La Huera
 
It's one those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave.
at 7:22 on a Wednesday evening.
The air smells like doughnuts and Pioneer chicken,
and I watch the sunset as she kisses the
tops of palm trees goodnight.
 
It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave.
at 7:24 on a Wednesday evening.
I see the skater boys jumping off
piled-up milk crates
and the long beat-up ramp
with no regard for pedestrians,
and I think back to the kids in my old neighborhood
with their new skates and shiny ten speed bikes
and realise-
they'll never be as cool as the ones
right here and now.
 
It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm walking down Echo Park Ave.
at 7:27 on a Wednesday evening,
and I see the white guy from Apt # 4
yelling at the
Mexican family of one mom,
four kids, and a grandmother with a baby in her arms
yelling:
No, the apartment is not ready yet!
It's not for rent!
It's not ready for rent yet!
Not for Rent!
NOT FOR YOU!
 
He walks back inside.
The mother looks over at me and asks,
Please, how many bedrooms?
I can't tell her about the family who lived there before;
the filth,
the trash,
the smell,
the nine cats that pissed in the hallway,
the fistfights at 3 AM,
the eviction that took a year,
the shit I found smeared on my doorway!
I look back at her and say,
One bedroom,
but-
it's not available right now.
It's really messed up from the last person.
Do you want to try again in a couple of months?
 
It's one of those times I feel like a white girl
as I'm watching that family walk down Echo Park Ave.
at 7:31 on a Wednesday evening.
I know she thought I was lying to her-
but I wasn't.
 
Previously published in The Homestead Review 2004