The Hardest Thing About Living In East Los Angeles

[Editor’s Note: Author Oscar Barajas works in Los Angeles and will be writing dispatches for us from East LA.]

The hardest thing about living in East Los Angeles is not actually living in East Los Angeles, but puncturing people’s preconceived notions of what East Los Angeles is. We have more Mexicans here than Mexico City, but that does not mean that we have the authority on everything that is “authentically Mexican.”

“Authentically Mexican” is a term that is akin to elementary teachers who use the term, “not realizing his potential,” which simply means that you are as dumb as kitty litter. “Authentically Mexican” is a very dangerous term, because it opens the door to stereotyping as a means of an educated guess. I hate to contradict popular opinion, but the citizenry does not congregate on Whittier Boulevard on Sunday afternoons to watch lowrider parades. Although they have a plaza, we are not the birthplace of mariachis. I did not have the opportunity to learn calculus from Jaime Escalante. In fact, we are an unincorporated region of Los Angeles, so the claims that Cheech Marin is our mayor are highly exaggerated — he is not even on the city council.

Most often stereotypes do not work in your favor. Old women clutch their purses tighter, even if you are walking from an opposite street corner. Police officers will just wait for the slightest reason – even if it is a valid one. However there are times far rarer than leap years when stereotypes work in your favor. I can walk into any party east of the Mississippi as long as I am not mistaken for the help, and I am granted instant street cred simply because of my area code. Times like those are sweet. I just sit there smiling and thinking that it is high time that the 323 started pulling its weight.

There are some people out there who actually consider living in East Los Angeles as some kind of disability. These people will actually buy you drinks in attempts to get you to regale them with stories of an imaginary thug life. Sometimes I feel the slightest twinge of guilt as I reconstruct stories of breathless escapes from both cops and rival gangs. I have become a ghetto Don Quixote and the truth is my windmill.

I do not belong to any street gang, because that requires a commitment I simply cannot keep. The closest I have come to joining a gang was when I become a member of Columbia House, and frankly it was only a matter of time before I ruined my credit because I could not keep up with my end of the bargain. That is as gangster as I get. I can already see myself doing time at San Quentin amongst sinners and sadists, simply because I failed to pay for an Everclear CD.

I have lived here for the lion’s share of my existence, except for summers that were spent in Yurecuaro, Michoacán, which is another tale, all in itself. I have come to accept the fact that East Los Angeles is the center of the universe. I cannot deny its gravitational pull and I am a better man for it.