maybe the people I thought were operating under the same code weren’t. What I know is that while I was trying not to put anybody in an uncomfortable position, I was pressed.

I was worried about everybody else’s boundaries. I guessed and I second-guessed. I gave people the benefit of the doubt. Eventually, silence answered the question for me.

Then I heard about something the board president had said to one of my coworkers before a board meeting.

“Where’s your friend at?” She meant me. I was “your friend.” That one landed differently.

Decades of real friendship. My kids swung at piñatas at their kids’ backyard birthday parties. I supported her before she sat on that board. I deliberately kept my distance once she got there because that is how you are supposed to treat a friend who suddenly had power over your workplace.

Whatever you need, Marcos became Where’s your friend at?

That’s The Breaks.

One of the last times I saw her, we walked past each other in the hallway at the district office.

“How are things going, Marcos?” I said nothing, just shook my head no. She snickered. We kept walking in opposite directions. It felt gross.

Whether I deserved what happened professionally is a question somebody else will ultimately decide. But what happened to those friendships? I’m still figuring that shit out.

I know what I would have done differently for somebody I called a friend. If their wife had cancer, I would have asked about their wife. If their job was disappearing, I would have checked on them. If they were in distress and I knew it, I wouldn’t wait around for them to make the perfect phone call asking me for help.

And I know one thing I would do differently for myself. Next time, I make the fucking call. Not to demand a favor. Not to cash in 30 years. Just to know where I stand. To bottom line the value of our friendship

I should have done that from the beginning. I should have been grimier. The situation demanded it. I honored my G code. I expected it to make me feel a sense of dignity not to feel like a dumbass.

“Isn’t this like a break?” my carnal asked.

Yup. It’s a break from our friendship.

That’s the break.

Ginger’s first chemotherapy treatment was a few days before Christmas.

I don’t remember much about that morning - flashes of the long drive from Soledad to Stanford Hospital, delicate chit chat, nervous smiles disguised as courage. An achy angst lingered and proved symptomatic. When I get really anxious, I mumble incoherently. I make odd noises. I don’t realize I’m doing it until afterwards. That morning, I remember that I couldn’t stop

Mostly, I remember being scared.

For days, I’d been holding everything inside. When Ginger was first diagnosed a month earlier, I kept it together for a couple of days before completely falling apart.

This felt very similar. I knew I couldn’t let her see it.

My homeboy Paco was a confidant through those early days. When he found out wifey was battling cancer, he immediately reached out. His family had been through its own difficult health journey, and he kept coming back to the same advice: “You gotta be strong for her.” He was right.

My best friends, Jesus and Xago, were texting me throughout the morning, sending love and good vibes. We were doing what dudes are supposed to do when life gets hard. None of it muted the noise in my head.

Once we were settled into the infusion center, I made excuses to leave. I said I had to call a friend. I said I had to text somebody at work. I volunteered to get Ginger a snack. I needed a second cup of coffee. Anything to buy myself another five minutes before I had to walk back upstairs and pretend I wasn’t terrified.

During that back and forth is when I noticed him. He sat behind a piano in the hospital lobby wearing a red and gold holiday-themed 49ers sweater. That was the first sign from the universe - this dude is alright. He’s Gang.

He was skinny and blond with a long face hidden behind a mask - face covers were required during the winter flu season. The mask couldn’t cover the gentleness in his eyes.

I walked past him once. Then twice. A third time. There was something about him. He just looked kind. As I walked toward the exit doors on that third search for strength, something told me to turn around.

I had decided very early on that I was going to document as much of this journey as I could, so I pulled out my phone and started recording. He half nodded, both as an acknowledgement and an invitation to join him. I recognized the notes. “White Christmas.”

He started to glow. Natural light poured through the windows behind him. There was grace in his movement. The calm in his vocals reassured me that I had earned these few minutes of distraction. As I stood there recording, I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the music. Closer to the moment. Closer to peace.

For the first time that morning, I wasn’t thinking about cancer.

After he finished playing, I introduced myself. I thanked him for being there. I thanked him for creating a space for scared people to simply sit and breathe.

“I’m here with my wife. It’s her first day of chemotherapy.”

