I am lying
here awake in bed and I can't stop thinking about this Mexican family I met on
the streets the other day. Particularly an older gentleman in his wheelchair. I came to drop off supplies to the transient community and approached this man. He
looked exactly like one of my Dad's first employees, when we owned this hole in the wall burrito joint. It's creating a stir of thoughts that I can't put down.
When my
parents first moved to this country, they left their lives in Korea, both
graduating top of their universities as Presidents of their class and primed to be
a doctor and an engineer. But they gambled it all to come here. To the US where
they would be outsiders. Foreigners who didn't know the language or land, and with nothing but a few bucks to start a brand new life. But all of that
was worth it to chase this dream of being able to create a better life for
themselves and the family they were to create.
One of the
first things they did was pawn jewlery at the Alvarado Swap meets. Those were
some of my earliest memories as a kid. Scouring through crowded aisles of cheap
trinkets, and candied lipsticks, and watching my mom pouring sweat in this
stuffy room with ceilings so low the condensation fogged up the showcase
glass.
Eventually
they bought this hole in the wall burrito stand, right on 1st and Los Angeles,
across from the City Hall building. It was called Kosher Burrito but nothing
about it was Kosher. Alarmingly misleading if that mattered to you, but it was
the 80's. It was called that by the previous owners who were a Jewish and
Mexican couple. The Kosher Burrito was their invention of a grease filled
pastrami burrito with pickles and mustard seared on a hot plate and wrapped in
a giant flour tortilla. Again, it was the 80's. People still loved their gut
bomb delicacies and had never heard of gluten. So here my parents come to own
it and it is the classic LA story of a korean owned business with Mexican
employees.
I spent a
lot of my childhood hanging out at that hole in the wall. The kind of place
where there's a single counter to eat at, a few stools caked with layers of
street grime, and a steel cage with peeling paint that either kept the cooks safe from you, or you safe from the cooks.
I can't
imagine that when my parents left Korea and the affluent jobs that were
promised to them, that they thought their new dreams would land them in this
greasy hole, sweating their asses off day in and day out. But they did, and
they supported a family of 4 kids and 2 grandparents off that place.
For 20 years they had their 2 loyal employees, Lupe and Raul. Raul was older,
didn't speak English and was completely illiterate. Lupe was younger with a
family and had enough schooling that took him through the 3rd grade. But they
both had resilient spirits and strong hearts, and they as 2 immigrants
from Mexico, and my parents, 2 immigrants from Korean saw each other every day
for 2 decades.
After
acquiring a few other burger places and burrito stands the following
years, my Dad decided it was time to let Kosher Burrito go. And because he was
worried about Raul being older with no family to take care of him, and Lupe
having a family to support, he told Lupe he would give him the business
entirely for free, so long as he promised to take care of Lupe. And that's what he did. He handed him the keys, taught him how to run the business, and slowly walked away until Lupe could ride without his training wheels.
Hearing
about this, as my father's child, I can't begin to explain how much I learned
in that moment. About the world I wanted to be a part of, and about the man my
father is. I not only learned about his compassion for people but that despite
their wildly different backgrounds, they shared something big. They were all
immigrants fighting for a humble dream.
Well Lupe
and Raul continued to run Kosher Burrito for a few more years before the city
came and kicked every business off that block. They were making space to build
the Cal Trans building across the street and needed to turn Kosher Burrito into
a parking lot.
Sadly once
this happened, we lost track of them. And though this happened quite a long
time ago, EVERY Christmas, I think about them, as they used to make us a giant
pot of tamales for Christmas to say thank you. They are the sole reason why
tamales are my favorite food. Gawd I miss those tamales.
Flash
forward to yesterday, after I passed out some supplies to the homeless, it just
so happened to be right around the block from Kosher Burrito and seeing that man in his wheelchair is now shaking my core. His uncanny resemblance to Raul made me wonder if that could have been him. How I genuinely hoped they made it
and how I hoped that Lupe was able to take care of him like he promised.
It reminds
me of the thankless hustle my parents did for their entire working careers. How
sometimes a dream is wrapped in a greasy piece of paper. How grateful I am to
say that this is where I come from and that I am a proud product of
immigration. How upset it makes me feel that some Americans pride themselves on
the US being so diverse, but can not correlate diversity with patriotism. Our greatest assets as a nation, ARE the dreams.
Anyhow, I
don't exactly have a point to all of this other than to share our story of
immigration. Maybe if we keep sharing our personal tales, it will help add to a
shifting awareness.
Thanks
