Yesterday, Mom was gone all day. It was the longest I’ve been away from her in a very long time, maybe ever. She drove around Los Angeles, getting all the forms filled out, applications submitted, and putting our names on just about every subsidized and low-income housing list there is. She said most of the areas have waiting lists that stretch into two- to three-year-long waits, but more and more cities are accepting HUD housing and government assistance programs, which could help us get closer and closer to one day having a home of our own.
I didn’t go outside last night to explore Watts, because my uncle said when the sun goes down around here, the city gets pretty dangerous. There are gangs all throughout Watts. He told me that Watts is only two miles long and two miles wide, which is a very small area, but within the walls of Watts are two rival gangs that are constantly at war with each other. The Bloods, who wear all red. And the Crips, who wear all blue. I told him it sounds like a video game, and he said he wished it was, but every night he hears gunshots and cars peeling off and sirens.
I didn’t hear any, but I was asleep at eight. I passed out on the couch. I slept like a baby.
Mom has no intention of keeping us here and wants to leave as soon as possible, but we also know, as of right now, we have nowhere else to go. But from Mom’s upbeat energy today and hopeful eyes, maybe that will be changing soon.
I get into my uncle’s lime-green Ford Bronco and buckle up before Mom knuckles up. We are off to the Indian Center. On our way to the place called Fountain Valley. I know getting shot in the shoulder by a cop sucks, and I know it probably does a number on you mentally for forever, but the money he received from the city must have been decent, because this vehicle is rad and the stereo system is even radder. Still not worth taking a bullet, but at least he survived and can still listen to music.
Before we leave Los Angeles, Mom drives me through the nicer parts of the city. We pass Beverly Hills, where people are beyond rich. Not just beyond rich like they have a lot of money; I’m talking about the beyond rich where even their pets wear jewelry. I’m talking about even their sunglasses have jewelry. Even their cars look like jewelry. I wonder if these people know that the only reason why they are where they are in life and where I am in life is luck. That’s the only difference. They happened to be born in a better area, to wealthier parents. I mean, sure, maybe some of them have earned what they have, but I know people. Working hard doesn’t lead to becoming rich. The hardest-working people I’ve met can barely get by. They live paycheck to paycheck, shelter to shelter. That’s the truth. It takes money to make money. And if you’re not born with money, you can’t make money, not really. You can only try to survive, like my mom.
I wonder if Mom and I posted up on a perfectly manicured corner like these ones and did a song or sold some drawings, if these rich people would stop and pay us. I hear rich people are super cheap, but I never really met one before, so maybe it’s worth trying.
After Beverly Hills, we roll into Hollywood. Mom’s old stomping ground. This place looks like another world. A world full of people from every planet imaginable. Hollywood is the melting pot Mom told me about. I see people in all shapes and colors. And on the corners, I see movie characters. I see Spider-Man. I see Freddy Krueger. I see Michael Jackson. I see Elvis.
“Stop!” I shout.
Mom slams on the brakes. “What?”
I get out and run toward a crowd that has formed in front of a cool-looking Chinese theater. I push past people to get to the front. And once I am there, I see them. And they see me.
All four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
My heart ping-pongs in my chest. I see Leonardo posing for photos with an excited Asian family. I see Donatello and Raphael dancing with a group of happy tourist kids. Then I see him. My favorite turtle of them all, Michelangelo. He is on a skateboard, teaching a group of teenagers how to do an ollie. Next to him is a sign that says ENTER TO WIN A FREE NINJA TURTLE SKATEBOARD.
I run up to him while he is turned around, and I stop. “TURTLE POWER!” I shout as loud as I can.
And he isn’t the only one who turns around, but everyone does. The entire freaking crowd. And the other three turtles. Michelangelo kicks the tail of his board, which sends it up to his hands. A really cool ninja move I have never seen before. He approaches me, bends down, so we are eye level.
We just stare at each other for over ten seconds, maybe less, maybe hours; I can’t tell. Time has stopped for me. In a good way.
“Turtle Power, little guy,” a human voice says from inside the costume.
I hug him. And as soon as I wrap my arms halfway around his green body, I squeeze.