He smiled and told me that Ginger was in the best possible place. Then he shared his truth with me. He was a survivor.

For three months, Stanford Hospital was his home. He was bedridden for much of that time. He credited the staff with saving his life. Now he returned as a thank you to the hospital, and as a gesture to the strangers who found themselves sitting in that lobby, silently carrying whatever burden had brought them there.

Strangers care, he reminded me.

The glow stayed with me through Ginger’s first treatment. It stayed with me through the weeks and months that followed. Through Ginger’s six total infusions and beyond.

At her halfway point, I saw him again. I waved. He waved back. I don’t think he remembered me, but he smiled and acknowledged me just the same.

He was there again for her final treatment.

He was there at the beginning. He was there in the middle. He was there at the end. A full cycle.

I know there’s nothing magical about it. Thursdays happened to be the day he volunteered at the hospital. Thursdays happened to be the day of Ginger’s treatments. But I don’t believe that’s why we met. The universe just knew and let it be.

Before we left that final treatment day, I sat down next to him one last time. I was excited to show him the video I took during our first encounter. I wanted it to be a surprise, but I accidentally revealed it while fumbling with my phone.

“Oh, what do we have here?” he laughed. “Looks like a picture of us.”

I told him how much that first conversation meant to me. How badly I needed him to be there that morning. How grateful I was for his kindness. He was overjoyed. Then he asked me a simple question.

“What would you like me to play?”

“The Beatles,” I answered. Not a specific song. Just The Beatles.

He smiled and began to play Let It Be. He only knew a few of the lyrics, but they happened to be the only ones I needed to hear.

There will be an answer.

Let it be.

For the better part of a year, I spent so much time in my head looking for answers. What happens next? Will she get sick again? Will things ever feel normal? How do we move forward?

The older I get, the more I realize that answers rarely arrive when we expect them to. Sometimes not at all.

What arrives are people. A text from a new homie reminding you to be strong. Friends who refuse to let you carry the weight of the world by yourself. A wife who finds a way to smile through chemotherapy.

And a stranger in a 49ers Christmas sweater, glowing bright as the North Star in the Stanford Hospital lobby.

There will be an answer.

Let it be.

*Reflections from the Trenches is an ongoing series in which I revisit moments from more than three decades in journalism, public education and life—through the eyes of the person I was then, and the eyes of the person I’ve become.*

My wife was about to begin chemotherapy. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

One school was dealing with rumors that a teacher had offered students drugs. Another was investigating reports of a bomb. Somewhere between those two crises, I realized I could no longer be two people at once.

Here’s how it happened.

It was late February 2025.

I got a notification from some folks at Salinas High School—an administrator and a security administrator. Rumors were circulating on campus that a teacher had offered students drugs to help them study.

Apparently, a student had noticed a tube of pills sitting on the teacher’s desk. The teacher jokingly told the student, “They’re drugs that’ll help you study. Take them and you’ll pass your test.”

In reality, the tube was full of Tylenol. The teacher later told investigators it had been a joke—a stupid joke—but by then the rumor had already taken on a life of its own.

The student reported it to adults. The teacher was already under some scrutiny, and there was at least one parent who had been aggressively raising concerns about him. Before long, the story became that a teacher was handing out drugs to students.

The teacher was removed from the classroom and placed on paid administrative leave while the district investigated. The parent started posting about the incident on social media, and eventually word made its way to me.

“Be prepared,” I was told. “This may turn into something.”

This all happened the day before I was scheduled to take my wife to her third chemotherapy treatment.

Before I left work, I updated the superintendent and my communications partner.

“Here’s what’s going on,” I told them. “If anything develops tomorrow, just call me.” They agreed.

“We’ll work through it together,” I said confidently.

The next morning, Tuesday, I got another call. This time it was from another campus. Another crisis.

“There are rumors of a bomb,” said the voice.

Apparently, a student had a device with wires sticking out of a backpack. Another student reported it to campus security. Everyone was trying to figure out what was happening.

Within 24 hours we’d gone from rumors that a teacher was handing out drugs to reports of a possible bomb on another campus. Or as I liked to call it back then, Tuesday.

