Omaha, Nebraska
by Armando Ortiz
There are secret rooms
under each brick building,
and below the Old Market
perversions were done and sold.
Slaves were traded and
gambling dens proliferated.
Outside people smiled
at the picture being taken,
as men hung on poles
and burned unaided.
Part 10: Church Services
by Armando Ortiz
I grew up going to a Pentecostal church and our pastor was Bernardo Marquez. He was from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Occasionally a pastor from Panama would also visit and give some memorable sermons, his name was Bolivar Guevara, from Panama. He lived in Fresno, and the first time my family went to Fresno was to visit his church. The homes in Fresno were big with a low profile, and the trees were tall, giving lots of shade. The other times that I remember going to Fresno we ended up going to Yosemite National Park, while the last time we went there, as a family, was to his wake and partake in the burial of his wife.
As a kid, church was a big part of my life, not because I personally chose to go, but because my parents seemed to like going. I still have pictures of myself at 2-3 years old standing in front of the church that was on what used to be 9th street, a block east of Alvarado. Sometime later the congregation moved to Pico and Bonnie Brae street. Sunday service was sometimes held in MacArthur Park. Back then the park’s name didn’t conjure up images of bums, drug dealers or dead bodies. El Piojito was still across the street and the street vendors had yet to claim the corners as theirs. McDonalds was across the street from the park on Alvarado. Inside the burger joint was a giant mural of ancient Mexica designs eating hamburgers. Meso-American hieroglyphics had been turned into clever advertisements and all I understood was that these gods or mythological figures weren’t feasting on venison, wild turkeys or tortillas but on burgers. Those murals left a deep impression on me, and ever since then I’ve haven’t been able to come across any comparable images as those put there. Talk about clever marketing and using culture to promote a company’s image. Being near a park would always guarantee great returns to their investment. Our church was in the business of saving people, so in terms of evangelizing and reaching out to lost souls, Sunday was a good time to go to the park and proselytize because everyone one that lived in the surrounding area went there to relax.
At times it seemed that the only permanent location for church services was at the park among the patches of crabgrass and the palm trees that stood tall. The members always formed one giant circle and sang songs like, Alabare, Alabare, which in English means, I will worship, I will worship. As a kid, the park was always a better location than being inside the confines of a room where the preacher would occasionally give a loud burst of praises. One also had to stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, and repeat the cycle about five times before the preacher gave his Sunday service. Nevertheless, the congregation, La Senda Antigua, kept moving locations and kept adjusting to the needs of its congregation. Though the church made up a cohesive group of worshipers and the preacher made the nucleus of the congregation, as a group, we were more like a lone electron trying to fit into the larger flow of the city’s beat.
The church soon moved to another locale, which was on Alvarado and 3rd. At this time the church began to focus more on trying to raise money to buy its own property. We’d have a permanent location and we wouldn’t have to be moving around. The building where we had recently moved to was small, but big enough to fit the eighty or so members. It seemed like this place was geared to house a small shop, but people always find ways to make sanctuaries out of random places, and landlords never mind renting out space when money is tight. For many years after we moved from that location the place functioned as a pawn shop, a flower shop and now it's a thrift shop selling 80’s vintage clothing at dirt cheap prices.
Occasionally, we would meet inside a church that was located on Grand View street, between Olympic and 9th street. This church was owned by a Korean preacher, who mainly used it to minister the congregation he led. He rented out the space to our pastor for weekday services and occasionally for weekend services. The church, from the outside, looked like a big craftsman house, but once inside the house became a real church, with balcony seats, and a basement that had been converted into the children’s Sunday church area. The floors were all covered with a deep burgundy carpet, and the stairs at times seemed to take you into another world. Christian movies were shown in the main auditorium most of the time. As a kid, images of those films would occasionally haunt my mind. There was this particular film of a man that was a race-car driver that ended up dying but somehow returned to visit family. He realizes that he is going to hell because he hadn’t accepted Jesus into his heart, so he decides to return and warn his family.
