[Congressional Record Volume 157, Number 121 (Friday, August 5, 2011)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E1499-E1502]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                   A TRIBUTE TO THE LATE GEORGE RAMOS

                                 ______
                                 

                       HON. LUCILLE ROYBAL-ALLARD

                             of california

                    in the house of representatives

                         Friday, August 5, 2011

  Ms. ROYBAL-ALLARD. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize the late 
George Ramos, a longtime Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist in Los 
Angeles, a Cal Poly professor, and a decorated Vietnam War veteran who 
devoted much of his life to honoring the Latino community that he knew 
so well and loved.
  Mr. Ramos grew up in the area of East Los Angeles known as Belvedere 
Garden. As we learned through his own writings, Mr. Ramos escaped the 
trappings of poverty, drugs and gang life that plagued the area to 
attend college and embark on a distinguished career in journalism.
  Among his many professional highlights, Mr. Ramos is heralded for his 
contributions to a Los Angeles Times groundbreaking series on Latinos 
in Southern California that earned the newspaper a 1984 Pulitzer Prize.
  As part of this series, Mr. Ramos authored a July 27, 1983 article 
entitled ``Going Home: American Dream Lives in the Barrio,'' in which 
Mr. Ramos shares with readers the story of his boyhood life growing up 
in the ``hillside barrio.'' I would like to honor his memory today by 
submitting the full text of this article into the Congressional Record.
  On a more personal note, I was also deeply impressed by another 
thorough, fact-filled, and beautifully written article about Los 
Angeles' Latino community that Mr. Ramos authored--my father's October 
25, 2005 obituary. In the first sentence, he described my father, the 
late Congressman Edward Roybal, as a ``pioneer in Latino politics in 
Los Angeles and a godfather and mentor to scores of lawmakers.'' I find 
it truly fitting that many of the same words are being used over and 
over to describe his own life's contributions to journalism.
  In addition to his reporting, I have also had the privilege, year 
after year, of joining Mr. Ramos and other Latino veterans on Memorial 
Day at Cinco Puntos in Boyle Heights near the Mexican-American All Wars 
Memorial. A Purple Heart recipient and proud Latino veteran, Mr. Ramos 
made it a priority to honor our fallen men and women in uniform and 
often served as the event's Master of Ceremony.
  To more fulIy capture Mr. Ramos' life and accomplishments, I would 
also like to submit into the Congressional Record the following article 
that appeared in the online publication, CalCoastNews, where Mr. Ramos 
most recently volunteered as an editor. In the July 26 article, Los 
Angeles elected officials are quoted universally praising Mr. Ramos' 
talent for storytelling and his devotion to Los Angeles' Latino 
community.
  Mr. Speaker, as his family, colleagues, fellow veterans, students and 
many friends prepare to gather for his memorial service August 6 at the 
Veterans' Memorial Building in Morro Bay, I ask my colleagues to please 
join me and the entire Los Angeles community in extending our heartfelt 
condolences to Mr. Ramos' loved ones and all of those whose lives he 
touched. By all accounts, this self-described ``kid from East L.A.'' 
served Los Angeles well and will be greatly missed.