As it turned out, the “bomb” was really part of a science project. But by then the rumor had already spread. Families had to be notified. The district had to explain there wasn’t actually a bomb. Everything had to be investigated. In that order.

Nothing was found. Like I said, it was Tuesday.

Around ten that morning, while I was technically off duty and taking my wife to Stanford for chemotherapy, my phone rang. It was a local reporter. Because I had already been coordinating with administrators throughout the morning, I answered irreverently.

“Hey. It wasn’t a bomb,” I said as soon as I answered. “It was a science project.”

Awkward pause.

“No,” he said. “I’m calling about the teacher who’s supposedly dealing drugs to students.”

I’ve known this reporter for two decades now. I can talk to them candidly and at the same time, I understand that professionalism is key. So I tell the truth.

I explained that I wasn’t working. I told him I was at Stanford because my wife was about to begin chemotherapy.

He acknowledged it. Then he kept going.

He said he was pursuing the story because a parent insisted the teacher had been giving drugs to students and that this wasn’t the first time. The story wasn’t going away.

I told him I’d call the superintendent and get back to him. After I hung up, I explained everything to my wife. She already understood how these situations worked. She’d lived through enough of them with me.

The three of us—my wife, one of her friends and I—were getting coffee before her chemotherapy appointment.

I called the superintendent. I explained where things stood and reminded them about everything I had briefed them on the previous day. I also told them what I thought we should do.

“I think we should just tell the reporter exactly what’s happening,” I said. “If he still wants to pursue the story after that, that’s his decision. But this was Tylenol. The investigation is still wrapping up.”

The superintendent agreed. “That sounds like the right approach.”

I called the reporter back. I explained the facts as we knew them. He kept pushing.

“What about the parent? What about the allegations? Why is this happening? Are the police involved.”

Finally, I stopped him.

“Look,” I said. “I’m telling you exactly what happened. If you run this story, you’re going to be running a story about a teacher who made a stupid joke involving a tube of Tylenol. I’m not saying it was the right thing to do. But that’s what happened.”

He kept coming back to the parent.

“The parent insists this teacher has been dealing drugs.”

After a while I finally said “Dude, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’m telling you the truth. I’m not lying to you. I’m not even on duty right now. I’m standing here with my wife while she’s getting ready for chemotherapy. This isn’t what’s happening.”

The conversation got more tense.

Finally I asked him, “After all these years, this is how you’re going to treat me? At this moment?”

His answer, essentially, was that he was still going to run the story.

I remember saying, “All right, man. I’m going to remember that.”

Then I hung up.

When I looked over, my wife was crying. Her friend sat quietly in the back seat.

For me, this was a normal Tuesday. Rumors. Bomb scares. Aggressive Reporters. Angry parents. Crisis after crisis. That was simply the job.

But this time I wasn’t the only one carrying it.

My wife was about to begin chemotherapy, and instead of focusing on her, she was watching me manage another district emergency from the passenger seat. With tears in her eyes.

I immediately apologized to her. I apologized to her friend, too. I felt awful. And in that moment, I knew. I couldn’t do both anymore. I couldn’t be my wife’s caregiver while continuing to carry the demands of this job. I needed to take Family Medical Leave.

As soon as things settled down, I told my supervisor everything that had happened. I explained the conversation with the reporter and why I felt it had crossed a line.

She agreed.

She told me there had been no reason for him to treat me that way, especially knowing where I was and what my wife and I were going through.

A day or two later, I told my supervisor and my communications partner that I couldn’t keep doing both.

I’d already started talking with Human Resources about Family Medical Leave and understanding my rights.

I told them I was going to move forward with it as soon as possible. It was already late February.

My hope was to keep working another month or so before beginning leave around April. That would allow me to continue receiving my paycheck while focusing on taking care of Ginger during the hardest part of her treatment.

Both of them understood. They told me it was the right decision.

Over the next several days, I became more engaged with Human Resources as I prepared to take Family Medical Leave.

Mentally, my decision had already been made.

For the first time in my professional life, my family had to come before my career. For years, I’d accepted that emergencies came with the territory. Reporters would call. Parents would panic. Campuses would face crises. My phone would ring at all hours of the day. That had become normal.

