Listen, Listen, Listen, 3 years down and forever to go

ON THE first day Ezra came home from the hospital, I put my ear up to his tiny body while he slept.  Someone outside peeking in through a window would've seen me standing there, my neck halfway in the bassinet like an ostrich with its head in the sand.

A confusing sight for sure but any parent would understand. I needed to make sure my baby was breathing.

Just a few days ago, Ezra peacefully lay in bed -- too peaceful for my liking -- so I leaned over and put my cheek against his. Again, I wanted to feel him breathe.

Today marks three years since I first started monitoring Ezra's sleep, watching his chest go up and down. How many countless breaths he's taken since, I’ll never know. Somehow though, it feels like I've been there for every inhale and exhale, each one a reminder that my seed is growing. Maybe faster than I expected.

He calls himself a big boy. He can build a puzzle on demand and I've even tried to start teaching him math.

“Ezra what's 1 +1? ... 2!

Great! What's 2+2? … 4!

Awesome! What's 1+2? … Pickaw!!!

Try again. What's 1+2?  Coo coo!!!”

Typical Ezra, gives you a little smart followed by a whole lot of silliness. I shouldn't expect anything less from a 3 year old, especially since watching Mateo's video the other day that went viral. “Listen, Listen, Linda, wait, Listen to me?”

Mateo is so cute pleading his case for a cupcake, looking and sounding like a sensible adult making an impassionate plea. I think about Ezra and how he handles his frustrations at times. Wish it would be more like Mateo but instead my son is a whiner. He cries because his food is too hot. He cries when you help him pour his juice.

"I can't open it." Cry.

“Time to take a bath.” Cry.

Little man would win a Baby Oscar for his performance after he falls down and gets an “ouchy." He forces me to come with the “Sana Sana Colita de Rana” because that’s clinically proven to heal all ouchies, right?

As a kid I was a cry baby too (some might say I still am). And I'm afraid that he's somehow inherited that from me.  It’s my fault he's sensitive to everything around him because it's my blood that runs through him. Even worse: does he act this way because I am an emotional person? Sometimes I can’t control my frustration. Many times I know he can sense and see it. I wonder if I am responsible for his demeanor. The possibility weighs heavy on me.

My best friend John posted another video that made the rounds on Facebook depicting children emulating the worst behavior of their parents. It reminded me of how delicate our children are at this point in their life. It’s stating the obvious but we are molding these precious materials hoping they transform into beautiful pieces of art -- which feels silly to say since they're already wonders of the world, magnificent masterpieces.

I guess my job is to maintain my integrity so that one day my son can say he learned how to be a man by watching me. And that’s so daunting. Everyone has their opinion on how to do things the "right way." But if having a child has taught me anything, it’s that in parenting, there is no one way to do something right.

Back in the day, I could only imagine what my life would be like as a father, when I used to bump Kanye’s first joint in my car for months on end. This year marks the 10 year anniversary of the College Dropout and I can’t believe it’s been that long since I moved to the Bay Area after college. Those days feel like distant memories now but I mention it only because I remember dreaming about my future and wondering how life would be when I had a family and those beats provided the soundtrack in the background. There’s a song on the album that has stuck with me and I relate it now to Ezra and how he makes me feel. On “Never Let You Down” there is a particular poem by J. Ivy that resonates with my soul. I've put a few lines in italics:

"Determination, dedication, motivation. I'm talking to you about many inspirations when I say I can't let you or self down."
 

Every year he grows older and smarter. Every day he watches me and the world around him and adds to his own personality. I sit back and enjoy every second of it. And all I can think about is how I will never quit on him. Ezra, I can't let you or self down.

 
"I too dream in color and in rhyme."
 

His dreams now consists of a dog biting his leg or maybe the "Monsters are coming!" His dreams will mature and grow with time, along with his creativity. For now, the joy his imagination brings to my life is vibrant and colorful, allows me to paint pictures with my heart.

“Whenever you open your mouth, a touch of GOD reigns out.”

It feels like Heaven when I walk in the door from work and he runs to me and proclaims “Daddy’s home!” Maybe he shows me a drawing he made at school or he offers me food from his own plate: “You hungry Daddy?” Those blissful instances balance out and overshadow all the other hard stuff that comes with the growing pains of a toddler, making the hard knock part of a pop's life more than bearable.

Still there are choices to make and lessons to teach in spite of me.

I know when Ezra cries, I sometimes become frustrated. To that I’ll tell him: “Don't ever let anyone stop you from showing emotion.”

When he’s running around and bouncing off the walls, I sometimes make him calm down or be quiet. To that I say: “Never let anyone block your light from shining.”

When he’s attempting to do something on his own – like spread peanut butter on a piece of bread and he’s furious he can’t do it – I may become impatient and try to do it for him. To that I’ll tell him: “Never let anyone convince you that you can't do something. Not even me.”

