Finding the worst reputation to make my father look good

I think one of my father’s biggest disappointments was the fact that he wanted me to get into Quebradita culture. He wanted me to get into the fashion – he wanted to see the boots and the hats. I was a teenager without an identity and the only thing that motivated me was a complete lack of motivation. This was particularly disheartening to the old man because he wanted the exploits of the narcocorridos in his household, without the drugs of course. Basically, what he wanted was Michael Corleone with a Tom Hagen twist.
My father and his friends lived vicariously through their sons’ high school exploits. They would sit around the porch stoop, having their Miller moment while trying to top one another. Needless to say, they were not talking about which of us had made the Dean’s list. They were worried about which one of us had the girlfriend with the longest legs or most bountiful bosom. My father never went far in those tournaments. He was always knocked out in the first round when he said his son was enrolled in mostly honors classes. The winner was usually the man whose son was giving him the hardest time. In other words, the larger the bail amount set, the bigger the crown.
His buddies always astonished him with their “problems.” It seemed that the police were always after them because they wore snakeskin boots and silk shirts with parrots on them. They didn’t understand why their boys were being tried as adults, just because they popped off a couple of gunshots in the police officers’ direction. After all the police had guns, so their sons were just leveling the field. My father would be on their side until the minute he got home and would agree with my mother about the horror of the issue.
Alas, I didn’t have silk shirts with tigers or parrots or even pandas on them. All my shirts were made of flannel, a tribute to my angst ridden musical tastes. I could tell that my father wanted me hitting home runs out of real, out door parks instead of the virtual ballparks on the Sega Genesis. I would see his shoulders slump even further when he would ask me when I was joining a team, and I said I had – the Ecology Club. My father did not want to raise a thug or a gangster. He just wanted me to smash faces and take names. Somehow smashing chlorofluorocarbons in the face was not going to cut it. However, through the Ecology Club, I was able to get in touch with my inner Chicano. Once I was in touch with my inner Chicano my political awareness was awakened. I craved political knowledge to the point where I sought the opportunity to volunteer in a phone banking outfit encouraging people to go out and register to vote.
My father used his Poker Face to tell me that my political activities were going to get me deported, but in the end, my father found something to be proud of. His friends might have had thugged out sons, but his son was getting harassed by the police for protesting Governor Pete Wilson’s reelection campaign. While my father never had a tale about having to pawn the family television to raise bail money he could say I was causing trouble. I was causing trouble with my words and thoughts. There was no need to pick up a gun, when your presence is enough. He might not have ever won any of those tournaments dedicated to deviance, but at least he made it into the second round.