What wasn’t normal was looking over at my wife on the morning of her chemotherapy treatment and realizing that my career wasn’t just demanding something from me anymore.

It was demanding something from her.

That was the moment everything changed.

Taking Family Medical Leave to become my wife's caregiver was the hardest decision of my career. I had no idea it was the beginning of a battle I never saw coming.

* Thank you for reading.

And thank you to everyone who has subscribed, pledged their support, or become a Founding Member during these first few weeks of Chivo Media. Whether you’ve been following my work for thirty years or thirty days, I’m grateful you’re here.

‘Reflections from the Trenches’ is an ongoing series about revisiting moments from more than three decades in journalism, public education and life—through the eyes of the person I was then and the eyes of the person I’ve become.

If this essay resonated with you, I’d be honored if you shared it with someone else. Independent writing grows one reader, one conversation and one shared story at a time.

If you’d like to help support Chivo Media’s next chapter, please consider becoming a subscriber or Founding Member.

See you next time.

— Marcos Cabrera

Commentary. Culture. Creative Mischief. Since 1992.

I’m your host, Marcos Cabrera.

It’s been almost 13 years since I left the newsroom. I’ve done some cool stuff since I walked away from newspapers.

I raised a family. Started a second career in public relations and communications. Spent one unforgettable summer as a remote editor for GO! Magazine—my dream job at the time. Traveled Route 66 with a documentary crew. Coached girls volleyball. Wrote film and television reviews. Started an eBay sports card business.

There are a few other things I’m proud of that we’ll get to eventually.

There are some hard stories, too. Because life has a way of doing that.

I grew up in East Salinas, where drama always seemed to be posted up on the block. I eventually learned that leaving the neighborhood doesn’t mean leaving the drama behind. Sometimes it just waits quietly for the right moment to remind you it’s still there.

Like when your wife is diagnosed with cancer…

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s focus on why we’re here today.

I’m starting a new journey by returning to my writing—past and present.

I don’t know why I spent so many years avoiding my old work. Revisiting it, some of it makes me cringe. There are pieces where I was trying way too hard. I don’t know who I was trying to impress, but looking back now... yikes.

Then there are stories that stuck around. Stories that found new relevance long after I wrote them.

“So Much Drama” is one of those stories.

I wrote it around 1999. It’s based on personal experience. It won second place in a writing contest and was later published in *Occam’s Razor*, the literary journal at CSU Hayward (now Cal State East Bay).

Sure, there’s still a little try-hard in there. I can see the young writer reaching for every sentence.

But when I read it today, I also see the writer I was hoping to become. I see something honest. Something earned. Something learned.

The conflict between Black and Brown communities that runs through it isn’t just history. In many ways, it’s still part of the conversation in the neighborhoods where I grew up. Another topic that we will evaluate in the near future.

There are personal ghosts here, too.

Two of my closest childhood friends who appear in this piece are no longer with us.

J.D. and Nick —

I’m grateful I got to spend a little more time with you on these pages.

I love y’all. Countryside Posse Forever.

So Much Drama

*Originally written around 1999.*

Antwan’s face-breaking right hand found its target on Ariel’s chin. The impact was immediate, explosive, perfectly savage. The smack echoed throughout the dark gray hallways outside the Alisal High School gym. Ariel and his homeboys drew back, shook by the sheer force of the punch. The boys ran, no doubt to find reinforcements,
Antwan stood straight as an ivory pillar, barely breathing. He showed no sign of aggression or anger, just concentrated... aimed at hisdisengaged enemy.

“What the fuck was that?,” Nick yelled.

“Those little bitches just got GOT!!,” I yelled with a laugh. My boy had just busted some fool and I was all caught up in the emotion of the moment.

“That fool will be back,” Antwan muttered, frozen in the moment. He rubbed his pudgy, ashy-black knuckles. We all sort of stood there for a few moments, then we mobbed back to the gym. Ariel had run across the street to his ‘hood, the Gavilan Apartments, to rally troops. We went back to what we were doing before the drama went down, shooting hoops. After a few minutes, Antwan took off, leaving Nick and me to shoot around. Not one word was breathed about what
just went down.