So, I’ll tell you again son, now and forever, Happy Birthday big boy. I’ll let you eat cake and I’ll buy you gifts but none of those can ever compare to the gift you gave me the day you were born.

The gift of fatherhood.

Ezra Rey Sanchez (3yrs old)

Hey Blue, Thanks for the Ride

The sun shines brightly through windows designed to make riders feel outside. Instead, the glass resembles over-sized picture frames, showcasing people sitting on aluminum seats and cheap fabric. On the Blue Line you'll find sticky, wet floors, paint chipped aisles, graffiti-scratched metal, a cultural art gallery floating on greasy tracks. Twenty three million ride the mechanical wave yearly, with train stops serving as bookmarks, keeping a place for those coming off the graveyard shift or on the way to work, visiting a parole officer, prepping for a job interview, falling asleeep on the way to class. Everyone just trying to make it. I realize why I was reluctant to ride the Blue Line. Now it’s hard to say goodbye. I developed a unique relationship with Old Blue and all its nuances; the funky smell, the nauseous motion, the sudden braking, the grimy, urban landscape zooming by in my peripheral. This is where I come from and where I’ve never been. The Los Angeles no one visits and others call home. The LA you won’t find in travel guides, the place too many leave behind. And yet, I associate it with love. Photo by Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times The Blue Line represents my son Ezra because he’s the reason I had to "sacrifice" and make the trek. I use sacrifice lightly because it implies struggle and struggle is relative, especially when sitting near a woman asking about a restraining order or when the man across the aisle is holding a plastic bag containing all of his belongings. "Welcome out OG," someone says. Ezra is not on the train with me but I see him every day in the eyes of kids fidgeting in their strollers, being brats, others sitting patiently, asking grandma a million questions. Of course, when I recount this whole experience to him years from now I only hope he’ll empathize with the human stories I’ve witnessed here. I will remember them vividly, turning them into instant urban legends, my epic tales that start out like this …"When I was younger, I rode the Blue Line…” Blue Line? All I see is white, black and yellow :) Turns out my wife and the Blue Line are in cahoots. They have conspired to reveal the hardworking, grind it out, no excuses, blue collar type of guy inside. Get up, drive, fight traffic, catch the train, be on time, stand, knee pain, tolerance, compromise, understanding, back hurts, tired, keep going – all of it together tells a story, the first chapter of when my life became life, which is to say when things got real. When responsibility began checking on me, keeping me honest like an LA County Sherriff looking for fare evaders. My wife keeps me on my toes too. Two years ago I shared my vows with her and for two years I’ve been on this ride doing all I can to love her unconditionally, respect her, protect and love her. All I have to do is give up my seat, hold the closing doors, show up every day with love as my ticket, giving us access to anywhere. Next stop: another level. As my commitment to the Blue Line ends, it taught me that my marriage to Candace is a daily adventure filled with ups and downs, starts and stops, funny and heartbreaking moments, anger and frustration. Ultimately, there is faith, hope and, the greatest of them all, love. The last part comes from Corinthians 13. Yes, there are preachers on the Blue Line, sharing the Good Word to whoever will listen. I started posting all of my observations on Facebook, collecting these memories hoping someone could relive it with me even in their imagination. The ridiculous impromptu entertainment became my ride partner. The overheard conversations from cell phone users lacking any damn shame or sense. The sometimes creative, many times annoying, sales pitches from the homeless needing real change not just coins and cash. The informal fashion shows, cheap sunglasses and hoodies on a hot day...CALI- FOR-NIA. Knock-off brand named shirts. Are they fake on the Blue Line? Or are they real? Real enough to make us feel connected to something, a cause, a community. I am a proud card carrying member. Its light aqua, says TAP, and has two dollars left to use. Two dollars better served for an agua or a Snickers. History tell us the Red Car Line used this route back in the day from Long Beach to Downtown until service stopped in 1961. The Blue Line sprouted back up in the 90s and it’s taken nearly 20 some years for a revolution to brew, a slow but rising demand for public transportation in Los Angeles. I know I'm late to the party. So many have relied on trains and buses before and will continue to do so. Ironically, I leave for the current Red Line, North Hollywood to DTLA, but it won't be the same. Old Blue won't be there to comfort me, to provide a safe haven, a moving office, a respite to collect my thoughts. It will no longer tour me through the place that offers perspective, something of which I still need daily reminders. No more Staples Center, no Watts Towers. No more knowledge-filled vignettes provided by average Joes living life. That’s the beauty of the Blue Line, a lesson always being taught and learned; an opportunity either seized or missed. Keep your eyes and ears open or it might pass you by.  #BLChronicles Other perspectives: "Killing Time on the Ghetto Blue" LA Weekly 2004  "Blue Line cuts across LA County's Invisible Boundaries" Los Angeles Times 2010  "History of the Blue Line" The Transit Coalition

Two Years Ezra and The Lion King

The orange and blue sky provided the background and I could hear the buzz of the street in my ear. I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. I was ready to speak to my son.