A hand touches my shoulder. I look and see it’s Mom. She’s smiling, but a tear is running down her cheek.
“We gotta go, Opin,” she says. “We can’t be late.”
I release Michelangelo. His three large green fingers slowly close to make a fist. His thumb pops up.
I give him a thumbs-up back. I can’t believe this just happened. Days ago, I was getting my Ninja Turtle comic book ripped in half as a bunch of bullies beat me up, and today, I hugged Michelangelo. Life is such a trip.
I turn to leave, and it feels like I am walking on a cloud. My cheeks already hurt from smiling so much.
“Hey, kid,” Michelangelo shouts.
I stop and turn around. He walks up to me and hands me the brand-new skateboard. “Can I get a ‘cowabunga, dude’?” he asks.
I am speechless. And motionless. I hope I’m breathing. How am I still standing? Mom nudges me. I snap out of my bliss … “Cowabunga, dude.”
“Awesome,” he says.
“Miigwech, ogichidaa miskwaadesi,” Mom says to him.
He looks at Mom, and even though his costume’s face looks perfectly chill and happy, you can tell the human underneath it has no idea what she just said, so he gives another thumbs-up. And Mom gives him one back.
And now I have a Ninja Turtle skateboard. And I will guard it with my life, like a ninja.
We get back into the Bronco, and I still feel like I’m up in the clouds. I love Hollywood. It’s even greater than Mom made it sound all these years. It is where I want to be. I want to live here. Grow up here. Become a wrinkly old man here. It really is a land of dreams, and in my first five minutes in here, a dream I didn’t even know I had has already come true. How could anyone not love Hollywood?
I turn to Mom. “What did you say to Michelangelo right before we left?”
“I tried to say, ‘Thank you, warrior turtle.’ I hope I said it right,” she says. “I’m not sure there’s a word for ninja.”
Mom finds an oldies station on the radio. And even though the songs will be random, I’d bet both my arms that she knows all the words to all the songs.
And I’m right. Even I know this one. “Mr. Blue Sky,” by Electric Light Orchestra. We danced to this song many times.
The freeways in Los Angeles don’t make any sense at all. Instead of two lanes going in each direction, there are six lanes going in each direction. That means this freeway has twelve lanes! You’d think that would help with the traffic, right? Wrong. It’s a constant jam. Bumper to bumper. For miles and miles. “I think we’d get there faster if we walked,” I say.
Mom laughs. “I wonder why, when people are in this situation, they say they’re stuck in traffic,” she says.
“Umm, because we are stuck in traffic,” I say.
“No, we are the traffic,” she says. “Think about it.”
So I think about it. All these people. All these cars. Mom’s right. We are the traffic. We are all just going here or there to do this and that, living our lives just like everybody else … But when we are here, all grouped together going one direction. We’re no longer individuals. We are a team. We are together. We are traffic.
Really. Slow. Traffic.
Two hours later, we get off the freeway in Fountain Valley.
False advertising. I don’t see any fountains. I don’t see any valleys. But what I do see, as Mom pulls into a small lot in front of a building, is a sign that reads Southern California American Indian Center.
She parks the Bronco in the closest spot and turns off the ignition. “In Minnesota, my mom would come to a place like this,” she says. “We were always poor. This is where we’d get our milk and bread and eggs.”
“What?”
“Not this one. The one in Minnesota. In Duluth. And here I am today, asking them for help. I hope she doesn’t think I failed. I hope she knows how hard I’m trying.”
“She knows. I know she knows,” I say. “Keep watching, Nookomis, because our adventure isn’t over yet,” I shout.
Mom smiles. Not a happy smile. But not a sad one either. It was an I-miss-Emjay smile. I’ve seen it many times. “He’s fine, Mama,” I say.
She nods and gets out.
I join her in the parking lot, and we walk up to the building and through the front door.
I expected Native drums and chanting. I expected Native artwork everywhere and the smell of sage and the twirling of dream catchers as we enter … But nope.