“You going to Nanya’s party tomorrow?” I asked, as a perfect 20-foot jumper sunk through the hole.

“Nah, I’mma deal Cynthia tomorrow,” Nick said, passing me my respect.

“What? I thought that shit was over with?” I bricked my shot.

“Her parents are out tomorrow, so I’mma kick it at her pad for a while,” he said, grabbing the rebound. Just then, Lil’ Shawn walked up to on the court.

“Hey, Antwan’s over there by the track field about to throw down with Ariel,” lil’ Shawn said. “Big Mario and those fools from the apartments are all over there.” Shawn said this last sentence as we made our way towards the track field. There was a meet going on, but we could easily see the stand off beyond the chain link fence surrounding the field. Nick and I ran over, hopping to fence to back up Antwan. When I looked back, I was Shawn stayed on the other side of the fence. “Pussy,” I thought to myself. Or maybe it was a smart move. I doubted myself for a second. Then I felt my ears get hot, like they always did whenever I sensed trouble brewing, Antwan was standing up front, face to face with Ariel, who was flanked by Big Mario. Antwan was in his same marble statue stance, burning a hole through Ariel’s forehead with
his mad dog stare.

Big Mario didn’t stand, but rather settled his large frame on the scene. As his name implied, Mario was a freaking monster, large and exaggeratedly grotesque, with pimples the size of pistachios covering his face and neck, eyes that were pinched between bags of fatty skin, and a prickly stubble protruding his triple chin, If God didn’t like ugly, then he must have hated Big Mario’s ass. He was a youngster like Ariel and the other punks in their crew, but he was big enough to kick it with the thugs, the older homeboys who were too old to be youngsters, but too young to be veteranos. Mario was a thug, and an ugly one at that. Those were the worst kind, because they always seemed to be mad.

By now our brothers Mike and J.D. had joined the stand off, It was six youngsters from the Gabilan apartments against five heads from our crew. This was as close to even odds as you got in east Salas. I knew none of us had a gun, So we were automatically at a disadvantage if they pulled out a heater and started dumping. You can’t have a fair fight without at least one gun these days. Thinking about this now had me wishing I had stayed on the other side of the fence with lil’ Shawn as a spectator, no matter how stupid it seemed.

“Fuck you, pinche mayate!” Ariel squeaked. Antwan held his ground, keeping his itchy meat hooks near his chin, prepared to block, or deliver, a haymaker at any moment.

“This is our barrio fool! You don’t be disrespecting this shit right here, you understand!” Big Mario bellowed in one deep breath. The hot sun sat directly over us, and if someone with a sense of irony had whistled at that moment, the scene might have been straight out of a spaghetti western.

“Ain’t no punks this way fool! I don’t give a fuck whose barreeeooo this is. ’ll tell ya momma that you ain’t shit punk! What!”

And like that, Antwan ripped the roof right off the top of the world,

In slow motion, I watched Mike jab Big Mario in the ribs, setting off a chain reaction, as Nick ran in and grabbed one of the white boys from the apartments. Antwan socked Ariel with one mean right hook, sending him to the sidewalk. Everything went wild, like nothing I could imagine. It took me a moment to finally react, and that’s when I focused on the white boy Nick had on the floor. I tagged him in the ribs with a few weak kicks from my shell-toe Adidas.

Mike, who was tall, skinny, cblack and strong for a freshman, wrestled Big Mario against the chain link fence, getting in little jabs between exchanging different holds. Antwan had grabbed another of the white boys by the collar of his shirt and pounded on his face relentlessly. I saw J.D. with some youngster, and they were wrestling too. I took aim and landed a solid punch on thekid’s cheek. My form was lousy, however, and I felt my knuckle split on impact. Then I felt a fist spear me in my right eye. It was J.D., had missed with a wild hook intended for the youngster I had just socked.

I retreated to the gutter, looking up at the brawl, which was still moving frame by frame in slow motion. I couldn’t believe that shit was going down like this. The consequences of this incident had not settled in yet. This was just a catalyst for some more drama.