Candace pressed record and the lens focused in on me. I envisioned what he would look like, thought of what I would say to him and how he would react to my voice. I directed my words to him and began letting out my hopes and dreams, the Santa Monica wind carrying my every word into the universe.

He has yet to hear these recorded words and if I do let him watch the video, now on his 2^nd birthday, he probably won’t understand. But it felt like the first time I truly spoke to him. Candace let out her heart too. A glowing smile on her face. A special giddy tone to her voice. We stood near the famous pier with the horizon to our backs, transforming into the colorful mess one of those Big Stick Popsicles leaves behind. We knew our life would never be the same.

We patiently ate dinner at Wockano’s that night – March 13^th, 2011 – acting like a couple of cool cucumbers, when in fact all we wanted to do was get to the hospital. We were so nervous about the life that awaited us. I can honestly say those last few hours before I officially became a father were the most clear my head has ever been. That final day before my son’s birth and my re-birth is one of the happiest I could remember.

Little did I know, Ezra Rey Sanchez, the cute boy everybody loves, would eventually lose his mind. (Cue dramatic piano music here! Ton, Ton, Ton!) Yes, the little belly ball has gone Coo-Coo for Coco Puffs. And in the process, so have I.

Parenting 101 is no joke and the toughest test I've taken is managing a human being you love to the bone after he shuns you, disregards you and flat out leaves you feeling helpless.

Ezra has an imagination and a mental capacity that is beyond my understanding. I love it to death until it makes me feel like death.  Let’s just say he’s too smart for his own good.

It started with the word No.

“Ezra, give me that, it’s not a toy!”

“No!”

“Ezra, come over here.”

“Nooo…”

Honestly, the first time this happened, I smirked.  Who does this kid think he is? And even worse, why do I think it’s cute and funny? After perfecting the phonetic sound – Noooo – he started throwing it around, letting it roll off the tongue all crisp and articulate. Needless to say, this wasn’t amusing anymore. In fact, after one such outburst, I was ready to go Mufasa on him: “Zazu, take Nala home. I’ve got to teach my son a lesson!”

Gulp!

The Lion King has become such a parallel in my life these days. Yes, the 1994 Disney movie about a lion cub and his pops. The movie has resonated with me from the first time I saw it. The powerful opening sequence, the lessons throughout about life’s decisions, the strong relationship between Simba and his father in the present and afterlife, all make it such a wonderful flick and Ezra loves it too. He sings along to the Circle of Life, Can’t Wait to be King and of course, Hakuna Matata.

Beyond that, Ezra recognizes his ABC’s and can count to 20. Name a nursery rhyme in Spanish or English, he can probably belt it out. The dude is a performer. He’s also extremely independent. He doesn't want help with anything and let’s you know he’s not happy if you try. I wonder where he gets that from?

Everyone always says Ezra looks like Candace. If they only knew that it doesn't stop at physical appearance. He embodies his mother’s spirit. The most independent, driven, determined person I know is my wife and I’m so grateful those qualities have transferred over to our son. The stubbornness, hard headed, short-tempered stuff, he gets from daddy – not so grateful.

Even with all the craziness Ezra brings to our lives I wouldn't have it any other way. The responsibility is daunting and at the same time easily manageable as if parents were given a gene that is activated to handle the madness. The struggle with this balance is visible and some how I know Ezra understands by the way he looks at me. I need to set an example and be his guide. In other words, whenever Ezra loses his mind, I need to find mine.

I think back to that sky in Santa Monica and it reminds me of when Mufasa tells Simba to look up at the stars.

“The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars,” Mufasa says, “...So whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be there to guide you. And so will I.”

Happy Birthday, son. I’ll always be here for you. Always.

Sleep Fighter Part II

THE LITTLE GUY stumbles out of the bedroom, hair curled up in every direction, hands rubbing the corners of his eyes, looking for something. He heads for his toys, maybe glances up at the television. He lets out a halfhearted cry. If he was an old man, he’d check his wristwatch. It’s past bed time but he likes to fight the Zs. At the same time, he wants to be put to bed and so he finally accepts his fate, crawls on me, lies on my chest as I rest on the couch.

He looks up at me before he dozes off as if to double check I’m there. Or is it that he thinks I have a magical power that lulls him to dreams. Maybe he sees me as reinforcements in his epic battle with those heavy eyelids and he can now surrender with grace. A few wiggles and a couple moans before the snoring kicks in. Out.