      Los Angeles City Council Adjourns in Memory of George Ramos

       (July 26, 2011) CalCoastNews--The Los Angeles City Council 
     adjourned today's meeting in memory of George Ramos, a three-
     time Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter, columnist and editor 
     for the Los Angeles Times, Cal Poly professor, and 
     CalCoastNews editor who was more comfortable referring to 
     himself as ``the kid from East L.A.''
       Ramos, who suffered from increased complications from 
     diabetes, was found dead at his home in Morro Bay Saturday. 
     He was 63.
       ``George was a tenacious reporter and a brilliant story 
     teller who always wrote from the heart,'' said Mayor Antonio 
     Villaraigosa. ``A proud son of the Eastside, he intimately 
     captured the Latino experience in Los Angeles and never lost 
     sight of the human dimension in journalism. He will be 
     greatly missed but his legacy and enduring love for our City 
     will live on through the many young journalists he mentored 
     throughout the years.''
       Ramos was born in Los Angeles on Oct. 1, 1947. He grew up 
     in Belvedere Garden, a neighborhood he described in a 1984 
     Pulitzer Prize series story as an East L.A. hillside barrio 
     inhabited by ``poor but proud people'' with ``hopes as 
     resilient as tall wheat in a summer breeze.'' Ramos graduated 
     from Garfield High School and attended Cal Poly San Luis 
     Obispo where he earned a bachelor's degree in journalism in 
     1969. He joined the Vietnam War effort, serving in the U.S. 
     Army from March 1970 to September 1971 in West Germany and 
     South Vietnam. He was awarded the Purple Heart after 
     suffering a leg wound.
       ``I first met George over the phone when I was studying in 
     Oxford more than 15 years ago and recently saw him on 
     Memorial Day at Cinco Puntos. In the intervening years, I 
     came to appreciate his unique perspective on issues facing 
     our great city. His death is a loss for us all,'' said 
     Council President Eric Garcetti.
       First District Councilmember Ed P. Reyes said: ``George 
     Ramos was a street reporter, passionate and fiery, who 
     constantly searched for the human side of the news. We will 
     miss his ability to seek truth. It's a perspective that's 
     needed now more than ever and we will miss him.''
       Ramos joined the L.A. Times in 1978 after working for 
     Copley News Service and the San Diego Union. During his 
     career at the Times, he went on to win three Pulitzer Prizes, 
     an honor only a handful of Latino reporters has accomplished 
     in journalism history.
       ``As a teacher, journalist and veteran, George Ramos was a 
     friend and mentor to many,'' said Fourteenth District 
     Councilmember Jose Huizar. ``His influence crossed 
     generations. His keen intellect, sharp sense of humor and 
     deep sense of humanity will be dearly missed. I'm fortunate 
     to have had the opportunity to see all his gifts displayed at 
     our annual Veterans' Memorial commemoration at Cinco Puntos 
     in Boyle Heights, which George participated in numerous 
     times. My thoughts and prayers go out to all mourning the 
     loss of this great man.''
       Tenth District Councilmember Herb Wesson said: ``George 
     Ramos had roots in many communities, and the fact that he 
     cared about those communities was reflected in his writing. 
     He was a fine journalist, and a great role model. The many 
     young journalists he trained, and who maintain his high 
     standards, are the important legacy he leaves us.''
       ``George Ramos had a monumental impact because he was 
     fearless in seeking out the truth and sharing it with the 
     public. I am among the many fans who greatly admired him for 
     his journalistic skills, personal and professional integrity 
     and incredible dedication. Most of all, I appreciate how much 
     he accomplished not just through the printed word but through 
     his own humanity, as he was a wonderful and caring person who 
     mentored countless others, giving them tools and wisdom with 
     which to build a better career, life and world,'' said Fifth 
     District Councilmember Paul Koretz.
       Ramos and former Times editor Frank Sotomayor were co-
     editors of a groundbreaking series on Latinos in Southern 
     California that won the paper the Pulitzer Prize Gold Medal 
     for Meritorious Public Service in 1984. Seventeen Latino 
     journalists worked on the 27-part series. Ramos also was part 
     of the Times reporting teams that were awarded Pulitzer 
     Prizes for coverage of the 1992 Los Angeles riots and the 
     1994 Northridge earthquake.
       Seventh District Councilmember Richard Alarcon said: 
     ``Molded by the mentorship of Ruben Salazar and Frank del 
     Olmo, George Ramos had a very personal connection to his Los 
     Angeles roots and his writing reflected this. By embracing 
     his background, Ramos helped shape the conscience of Los 
     Angeles.''
       In 2003, Ramos left the Times to return to San Luis Obispo 
     where he served as Cal Poly Journalism Department Chair. 
     Ramos, a mentor to young Latino reporters, also