Somebody from the track meet finally saw what was happening and a few coaches ran over to tell us to stop, without physically trying to break up the rumble. A gang of crazy youngsters going at it, I’m sure those adults were damned if they wanted to try and get in the middle of the ruckus, The Gabilan boys scattered, running across the street to their headquarters/fortress/stomping grounds. J.D. got me up out the gutter, and for some reason I ended up with a baseball cap in my hand that said ‘Salinas.’ We ran back to the gym, where I grabbed my bike and took off, taking the alternate route, away from the apartments.

The next morning, I got really stoned and skipped my morning classes. On my way to campus at lunch time, I went through Del Monte instead of the usual short cut through the apartments. Antwan and J.D. both stayed home, and word around school was the Gabilan boys were gunning for my crew. That’s just the way it went down in east Salas. Once the spot got hot, it was every man for them selves. I knew by backing up my crew, I was putting myself in a situation that wouldn’t just end right then and there. Lil’ Shawn knew that too. He was in the crew, but nobody ever expected him to bust heads because he was so small. I, on the other hand, had to walk around watching my back everywhere I went. In my third block drama class, loud-mouthed Nonya was talking shit with her homegirl Yuri. They were talking about my
crew, and how the thugs from her apartment were gunning for us.

“Big Mario and all of them were sayin’ that they was gonna kick Antwan’s ass, J.D.’s ass, and yo’ narrow ass,” Nonya said, pointing at me.

“Fuck that, those punks ain’t gonna do shit,” I snapped, not showing the least bit of hesitation in my words,

“They said that Mario pulled out a .22 on Antwan and J.D. at lunch today, by the liquor store,” Yuri chimed in. “Both those fools had to run and hop the fence near the track field to get away.”

”They’re just youngsters, they ain’t shit! We straight rolled those fools up yesterday at the track meet. Antwan binked that punk Ariel, like BLLAADDOOWWW! They ain’t shit,” I said. My words sounded more like pins and needles, rather than the daggers I had meant them to be.

“Whatever then. All I know is that Ariel is cute,” Yuri said with her Kool-Aid smile.

“Hell yeah!! I like some of these Messican boys ‘round here. They be lookin’ fine!” Nonya testified.

After school, I walked home with my friends Hector and Darnell. I went the normal route towards the apartments, and from across the street I spotted Big Mario with some of the thugs from the hood, standing along the sidewalk. Ariel and the other youngsters were nowhere in sight. These were the big boys, lined up like a pack of hot,
hungry, horny dogs, checking out the chicks walking home from school, punking down kids walking past, smoking, drinking malt liquor, hiding from campus police and always looking for some pedo, something to get into. This was their territory, their spot, but I couldn’t just walk the other way. This was East Salas, and if you don’t stand up for yours, then everyone will know you’re weak, no one will respect you on the street, and that will give’them a right to fuck with you any chance they get,


“Fuck!” I thought to myself. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

I walked at a less even pace as we crossed the street going towards the apartments. There were about nine thugs standing shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, dressed in an array of red sweatshirts and jerseys, starch-creased workman’s pants, different variations on their uniform style. I made my way past them, quickly, head down, chin near my chest, trying to avoid any glares aimed my way. I was almost past the line when I looked up right on time to see Big Mario’s pock-coated grill staring straight at me.

Our eyes locked, and I felt his vibe immediately: cold, empty, penetrating. He won the stare down hands down, literally, as I forgot to put my guard up right away. I squeezed hard on the geometry book clutched tightly in my right hand. It was dense enough for use as a shield and, if need be, as a weapon, if I swung accurately enough to pop his nose with the spine. I was speechless, but I somehow knew I wouldn’t have to spark the conversation.

“Why are you and your boys starting shit for!” he demanded.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” somehow, the words found their way out of my mouth. They sounded desperate, pleading. I froze, while Hector and Darnell stood cautiously by my side. They knew what was up.

