1825 Wilcox Ave #9

My mother first came to the U.S. in 1988.  Leaving my sister and I behind in care of my grandmother and tia (both from my mom’s side) also my dad.  My mother made the trip with my cousin and once they both had settled their lives living in Hollywood, CA.  My mother returned to Mexico to pick up her niñas, my sister Lily and I.

The fall of 1989, 2 years after seeing my mom again, I just knew I would not separate from her again.  Much to my surprise, my sister Lily decided to stay behind with my dad.  We had just spent Christmas with the rest of my family, my sister gave me 3 handkerchiefs as a christmas gift.  My mother and I packed a small bag, which included 1 of the handkerchief’s my sister gave me (I still hold as one of my treasures) and we planed our departure.

My mother and I made the trip to Tijuana from the Central de Autobuses del Norte.  I was a very petite girl, I had just turned 9 years old.  I was very naive for my age.  I can honestly say I didn’t know exactly what the trip was going to be like, I was just happy to be with my mother and this time, forever.  I recall the endless 3 day/night trip on the bus, I recall one of those days, it was so cloudy outside I asked my mom what time it was and she said it was six.  We had been on the bus for so long that I asked her if it was in the morning or afternoon.  I had really lost a sense of time.

We crossed the Mexico/U.S. border at Tijuana and made it to Hollywood!   I first arrived to the U.S. on January 1st, 1990.

My first home in the U.S. was at 1825 Wilcox Avenue, Apt #9 (in Hollywood).    It was the second place I had ever lived since my first home in Mexico.   My first home and the place where I had been raised since birth.

Our home in Mexico consisted of a property my maternal grandparents had purchased after moving from Toluca, Mexico to Mexico City.   When they purchased the lot, it was just dirt and no streets were actually developed. My mother’s house was sandwiched between my grandparents house and my tio Modesto’s bachelor pad.

As you entered my house, you could see a large 6 seat dining table, the kitchen was to the right.  To the left you entered a large room which was divided by bookshelf and a large dresser between the sleeping space (2 beds) and the living space.  As a child we had someone always helping around the house, wether it was a señora or a relative.  We were not wealthy by any means.  My dad always traveled for work as a truck driver and my mom a housewife, sold dairy products (my dad delivered) as a means to compliment the household income.

Back to the U.S. 

1825 Wilcox Avenue was also the property manager, Luz’ studio which she received in exchange for managing the building and the place she lived with her family, 2 kids, Cindy and Edgar and husband Rigo.  1825 Wilcox Avenue would be my 2nd home and the place that would welcome me to the U.S.  We rented Luz’ closet/vanity space that separated the main living space to the bathroom.   There was a curtain that divided half the space you know, “for privacy”.  but my mother’s legs were literary inside the vanity cabinet when we slept.

I recall a few times in the evening, the apartment owner came to see Luz unannounced and we were told to not make any sounds so she wouldn’t get in trouble.  A few days after my arrival, my mother enrolled me in school.  I would start 5th grade in the winter. Most of the days were spent in school and my mother working so our ‘home’ was only for sleeping.  We also spent many of our weekends out at the park or free museums to avoid being there.  That large plane on exposition was a weekend stop for us.

There were times my mother would be upset because she would buy a gallon of milk in the morning and by nighttime it was gone.  We shared the same refrigerator with Luz and her family so this was a typical occurrence.

At 1825 Wilcox, I had my first experience playing with other children.  Most of them english speakers but Hollywood was a very common immigrant destination in the late 80’s/early 90’s that almost all children spoke spanish and I was able to communicate with them.   There were not many African American’s or really white people.  My community was surrounded by other spanish speaking folks, from Mexico and other latin american countries.

This story is a very common one among recent immigrants, whether is sharing with family or strangers, sharing space to cover the cost of living is almost mandatory in order to survive.  The cost of living is definitely a bigger issue today than 30 years ago, when housing overall is scarce and costly.

Reflecting on my first home grounds me.   Reflecting on the other 18 homes I have lived in after Wilcox reminds me about the dreams and hopes my mother once had when bringing me to the US and why I must continue growing.

One last thought.  If life has thought me something is that no house will ever be a home without Love.  In that vanity/closet, I had both.  I had my mother, my home.

I’m grateful for my mother’s dreams and for the 1825 Wilcox apartment.

File under @housing @immigrant @story @love