A Piece of Paradise

Fordham Road looked the way I always imagined “real” neighborhoods should be: clean, manicured streets lined with freshly painted stores—Woolworths, Alexander’s department store, drugstores, grocery stores, an RKO Theater, Valentine’s Theater, beautiful residential buildings, and

—perhaps best of all—no ugly graffiti scrawled on everything in sight. It was a bustling, vibrant community, and we were proud to be a part of it. However, as only the fifth Hispanic family to move into the area, my brothers and I didn’t know how to deal with the kids in the neighborhood because it was culture shock.

It came to a point where we had problems with the white kids in the area, many of whom were racist and wanted to beat us up. The first week we moved there they acted like they wanted to start a rumble. Every time we came outside they tried to chase us back into the building where we lived.

As my brothers and I walked to the corner store one day, here were the white kids hanging out in front of the candy store, taunting us and grouping together to try to set us up.

“Hey, spic!” one of the guys yelled. “We’re coming after you. You think you can come in this neighborhood and just hang out on our corner?” The group of young men advanced on us, forming a semi-circle to come up at us from both sides.

I turned to my brothers and yelled, “Run, Julio! Run, George! Run as fast as you can!”

My brothers and I took off running—it was the third time in a week this had happened, and we left without getting to go inside the candy store.

Our Uncle Jimmy, an ex-gang member of the Reapers, decided to put things right on our behalf. He went and talked to the wannabe white hoodlums in the neighborhood. I heard about it secondhand that night at our apartment as he gloated over the way he scared them straight.

“It’s like this,” Jimmy said, jabbing the air for exaggerated effect, “I’ll give you an ultimatum

—either you leave my nephews alone or you’re gonna have a fight on your hands. A real fight. If you’re tough guys and really want to fight, I can come up here with some guys from the South Bronx and give you a rumble. You tell me what to do: We can call it peace or we can start a war.”

The white kids decided to call it peace. A wise decision, no doubt. Eventually we became good friends with most of them and laughed about our initial standoff.

Since I was sixteen and the oldest, and with no father figure at home, I was becoming the man of the family. I was really young to shoulder such responsibility, but I wanted to make sure our lives stayed in this new sunnier place. My best friend’s mother got me a job working in a supermarket after school, packing and delivering groceries. Months later a friend from the neighborhood approached me about a part-time job at a children’s department store. It was a better opportunity to help my mother in a better way. I gave half the money I made to my mother and kept the rest.

Life settled into a good rhythm on Fordham Road, and best of all we had a real park to play baseball in—no more throwing catch in dirty vacant lots filled with broken glass and rusted car parts.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 664