[[Page E1500]]

     served as president of the California Chicano News Media 
     Association and was inducted into the National Association of 
     Hispanic Journalists Hall of Fame in 2007. Ramos returned to 
     the teaching ranks and continued to serve as the faculty 
     advisor to the Mustang Daily, the student newspaper. He also 
     volunteered as an editor for CalCoastNews, a San Luis Obispo-
     based website. He admitted, however, that he missed Los 
     Angeles.
       Ramos was quoted as saying: ``I can't just sit on my 
     laurels. I didn't get into journalism for the rewards. I 
     still consider myself as the kid from East L.A.''
       George Ramos, the kid from East L.A., served Los Angeles 
     well, the city said in a press release.
                                  ____


              [From the Los Angeles Times, July 27, 1983]

             Going Home: American Dream Lives in the Barrio

                           (By George Ramos)

    [Copyright, 2011. Los Angeles Times. Reprinted with permission]

       [The following story from The Times' archive was part of a 
     series that won the 1984 Pulitzer gold medal for public 
     service for an in-depth examination of Southern California's 
     growing Latino community.]

       It is a ritual observed nearly every day. The mail carrier 
     approaches the small cluster of hillside barrio homes in East 
     Los Angeles, armed with spray repellent in case one of his 
     antagonists gets too close.
       The neighborhood dogs, sensing the moment, spring to the 
     ready.
       Just as he approaches one mailbox a pack of dogs, separated 
     from the mail carrier by a chain-link fence, lets go a chorus 
     of howls that alters all other canines in the area.
       The mail carrier quickly deposits his cargo and steps back 
     to his Jeep. No matter, the dogs keep up the yelping. The 
     roosters and chickens in coops on the hills overlooking this 
     noisy scene crow their presence.


                           Music drowned out

       As the mail carrier wheels his vehicle for a getaway, one 
     dog scales the fence and gives chase. The howling now seems 
     to drown out the musica Mexicana drifting from the windows of 
     the small homes.
       Moments later, the mail carrier is gone. The dog that gave 
     chase nonchalantly returns to his resting place. Mission 
     accomplished; ritual observed.
       Welcome to the world of 812 N. Record Ave.
       After 18 years, I went back to 812 N. Record Ave., to the 
     house where I once lived, at the Belvedere Gardens barrio 
     where I grew up.
       My barrio is unique in this megalopolis that is Los 
     Angeles, an obscure corner of an affluent society, a place 
     seldom visited by progress. For example, sidewalks and curbs 
     were installed only recently. English is heard only 
     occasionally.
       Downtown Los Angeles is only 4\1/2\ miles away, but there 
     is no hint that shiny skyscrapers are just over the horizon. 
     Some neighborhood businesses on Hammel Street, near Record, 
     have deteriorated beyond hope. Dogs, chickens, cars under 
     constant repair, graffiti, homes valued under $35,000 and 
     neighborhood tortillerias are fixtures in the landscape.
       Nestled in a rural-like setting, yet ringed by three urban 
     freeways (San Bernardino, Pomona and Santa Ana) Record is a 
     quiet, out-of-the-way street north of Brooklyn Avenue that 
     trails off in the surrounding hills of another East Los 
     Angeles barrio, City Terrace.
       The inhabitants of Record are poor but proud people, 
     comfortable in the knowledge that they own their homes and 
     owe little to an Anglo-dominated society. To them, life on 
     Record is as American as that in Kansas, and hopes are as 
     resilient as tall wheat in the summer breeze.
       No one really knows what to expect when he goes back to the 
     old neighborhood.
       I remember rampaging on the surrounding hills, building 
     cabins out of abandoned furniture, auto doors and bamboo, and 
     killing imaginary enemies with a crudely constructed gun made 
     of clothespins. In an ongoing scenario, one close friend, 
     David Angulo, was Tarzan and his brother Stephen was Cheetah 
     the chimp. I was a hunter--I can't remember if I ever used 
     the term ``Great White Hunter''--always seeking Tarzan's 
     help.