It seemed that the places where we met for church were indirectly showing me the surrounding landscape of what I called home and would be driving through as I got older. Weekend evening services were always memorable because we had service for kids, and food was sold to raise funds for other church activities. At the 3rd street location the ladies of the congregation, who always cover their hair, would make different snacks like nachos or atole de elote. They also, on a regular basis, made pupusas, which are handmade tortillas with cheese in the middle, but with that special touch of Central America flavor that was topped with pickled cabbage and a light and spicy tomato sauce. My parents usually bought one for my sister and I, and were always left wanting more.
Neighbor
by Armando Ortiz
Mocking birds began their song
the morning the neighbor died.
It had been a long dry season,
and so was his death.
Exhausted was his body,
and brittle like the golden grass.
Drizzle was all there was,
making the hills green.
Part 9: Conjuring up Monsters
by Armando Ortiz
My fourth grade class was not immune to superstition. We’d occasionally hear stories from different kids that lived near the school that the house next to our school came alive once the sun set. Noises were heard from the halls, abandoned rooms let out a slow hum, and a lot of booze was spilled by the cholitos. Some of the kids would tell us that if we stepped inside that empty shell of a house we wouldn’t make it out alive. Another story told by other classmates was that of Bloody Mary.
Bloody Mary could appear in the bathroom if you stood in front of the mirror and called out her name several times. The mirror would turn into a window and she’d come out of the glass and snatch kids away. One of my classmates even had the good fortune of escaping but not before she changed one of the shoes he was wearing into something completely different. Because of this, it was believed that Bloody Mary did, in fact, exist. I sort of believed the story, but there was something within me that made me go to the public library and get to the bottom of this.
One day, after school was over I went directly to the local public library nearest to my house, which was on Olympic. Eventually the library became a dental office and finally an aquarium. Today that place is painted in navy blue with gold fish floating on the concrete blocks. Occasionally one spots the acronym of the locals that claim that as their territory and who’ve seem to have dug in deep roots. The Korean man that owns the aquarium has no clue what was there before he moved in and who are the thugs that spray paint on his wall.
I walked into the library and asked the librarian for help. Inside were books, and the mellow yellow glow from the lights made the walls, books and furniture have a dark beige aqua tint aura. The librarian looked ancient, but was very kind and helpful. I wanted to find out more about Bloody Mary, if she had really existed and eaten her kids and drank their blood. Of course what I was undertaking was tantamount to learning things from the occult, but I was not frightened away, somehow I had this belief that a book would have concrete information about this so-called Bloody Mary. The book was opened by the librarian. Her slow moving fingers that looked like dried mango peels directed me to the section that talked about Bloody Mary. In that small section I discovered that she had been the Queen Mary the First of England, and that she had had several miscarriages, which at that time I wasn't sure what it meant. Then right below that was some information about a drink that involved some vegetable juice and alcohol.
What was odd about this whole superstitious event was that it permeated into our regular student lives. Bloody Mary could be summoned in the bathroom of our school, and could even change your shoes to give you a good scare. I tried calling Bloody Mary a few times, and I was really scared. The times I tried it I expected glowing red eyes on the other side of the reflective glass but only my own reflection could be seen. I prayed before calling out her name, and I was glad that nothing happened afterwards.
What was a story about the Queen of England doing in our elementary school? Well, the only explanation is that we were students in the US and we were growing up in a community that had its strange beliefs of “La Llorona,” “Judas,” “El Cucuy,” and “El Chupacabras,” but we were also, by osmosis, being exposed to the greater culture that existed. Of course all the names mentioned above plus Blood Mary created fear in us. We’d debate amongst ourselves trying to figure out the overall profile of the Blood Mary. Some said that she had long bloody fingernails that were dripping in calves blood, while others just mentioned the eyes that glowed red or green. No one ever really had a good view of her because they were too scared to stick around and see her come out of the mirror. Yet, it left one wondering. None of my classmates ever did disappear because they’d called her name.
