Pacoima is a native word for running waters.
It is also one of those dreaded, poor barrios of LA
Rife with gangs, including Pacas, the original
Varrio here with its legacy on walls, the housing
Projects and blurred tattoos.
When we first came here, I stayed in the same house
My wife grew up in. But one house?
This was something I couldn’t understand
Having lived in a dozen homes before I turned 18.
One morning I walked around these streets to gather in
its smells, feels, noises, and sights … the neighbors.
A black woman walked onto her porch and told me
“We ain’t going to carry you people anymore!”
A drunken white guy demanded I go back to where I came
From. Five vatos rushed out of an alley;
One carried a machete in his hand.
They ran past me, hardly noticing I was there, and
Kept pace toward their intended victims on another
Block. At Ritchie Valens Recreational Center, I stopped
To admire the mural of Pacoima’s favorite son,
Creator of a sound in rock that actually came from
Veracruz, Mexico (where descendents of Olmec Indians,
Africans, and Spanish made a mole of culture). He died too young,
At 17 from a plane crash in a snowy field in Ohio. Buddy Holly
And Big Bopper also earned Angel wings that night.
Pacoima has had hard times ever since.
Van Nuys Boulevard looks more like a busy street in
Tijuana. And the houses get more crowded and dirtier with each year.
I like Pacoima. It’s funky. Roosters can’t tell time. And
Rancheras and cumbias play all night on weekend barbacoas.
But then innocent nine-year-old girls get shot in drivebys.
And one Pacoima man was convicted of killing
Two of his 13 children, which he had from two sisters,
And forcing the older kids to bury them along a desert road.
One thing is certain—there may be a lot of singing
Going on, but Ritchie Valens doesn’t sing here anymore.