                         Fences Tame the Jungle

       Now the property owners look after their investments with 
     fences, forcing local jungle warriors to play elsewhere.
       There were organized activities for the area's Chicano 
     youngsters. After-hours softball games at Hammel Street 
     School (Panthers vs. Dragonflies) routinely attracted 40 to 
     50 youngsters, prompting teachers to let them play all at 
     once. Trying to get a ground ball past two shortstops and 
     three third basemen was hard.
       As a Dragonfly I remember one game, 6 to 5, on a disputed 
     call at third base. No amount of intervention by the teachers 
     avoided the game's real outcome later--two bloody noses for 
     the Panthers and one scraped knee for us.
       But Hammel, where actor Anthony Quinn went to school as a 
     boy, is a far different place today. In my time, the early 
     1950s, boys and girls were segregated on the playground 
     during recess. Baseball cards, tops and yo-yos were 
     confiscated as unauthorized items.
       The school's tough rules extended even to the after-hour 
     softball games. I was once called out simply because I had 
     entered the batter's box before I was told to do so by a 
     teacher.
       Youngsters at Hammel were prohibited from speaking Spanish, 
     a common restriction at the time.
       Once a classmate whispered something about a movie on 
     television that night. I told him in Spanish that I would see 
     it at a cousin's house. Hearing the chatter, the teacher 
     approached me.
       ``Not only do I not like talking in class,'' he said, ``but 
     I especially don't like it in Spanish.''
       I stood in the corner, back turned to the class for an 
     hour. The same offense later earned me a shaking--the teacher 
     shook you until he thought all the knowledge of Spanish had 
     fallen-out-of-your-head.


                         Bilingualism Prevails

       These days, all office workers at Hammel are bilingual. All 
     the school signs are bilingual.
       Charles Lavagnino, Hammel's outgoing principal, was vice 
     principal when I first entered school there. Lavagnino told 
     me that his fondest years as an administrator were in East 
     Los Angeles.
       Looking back he conceded that he had supported some of the 
     restrictive measures imposed in the 1950s, mainly to keep a 
     tight rein on unruly students. But improved teaching methods 
     as well as sensitivity to the reality that East Los Angeles 
     is 95% Latino have made Hammel a better school today, 
     Lavagnino told me.
       ``This is a good school, we try to involve the parents,'' 
     he said.
       I was reminded of other aspects of life on Record as I 
     revisited old haunts;
       --La Providencia, the nearby mom-and pop corner store, 
     still extended credit to its faithful, my 81-year-old 
     grandmother assures me. The owner trudges up Record with 
     Grandma's groceries about twice a month.
       --The neighborhood church, Our Lady of Guadalupe, still 
     chimes its invitation every morning.
       --The vatos locos (crazy street guys) have changed hardly 
     at all. Dressed in cholo-type ``uniforms'' (khaki pants, 
     flannel shirts and bandanas around the head) they still 
     cruise neighborhood streets in lowered autos and ask passers-
     by for money, They are distrustful of outsiders and are quick 
     to confront anyone who challengers their ``turf rule'' of the 
     area.
       --Many of the families I remember have remained in the 
     area. A close friend of my mother provided some insight: 
     ``Yes I'd like a nicer home, pero aqui estoy contento. The 
     kind of people who still live here are maybe not the type of 
     people who want to advance, but I am content.''


                          A Positive Resident

       In many ways, life on Record has not improved much since my 
     parents bought the small, wood-frame house at 812 for $3,500 
     from relatives in 1946. But don't dwell on the negative when 
     you meet my grandmother, the current resident of 812 N. 
     Record.
       Living there has given her a freedom she cherishes in old 
     age. No one tells her what to do. She is free to run her life 
     without interference. And there has been no threat to her 
     safety--neighbors look out for one another, and the dogs 
     herald the arrival of any stranger.
       The 530-square foot house, built during the Depression, is 
     currently assessed at $9,873 and may need a lot of work, but 
     Grandma is an optimist. Soon, she said, a shower to replace 
     the old bathtub will be installed. ``And look,'' she promised 
     in Spanish. ``I'm having new pipes for the plumbing put in.''
       Felicitas Ramos, born in the Mexican state of Chihuahua, 
     has a heart that is as loving as it is coy. She is always 
     offering food and is sometimes critical because I am still 
     single, but there are some subjects best not discussed. For 
     one thing, don't scold her about her oven.