It’s a small office with a chubby man with a button nose sitting at a desk. You can tell right away he’s Native American. His long black hair is in a ponytail. He’s wearing a brown vest over a black shirt, and his skin color is darker than ours and has more cracks in it. It’s impossible to tell his age. He could be anywhere from late twenties to late fifties.
“How’s it going?” he asks as we approach him.
His words go up and down like his letters are traveling over small hills. How’S IT GOing?… Like that.
“It’s going somewhere. How are you?” Mom asks.
“The sun is out. The birds are chirping. Life is great. How can I help you?”
Mom sets a few papers on his desk. “We need help,” she says.
“You came to the right place, because that’s what we do here. We help our people,” he says, and picks up her papers.
“What tribe are you?” I ask him.
“Mohican. What about you?”
“Ojibwe,” I say proudly.
“We used to be the same tribe. A long time ago. We moved east. Your guys stayed up north. Mohicans are the wolf people. You know how to say wolf in Ojibwe?”
“Ma’iingan,” Mom answers.
“That’s right. Mohican, Ma’iingan. Same word. Just pronounced differently,” he says.
“You’re a wolf?” I ask.
He smiles. “I am. You should hear me howl,” he says.
Today is a great day. I met a Ninja Turtle. And I met a wolf.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Al. I tell people my name is short for Algonquin. But it’s really short for Alex. What’s yours?”
“Opin. It means ‘potato,’” I say, and look up at my mom.
She takes a deep breath. She knows I know. Does she think I’m mad? Does she think I think it’s funny? “My mama named me potato,” I add. “Didn’t ya, Mama?”
“I … You see, the thing is … I was under a lot of stress and pressure at the time and…,” she struggles to say.
But as soon as I smile, she exhales and smiles back at me. “I’m just so glad you ended up loving potatoes,” she says.
“Why seek an adventure when you can just as easily seek a few French fries?” I ask, and we laugh together.
Al laughs. “You’re the first potato I’ve ever met. Good thing wolves don’t eat potatoes, right?” he says.
“Yeah. Good thing,” I say, even though I think wolves would eat potatoes, if given the chance.
Sometimes when I’m stuffing French fries into my mouth, Mom says, “Stop wolfing them down.” That phrase must exist because someone somewhere got mad at a wolf for eating his potatoes. But I’m not going to tell him that.
Al and a few of his wolf pack buddies loaded our Bronco up with four bags of groceries. They were so nice. It’s so cool places like that exist. They also made a few phone calls and even gave Mom a list of places looking to hire single mothers. Mom was so excited. She was almost as excited as I was with Michelangelo. Almost.
On our way back to the freeway, we pass a large college campus. On the field are many female athletes, mostly runners. Mom has that look in her eye. She makes a right into the campus lot.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
She ignores me. It’s not like I need an answer. I know what she’s doing.
She parks the Bronco, grabs the boom box, gets out, and approaches the field—where a group of three women are stretching. One is blond. One has red hair. And one is brunette. All three are thin. All three are young and fit.
“Twenty bucks says I can beat all three of you in a race,” Mom says.
They turn to my mom. They look her up and down. They almost laugh.
“You serious?” the brunette asks.
“You’re, like … old,” the blonde says.
“She’s serious,” I say. “She’s also fast.”
This time, the girls do laugh.
“You’re the cutest little cheerleader I’ve ever seen,” the brunette says.
“Do we have ourselves a race?” Mom asks.
They look around at each other and smile. “Why not? Free money is free money,” says the blonde.
Mom takes off her shoes. Yeah, Mom runs barefoot. I think she feels closer to the earth that way. All I know is she is definitely going to need a shower tonight.
Mom hands me the boom box and lines up at the starting line. She pushes her hair back and ties it into a ponytail.
The girls join her. They all have running shoes on, and matching running uniforms.
I’m not worried about the blonde. She lost this race before it started. People that talk the most, walk the least. Or, in this case, run. And I’m not too worried about the brunette either. She kept looking at the blonde to answer and to make the decision to race or not. And if she looks up to her, she’ll end up looking behind her. A follower can’t be a leader. But the one I am worried about is the redhead. She hasn’t said a word. The quiet ones are always the ones who surprise you. They don’t talk the talk; they walk the walk … Or again, in this case, run the run?
