The Mysterious 58-year Case of Ricardo Sanchez Sr.

The image is vague and almost gone. I recall the scene only because it lives on a Beta video tape. I see a shaggy-haired three year old running toward a man. He's tall, wearing a tight t-shirt, shorts and a thick mustache, a poster child for 80s fashion. The boy reaches him and punches him in the stomach. The mischievous smile on the brat's face is wider than the street they are walking down. Both seem pleased by the playful interaction.

I remember watching the footage years later as a young man, creating the memory I’m drawing from now, a memory of a memory. The film has since been misplaced, shuffled somewhere between VCR tapes and mom's old nick-knacks. What isn’t lost is what that glimpse into the past represents. Proof, captured at its most innocent state, that something powerful exists. Something those two souls have been fighting over, sharing and longing for all these years: a connection between a man and his son; a man and his father. 

Walking the streets of Germany...

He lies in bed with a small wet towel over his forehead to quell a fever. Eyes deep in his sockets, a defeated stare on his face he can’t hide. Trips to the hospital, blood work, IV’s, tests, and medicine. Mom is stressed, thinking about what could be, tired of seeing her partner suffer but also of his dramatic declarations made with signature Latino machismo: “I fought Death himself in my dream… and won!” Nonetheless, these are unfamiliar sights and sounds, ones that took 58 years to materialize. It's my dad’s birthday today and it seems diabetes and the ill affects of an unknown cardiac condition are crashing the party. But even as those physical handicaps creep into his psyche and try to break him down, they will not define him or tell his story. 

My father was born on Oct. 4, 1954. A snot-nosed sipote from San Pedro Sula who went from playing in the Rio Blanco to swimming in far-off oceans courtesy of the U.S. Army. A young man who emigrated from Honduras then assimilated to a new culture, one that would promise hope, tease him with missed opportunities and present him with many others, countless of which he fought hard for. The kid who witnessed extreme nationalism by his father, inherited the same passion for the people, and ascended to mayor of a small city near the big city in a foreign land of dreams.  

My father is 58 years old today but in his mind he is still 21. He once copped a major attitude when we put 44 candles on his cake. The man refuses to be called abuelito or grandpa. He insists on “Tito” and so that it is. All the qualities that make him great – strong beliefs, pride, stoicism, loyalty – are what form a wedge. My father and I don't see eye to eye on 100 things but there is something he’s given me that connects us today and for eternity: the importance of family. He didn't sit me down and tell me. He showed me every day. He worked hard to provide. He took night classes at Compton College. He was determined to be his own boss so he started one business after another, unafraid to fail – that takes courage and intelligence and vision. It also means he had to take heat from everyone including family. It didn't matter. He made it work always, even if it was by the skin of his teeth. I see the family bond again with my son, a kinship they’ve solidified over the last 18 months. There is a renewed hope in how he looks at Ezra, a pride only grandpas have. He once looked at me the same and from time to time probably still does. He is, after all, the man who put his hand on my chest, closed his eyes tight and asked God to allow his little boy with bronchitis to breathe. The disciplinarian who caught his son throwing fireworks in the air after one got stuck on the roof, then proceeded to teach the naive boy a lesson with the spanking of a lifetime- in front of the neighborhood kids!

My father has done countless other things that sound like urban legend but they're true. Like the time he was sprayed in the face with a can of soda by a cholo then jumped out of his car armed with a screwdriver to get even. Or the day we witnessed a drive-by shooting and sped after the car so he could catch the guy himself... June, write down the license plate! Or when his car was stolen, he and his brothers drove all of LA to find it, and when he miraculously did, he caught the guy too, standing on the street corner wearing his jacket -- a belt was used in the ensuing beat down. Or the time he ran into the Imperial Courts projects after a guy snatched my mom's purse at a red light. She was pregnant at the time. Or the year he started a Block Watch because our home was broken into twice then realized instead of fixing this neighborhood, I’m going to fix this city and ran for city council, won and became mayor of Lynwood. What!?

Sanchez men love to eat

We are extremely different but can't deny we are cut from the same cloth. We share similar mannerisms and, man, are we stubborn. My mom and wife have said to me “you’re just like your dad” a million times. But the truth is I am nothing like him. He is better than me. He constantly reminds me “Call your mom, check in with her. See how she’s doing. Me? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. But call her.”  Inadvertently teaching me to see him as invisible allows him to fade into the background, almost nonexistent to each other, connected by a third party. I know its wrong and it must change but sometimes recognizing what we feel and acting on it are separated by an ocean. He lays there, towel on his head:

“How are you feeling?” 

“Not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to the doctor?”

“Tomorrow”

“OK”

Short, simple to the point. He knows I love him. I know he loves me. It’s all we need and all we’ve ever needed. No camera to record, no tape to replay, just what's in my mind and in my heart. And we’re fine with that because there’s so much more life to live, so many stories left to tell.