                          Oven Heat Preferred

       Grandma has this peculiar idea about heating. She'll turn 
     on the oven and lower the oven door,
       ``It works fine and I'm comfortable,'' she says.
       ``But it's dangerous,'' I remind her. ``Something could 
     happen.''
       ``How?''
       Concerned grandchildren, fearful that the dreaded would 
     occur, purchased an electric blanket. But during last 
     winter's rains, I noticed that the oven door was still open.
       ``Oh,'' she said, ``I'm just drying clothes.'' She then 
     draped clothes over the oven door.
       ``But there would be a fire,'' I said.
       ``How?''
       Then she changed the subject: ``Want something to eat?''


                            Little Variation

       Grandma's daily routine varies little. There is the music 
     from the Spanish-language radio station KWKW, the morning 
     chat outside with the neighbor (``Can I borrow some eggs?'') 
     and the puttering in her garden.
       At midmorning, she will collect clothes for a wash. In the 
     old days, the washing machine was in the bathroom, making it 
     difficult to use the bathroom for most other purposes. Now 
     the washer is in the bedroom. People on Record don't rely 
     much on dryers. Clotheslines are still in vogue.
       Cooking seems to be Grandma's favorite pastime. Flour 
     tortillas are made from scratch and beans and rice are the 
     backbone of any meal--beef, eggs, hamburgers or quesadillas. 
     If you're not ready to eat right away, everything is left 
     warming until you

[[Page E1501]]

     are finally hungry. All meals are accompanied by milk.
       By noon it's time for the soaps.
       I've never understood how a person with such limited 
     English ability can give a running commentary in Spanish of 
     ``Days of Our Lives.'' But she does.
       ``Mira, hay 'sta el viejito (describing one of the main 
     thugs). Si, el es papa de Jessica, pero ella no lo quiere. 
     (Why doesn't Jessica like her father, Grandma?) Oh porque el 
     es muy malo con la mama de ella y los pareintes de ella lo 
     saben (And how did Jessica's relatives find out about this 
     cruelty?) El abuelito trabaja en un hospital y la esposa supo 
     todos los problemas que Jessica tenia con su padre.''
       Maybe working in a hospital does give one insight.
       Then she pops her favorite question: ``Tienes hambre?''
       I decide I'm not hungry yet.
       By nightfall, it's time for a movie on Channel 13. Again, 
     Grandma will let me know if I miss anything.


                           Glimpses of a Life

       One particular night as the movie unfolded, so did 
     Grandma's life story, an off-limits topic if there had ever 
     been one.
       Born in 1902, she said she hardly knew her parents. When 
     she was 17, my father was born. Six years later she moved to 
     the Mexican border town of Ciudad Juarez across from El Paso 
     to find work. There she gave birth to my aunt Hortensia.
       She and her two children were on their own when she met a 
     Ft. Bliss soldier, Marcelino Ramos. They were married in a 
     Mexican civil ceremony in 1930, and later repeated their vows 
     in a church in 1933.
       In 1936, Marcelino, Grandma and her two offspring came to 
     Los Angeles, settling in an area near 8th and San Mateo 
     streets on the southern edge of downtown, now an industrial 
     area.
       Well, things didn't work out. Marcelino left, the Army was 
     looking for him, he married someone else. (What happened to 
     the divorce, Grandma?) By now her memory seemed to be getting 
     deliberately hazy.
       Finally she concluded with the inevitable, ``Are you 
     hungry?'' I finally decided to eat.
       If life at 812 N. Record Ave. is pleasurable for Grandma, 
     then the opposite was true for my parents.
       Miguel Antonio Vargas Ramos and Maria Santos Medina were 
     newlyweds when they moved into 812 N. Record Ave. in 1946. 
     The prospect of living there did not excite them at all.
       --They saw no future in the house for a young family, given 
     the surroundings and the condition of the dwelling. It didn't 
     come close to the post-World War II housing tracts being 
     built in places like Lakewood.
       --There was no possibility of expanding the house. It 
     already had been expanded to add the bedroom, bathroom, porch 
     and garage.
       --There was no door-to-door mail delivery. Mail had been 
     delivered down at the corner of Record and Floral Drive, 
     about 300 yards downhill from our house, since the homes on 
     Record were built.
       --The same situation existed for trash collection. It had 
     to be hauled down to Record and Floral, no easy task for 
     residents living up the hill where Record trailed off, a 
     distance of about half a mile.