“One full lap,” Mom says as she stretches her legs.
“I can’t believe we’re racing a mom in mom jeans,” the blonde adds.
“Mom jeans? Have you seen how good my butt looks in these?” Mom asks.
“No,” the brunette replies.
“Don’t worry. You’re about to get a great view,” she says, and places her foot up to the line. “Opin, hit play.”
I do. “Jump” by Van Halen begins to play. The three girls laugh again. But Mom doesn’t. She loves this song. It gets her blood pumping. It gets her focused. She crouches low and shows her teeth. She’s ready; like a cheetah about to launch from the bushes toward the unsuspecting gazelle girls.
The three girls tie their hair back, get a few stretches in, and get on their mark. I stand on the side. “On your mark … Get set … Go!” I shout.
The four runners take off. Not sprinting at top speed yet, but still faster than they should be this early in the race. I guess it’s all the competitive juices flowing.
Mom is in last place. But SPOILER: She always likes to start a bit slow and finish the race strong. I guess that makes her more of a horse than a cheetah. More of a tortoise than a hare. And we all know how that story ended. As they make the first turn, Mom kicks it up a notch.
Just as I predicted, Mom passes the brunette. Now she does get a good view of my mom’s butt. At the halfway mark, Mom catches up to the redhead. They run side by side for a few moments until my mom flips the switch and passes her.
The blonde is ahead. She’s fast. Real fast. But my mom is related to the wind, and right now, she will use her blood to her advantage. Mom gets directly behind the blonde. And as the blonde needs to run through the air and cut it with her body as she runs, Mom uses the opening of the cut air and reaches her. It’s called riding the draft.
She then pulls to her side. They run together, in full sprint, but Mom switches gears and breaks ahead. First one foot, then two feet, then three feet ahead. Soon she is a good ten feet ahead of her. And there’s only a quarter of the race left … But … from behind, the quiet redhead hasn’t given up. In fact, the redhead strides past the blonde and somehow catches up to my mom. And in the last stretch, the redhead and my mom are neck and neck.
I leap onto the track and stand just behind the finish line. They are both running toward me. They look like wild horses. They look like wolves. They look like NASCAR race cars. I hold out my hands. Whoever touches my hand first is the winner. Mom is on my left. The red-haired runner is on my right.
They are seconds away. I feel their feet sparking the clay ground. I hear the rumble in the air being sliced up by these two women. I can see the sweat flying from their bodies. Here they come. My hands await contact.
Three … two … one … Bam. My hand is touched. Directly followed by my other hand being touched.
Which hand was touched first? My right hand.
I turn as I see both runners grab their thighs and breathe heavily. Mom is all smiles. Does she think she won? Oh no. How do I tell her that she lost?
“Who won?” the redhead asks.
I gulp. “You did.”
I turn to Mom to see the heartbreak crack onto her face, but she is still smiling. Why? She lost. Did she not hear me?
Mom pulls out the twenty-dollar bill and hands it to the winner.
“Thanks,” the redhead says. “You’re fast.”
“I am. But you’re faster,” Mom replies, and kisses her hand to show good sportsmanship.
Finally, the other two arrive. They are panting worse than the winner and my mom.
“So, who won?” the blonde asks.
“He did,” the redhead says, and hands me the twenty-dollar bill.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you giving me the prize money?”
“You remind me of my nephew, that’s why. Now, go buy your mom a pair of running shoes,” she says, and sends me a wink.
“I’m glad you were the one,” Mom says to her, picks up the boom box, and walks back to the Bronco.
What does “glad she was the one” mean? The one to beat her? I don’t get it. I run up to the Bronco and get in. Mom is sitting there in the driver’s seat, catching her breath. And she’s still smiling.
“Why are you smiling? You lost the race,” I say.
“I had to lose it. I tried to win, but I had to lose,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“That was my last race, Opin. I’m done running,” she says, and starts the Bronco.
I smile. Mom took her shot. And lost. Just like how I took my shot and missed. And we are both glad they happened exactly as they did. She’s done running, and I’m still a kid.