“You know what I’m talking about, puto! I oughta fuck you up right now,” Mario declared,

“Man, I was just backing up my dogs, you know what’s up,” I said, as I slowly walked backwards into the street, Big Mario pursued step by step, trying to pull me in with some imaginary tractor beam. The sun positioned itself behind Mario’s head, just above his right ear from where I was standing, It made it hard to see Mario behind the shadows on his face, intensifying the tension that was building up, block by block, in the head of the drama,

My ears were on fire, my forehead beaded with sweat; my palms tingled from nerves, like a thousand tiny needles pricking them at once. Cheeks flush, nose runny, I did all I could to prevent myself from running towards that chain link fence, the one I had hopped the day before, the one across the street, but at that moment appeared to be on
the south side of town, it was so far away; the same chain link fence I had hopped the day before, when the beef started. The first time I hopped it to get up in the mix, but no I wanted to hop it to remove myself from the situation.

“Your homeboys aren’t here to back you up. You’re stupid to be walking through our spot by yourself. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Big Mario asked,

“I was just backing up my homeboys. I didn’t mean no disrespect, I’m just trying to go home now, I don’t want none of this shit,” I said



“Fool, you’re stepping to the wrong motherfucker right here. I’ll straight up make you kiss my feet in front of everyone right now. This is my barrio fool. What?” he said.

“Just give me a fucking pass, homes. This ain’t what I’m about. I don’t want no trouble with you or your homies, I was just backing up my folks,” I tried to explain. Big Mario was having none of it.

My words were shook, scared. I was showing weakness, and in East Salas, that was dangerous. Big Mario was going to have his way with me, because I folded under the pressure. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was what really happens when you get caught up in beef on the street. Eventually, you get caught slippin’, your boys are nowhere to be found, and it’s game over.

“This ain’t no fuckin’ joke, fool. You get the fuck out of my face before you get GOT!” he said, leaning forward and landing some spit off his top lip on my cheek.

”I was just doing what I had to do man. You have to back up your homeboys!” I reasoned, but my words were impotent, nothing hard about them at all. My balls sucked up into my body cavity. I was through.

“Get the fuck out of here before we book your ass,” his homeboy finally told me.

I took that as my cue to leave, I didn’t hesitate, walking off in double time. Hector followed, while Darnel split through the apartments, no doubt embarrassed by my lack of balls. The two of us walked for a while, quiet, as everyone else who had stopped to watch went their own way, oblivious to everything. This was just everyday
drama on the block, nothing to raise an eyebrow at. No one was hurt, not physically, at least. As walked, my ears cooled down, and I wiped the sweat off my shiny brow. I tried breathing at a normal pace, hoping my racing heart would slow down to a casual jog. I gathered up what was left of my dignity and managed to look over at Hector, who was pensive, hiding his disgust, his disbelief, looking for some sort of answer or sense to make out of the situation.

“Why didn’t you just sock that fool?” he asked. “He’s a fucking lop.”

“Look, I don’t want this shit to get out of hand. I know that if I throw down like that, all his homies are gonna jump in and kick my ass, or pull out a quete, or something,” I said. The only thing was, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince: him or me.

“Me and Darnell would have backed you up. They’re a bunch of levas man,” Hector said incredulously. He was fired up because he just watched his friend get punked down, He knew the implications without having to think about it.

We kept on walking, saying nothing, because there was nothing left to be said. They weren’t the pussies; I was. They backed up their shit. I was just there with my panties tangled between my legs, my crew nowhere to be found. There was no point in trying to make sense out of it, no lessons learned, I could only hope people would forget about the shit the next day at school, or on the street. I could only hope I would wake up the next morning rid of the fucked up pain in my stomach, regurgitate the pride I was forced to digest. I wanted to run, hide, jump a million fences and beat down a million fools until I was out of east Salas. I wanted the strength to take on Big Mario and all of his thugs, all of his homies, all of the veteranos in the apartments. I wanted the balls to use that geometry book upside Big Mario’s fat head. I wanted to kill all of my enemies at once, and go down right along with them, because I didn’t know any better.

The sun climbed over the top of my head and stood there, brooding over me, letting me feel its entire insulting wrath. I walked under it slowly, resigned to my fate, like an ant being slowly burned to death by a sunbeam caught beneath a magnifying glass.

I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t say a word. I just kept on walking.