                           Looking Elsewhere

       My father, who was employed at the now-abandoned Uniroyal 
     tire plant off the Santa Ana Freeway in Commerce, had tried 
     to find other housing--the Aliso Village project on the edge 
     of downtown, the Ramona Gardens project near County-USC 
     Medical Center in Lincoln Heights and a Boyle Heights trailer 
     park that eventually gave way to a Times-Mirror press plant.
       He made too much money to qualify for the subsidized 
     housing, but too little to leave Belvedere Gardens.
       ``I didn't like the area (Record),'' he said. ``I wanted to 
     leave, but we couldn't do it economically.''
       ``The area was a dumping ground for everything. You'd wake 
     up in the morning and find a car left there . . . no tires, 
     no engine . . . nothing. We had to call the tow truck to haul 
     them away.''
       And there were the dogs. Mom hated them:
       ``I always had to clean up after them. And with you guys 
     (my brother and I) around, I had to be careful. Complain 
     about the dogs? Are you kidding? They (the neighbors) would 
     just ignore you.''
       And the mail.
       No one seems to know why the mail was dropped off at Record 
     and Floral. Maybe the dogs were as ferocious in the early 
     1950s as they are now. Probably no one bothered to ask for 
     door-to-door delivery.


                           Cause for concern

       But it changed one day when a thief stole a federal income 
     tax refund check from our mailbox. It wasn't a lot--
     ``something like $120,'' my mother recalled--but it seemed a 
     lot to us then and its arrival had been anxiously awaited.
       With no support from the neighbors, Dad campaigned for 
     door-to-door delivery. It was instituted after a few calls to 
     the right people at the post office.
       Mom in the meantime began petitioning for trash collection 
     at each home. She too succeeded, but only after a false 
     start. On the first day of the scheduled collections (this 
     was in the early 1950s) the neighbors placed their trash in 
     front of their homes. The garbage men never came.
       ``There I was with egg on my face,'' my mother recalled.
       ``So I called again and sure enough the next week they came 
     (to collect the trash). They have been doing that ever 
     since.''
       Mom even joined the PTA at Hammel Street School, becoming 
     PTA president in 1954. Every time I got into trouble, I was 
     reminded of my mother's good work on the PTA.
       Now, when I look back I realize that life was tough on 
     Record. But it didn't seem so at the time.
       Yes, my yard was too small to play in, but my ragtag gang 
     of friends considered the streets and hills our playground.
       Yes, the house was too small for a growing family, but it 
     seemed adequate to me and I remember how proud my mother was 
     of the new furniture that was bought for the house. (There 
     was no eating allowed in the living room, Mom decreed. 
     Grandma was more lax about such things.)
       Dogs? Well, we stayed out of their way. But if someone was 
     challenged to a rock-throwing contest, the dogs turned out to 
     be handy targets. Now, the main objective seems to be to 
     separate neighborhood dogs from other canines and the mail 
     carriers.