This is when my therapy starts. To watch him breathe peacefully, slobber pooling on my shirt, is heavenly. I’m reminded of love and sacrifice with every breath he takes. It soothes me, makes me forget my pain, my worries. Nothing can compare to this connection. I’m sorry but nothing. And I hope you understand. Then again, I’m quite sure you won’t because although many of us have children and can relate, the actual bond we share with them is unique like a finger print. No two are alike. It belongs to us and only us and because of this we are special.

There is a line in the poem “Our Deepest Fear” by Marianne Williamson in which she writes, “We are all meant to shine, as children do.” Ezra shines so bright that my heart squints; his light emanates through the walls of our apartment, down the stairs and into the courtyard, sliding into the garage where it illuminates even the dampest of places.

So much innocence deserves leniency but I scold him for being a brat sometimes. Discipline is a tight-rope walk, 20 stories high with the wind blowing. I seek delicate balance not always finding it. I catch myself as to not hoist the frustrations of my world on him. He has other challenges to tackle. His repeated ear infections are one. What "Cat in At" book he should read is another. Counting to “Eeefteen” is one more.

Ezra is almost two years old and I still can't believe it sometimes. Then I see my wife stuff bag after bag of clothes that no longer fit; each shirt or pajamas representing an hour, a day, a week, months, years. The little time I can grasp is fleeting, disappearing faster than milk from my refrigerator. It's all he ever wants at night, his Lechita, gets those saliva glands nice and replenished. And that's OK, I won’t ever complain. If you're tired and sleepy, lay on my chest and drool away son, I have plenty of T-shirts.

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.

"Drake meets Jon Travolta"

"You betta pick you Afro daddyyyy, cuz it's flat on one side." - Erykah Badu

I doubt Erykah Badu was thinking of Ezra when she wrote that line but, man, does it fit. Ezra's curly top definitely has a life of it's own, almost like a Transformer, changing it's shape and size on command. The guy who opens those Halloween shops in October would pay good money for Ezra's crop, recreating it to put it on the shelves. Baby Afro for the kids! They'd sell like hot cakes.

The beauty of being a kid is the saving grace of not knowing when you look absolutely crazy. That's the parents fault and Ezra's hair takes on many forms. It's like Drake meets Jon Travolta, meets Questlove from the Roots, meets Colangelo from Bronx Tale. It's the Black-Hispanic mullet: business in the front, party in the back but then does a complete 180 in the afternoon/night. Party in front, the side, the back, basically, Party Rockin! I'm waiting for him to pause, stare at me and blurt out: "Everyday I'm Shufflin." LMFAO would be proud.

It doesn't help that Ezra actually picks his hair with his hands unwittingly. When we sing the song "5 Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" he knows to "bump" his head with his hand at the right time. Of course, this causes his hair to react like a squeezed sponge expanding. I love the bunny rabbit tail "poof" in the back sometimes. I mean, is it 1981? He plays with it, pulling one side out when he's tired. Bed time: Yes put that hair to sleep!

I love walking in the door, Ezra in arms, hair puffed out from the sweat of the drive home -- we wake up with "Bed head", he wakes up with "Car seat head" --  and his mom looking at him squarely saying "THAT BABY LOOK CRAZY!"

Yes is does and he's all ours.

The Ultimate Assist

"I wondered why somebody didn't do something. Then I realized… I am somebody." ~Unknown 

Family and Friends, as you all know, basketball is one of my passions so I have decided to take my love for the game and use it toward a great cause! I'll be playing for 12 hours straight as part of a charity basketball game to raise funds for the Sihanouk Hospital in Cambodia, a training center for medical professionals that provides 24-hour health care to thousands who are medically under-served. By playing in this 12-hour marathon of a basketball game, I'm sacrificing to help someone else in need. I feel like I'm making a difference but I can't do it alone. Will you help by donating to my cause? Go here and click on my name: HOOPS FOR HOPE

From 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., I'll be giving it my all on the court. I ask that you give a little something as well. My goal is to raise $1,001. If I can convince 2,002 people to donate 50 cents, I'd make my goal. However, it's more realistic to start with a $25 donation. This contribution will allow me to achieve my goal of helping someone who needs medical attention but simply can't afford it. Can you help?

If you'd like to come cheer me on, you're welcome to stop by! You can't put a price tag on Encouragement!

This is my challenge, will you help me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hoops for Hope is a sports endurance adventure created for the purpose of raising money and awareness for the Sihanouk Hospital in Cambodia. Hoops for Hope is 24 men pledging to play 12 hours of basketball to raise a minimum of $24,000. It is a chance for you to generously give your money to help a heroic hospital staff serve people freely. The event will begin at 8 a.m. on Saturday, May 26th and end that evening at 8 p.m. The contributions can begin now. You can select the player you want to sponsor by going to their personalized page and clicking right now on DONATE. To find out more about Sihanouk Hospital Center of HOPE, click here. To find out more about HOPE worldwide Cambodia, click here.