Less than 12 hours ago, my family and I crossed the border at Nogales, Arizona. It was a grueling experience, because just two traffic lanes were open. As usual, many United States Customs and Border Enforcement officers were standing around, leisurely chatting among themselves. If there is a border crisis, why weren’t they working?
The incident brought to mind the stereotypical notion that Mexican immigrants are troublesome people who “steal” jobs and commit crimes. My grandfather, Juan Parra, who moved from Chihuahua and settled in Los Angeles in the early 1930s, offered a solid rebuttal to this stereotype.
Juan moved to Los Angeles right after divorcing my grandmother. Here is an excerpt from my book that recounts some of Juan’s story.
The Great Depression hit along with the divorce, and Juan was fired from his job. At that point, he moved to Los Angeles. He had brothers there, and he just wanted a fresh start. Jobs were scarce, but Juan found work as a dishwasher at a fancy hotel. He told my mother he was pretty poor and ate lots of potatoes and oatmeal. They filled him up and were cheap.
Before long, he was promoted to the food preparation crew and eventually head chef. He did well in his new position and bought a house in South Central LA. Even then, it was primarily an African American section of the city. Bit by bit, Juan set-up a modest variety store in his house. He sold canned goods, thread, and miscellaneous items.
Eventually, he opened a neighborhood store on Hooper Street. By the early 1950s, Juan had established a large market on Main Street at the corner of Clover Street, about two miles from downtown. He named it “Toma y Daca,” Spanish for give-and-take.
My grandfather Juan was in his third marriage when I first met him. As a six-year-old, I would ride my bike to Juan’s store on some Sunday mornings after Mass. The promise of a dollar and a bowl of menudo—spicy tripe and hominy soup—lured me there.
For the dollar, Juan had me do a few minor chores, such as dust canned goods with a feather duster, sweep up sawdust from the floor of his walk-in meat locker, spread fresh sawdust, and handle the sale of penny candies to eager kids. I was fascinated by how this modest capitalist venture worked. My grandfather explained that he bought wholesale, which allowed him to sell goods at a profit. He extended credit to some of his customers, a practice that struck me as novel and generous. One day, my grandfather asked me if I would like to work with him once I had grown up; I eagerly accepted what I took to be a job offer. Lung cancer took Grandpa Juan in 1959. He was just 62.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 