                            A Dream Achieved

       In 1957, my parents finally realized their dream of getting 
     out of East Los Angeles. The found a small tract home for 
     $12,900 in Downey.
       Grandma then moved into our home on Record, but I continued 
     to spend a lot of time there until I went to college because 
     I felt strange in our new environment.
       My parents were excited by this new beginning in Downey. It 
     was the end of their rainbow. I thought I should be excited 
     too, but I wasn't sure. I wondered how I would fit in the 
     neighborhood where there were very few brown faces.
       An indication of why I had doubts about life beyond Record 
     was as rude as it was puzzling. A classmate called me a 
     nigger.
       The term was unheard of on Record.
       George Juarez was one of the neighborhood kids I grew up 
     with. He was a street-wise guy who seemed to know a lot. And 
     showed it. But the years have not been kind to George.
       He is a victim of the Eastside's street-gang reality. The 
     facts seem hazy; the neighbors, as well as Grandma 
     occasionally whisper about it.
       But it seems that George, now 41, was with some friends who 
     brawled with other Eastside youths in a rather ugly incident 
     back in 1961. George was run over by a car and left for dead. 
     He recovered from some of his injuries after time at County-
     USA Medical Center and two years of rehabilitation at Rancho 
     Los Amigos Hospital in Downey.
       But a brief conversation with George these days betrays his 
     pain. One leg is damaged, and he needs the help of railing to 
     get up the stairs of his home, where he lives with a brother 
     and his mother. His speech is slurred and his memory is 
     hazy--he still asks about my brother Michael who died in 
     1954.
       ``Pues ya 'stuvo, Georgie old boy,'' he says in Eastside 
     street lingo. ``I dropped a few pills, drank a lot of hard 
     stuff . . . y pues era muy loco.''
       ``Ahora, I know better, My leg hurts a lot. I drink a 
     little beer, but that's about it.''
       Several other guys on Record have had run-ins with the law. 
     One neighborhood guy had drug problems after he returned from 
     military service in Korea. Several of my friends joined the 
     local street gang, Geraghty Loma (named after the hill that 
     Geraghty Avenue winds around), and sheriff's deputies paid 
     occasional visits to unsuspecting parents, who insisted that 
     their sons were good boys in school.


                             Gang Rivalries

       Another companion and I were friends with a rival street 
     gang, Los Hazards (named after nearby Hazard Avenue). The 
     conflict occasionally meant defending oneself with more than 
     fists. Two friends from Record who were part of that conflict 
     eventually became part of California's burgeoning penal 
     system.
       But for every problem kid, there is a success story.
       Two brothers on nearby Herbert Street, for example, have 
     done well by neighborhood standards; one is a career soldier 
     and the other is a Los Angeles County sheriff's deputy, and 
     one resident became a reporter.
       Some in the area are alarmed at the street-gang violence 
     and say they won't go out at night, Others bristle at the 
     suggestion that the area is unsafe, Raquel, one of George 
     Juarez's sisters, is eloquent in the street-wise vocabulary 
     that is Record Avenue.
       ``I tell people I'm from East L.A. And they tell me, 'Wow, 
     man, you must have been chola. Or you're my homegirl.' I'm no 
     chola. I come from a good area. I went to school there.
       ``I live in Whittier now and I wouldn't have any problems 
     if my kids went to school here.''
       I have often wondered what will happen to Record Avenue. 
     Will its rural ambiance remain? Will Record still be an 
     obscure corner of society in 20 years?
       I don't know all the answers. But of this I am certain.
       Spanish will still be the neighborhood language, but the 
     dogs won't always heed it.
       Grandmothers like mine will still be there. Life's many 
     chores will be done as they always have been, haphazardly on 
     occasion and other times with meticulous care.
       A family's success will not be measured by how much money 
     it earns. It will be evident in the accomplishments of its 
     young.
       Record still will nurture dreams of young families for a 
     better life, as well as hold old families to an area where 
     they have grown comfortable.

[[Page E1502]]

       For those of us who lived there, the world of 812 N. Record 
     Avenue will never be obscure. It will never die.

                          ____________________