Category Archives: Summer in the Waiting Room

Summer in the Waiting Room – Chapter 3: Redemption (excerpt#19)

Summer in the Waiting Room, , , ,

0000_cesar-chavez

Chapter 3

Redemption

 

Before completing college and before Sandra and I decided to have a family, I threw the original plan of earning a teaching credential to the wayside, which would have taken another three semesters.  With my dream of becoming a teacher subservient to my need to begin a career, I felt that I had lost too much time during the years I had stumbled through life trying to soothe the pain of my failures. Not sure what a twenty-nine year old college graduate with a history degree could do other than teach high school history, I wondered what direction to pursue and where the opportunities may be.

Then fate stepped in.  During the spring before graduation, Sandra and I were visiting her parents on a Saturday afternoon when a friend from college, Damian Trujillo, called to invite me to the 25th anniversary celebration for a local job training program.  Damian was determined, hard-working, and ambitious; he worked part-time at KSJS, the San Jose State radio station, and dreamed of becoming a television reporter.

I had taken some Mexican American Studies classes with Damian and we became friends when we worked together on the planning committee of a national academic conference the Mexican American Studies Department hosted at San Jose State.  It was the first time I was part of a team that developed and produced a large conference that attracted people from throughout the country.  Today, Damian is recognized as one of the most respected and well-known newsman in the valley.

The featured speaker at the job training center anniversary event would be Cesar Chavez, the great labor leader and civil rights icon who found the United Farm Workers of America. Sandra encouraged me to go because her advisor in high school, George Shirakawa, Sr., was a city councilman who probably would be at the event and might be willing to advise me about getting a job at the city if I told him that I was married her.

With nothing to wear, my old suits didn’t fit anymore and we didn’t have money or time to get a new one, I called Rudy and borrowed his only suit.  Years later, at an event I had invited him to attend where he wore a perfectly tailored blue business suit, he would recount that I taught him that every man must always have at least one suit, just in case one was needed.  Looking very much the politician in Rudy’s black suit with white shirt and red tie, I headed to downtown San Jose with Damian to attend the first political event of my life.

The celebration, held in San Jose’s cavernous convention center’s main hall, was attended by the valley’s political glitterati.  Feeling absolutely natural in that environment, I moved about the hall effortlessly introducing myself to everyone who looked familiar from television news and newspaper stories: the valley’s congressional representative, state legislators, a future San Jose mayor, and a city councilwoman who was the grand dame of Latino politics in Silicon Valley.

I even approached Cesar Chavez himself and extended my hand in introduction.  During the few seconds I spent shaking Chavez’s hand and exchanging cordial salutations, I saw the powerful yet humble determination in his eyes that made him a national civil rights hero.  Even though it was clear to see that these politicians would forget our interaction the second I walked away, I was instantly mesmerized by politics that night.

Toward the end of the evening, I finally saw the prize, the reason I decided to accept Damian’s last-minute invitation, Councilman George Shirakawa, Sr.  He was walking quickly through the crowd with a small entourage that included his son George, a local school board trustee. Mr. Shirakawa was an admired teacher and counselor before entering politics, and George, Jr. was a popular high school athlete before his election to the school board.  Together there were revered in their part of town in south central San Jose.

I stepped in Mr. Shirakawa’s path, jutted out my hand, and introduced myself.  He was a husky, gregarious man with a beaming smile, a booming voice, and a personality that filled the spacious hall.  He was a wearing a black tuxedo with a colorful matching vest and bow tie.  With the same distant look in his eyes as the other politicians I met, he shook my hand, said hello, and began to continue his march through the hall.

When I told him that I was married to Sandra Peralta, he stopped in his tracks, smiled even bigger, and in that commanding voice told me that if I was married to “Sandy Peralta,” I must be a good man.  He then handed me his business card, directed me to call his office on Monday, and disappeared into the crowd.

NEW FEATURE: Quotes & Quips

Summer in the Waiting Room,

writing-center

Dear Readers,

Since September 2013, I’ve posted stories on different topics every Monday. On Wednesday mornings, I post excerpts of my manuscript of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved my Life. I hope to publish Summer in the Waiting Room as a book, so I’ve decided to dedicate more time to finish the manuscript.

With that in mind, I will no longer write stories and essays for Monday posts. In their place, I will add a new feature to East Side Eddie Report.com beginning on April 21st.  The new feature, Quotes & Quips, will be a brief posting of inspiring, provocative, or amusing thoughts to start your work week. I would love to share your favorite lines, anecdotes, and sayings on Quotes & Quips, so please send them to me at eddie.m.garcia@comcast.net.

Keep reading every Wednesday morning for regular installments of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved my Life. Chapter 3: “Redemption” starts this week.

I truly appreciate your support of East Side Eddie Report.com. I hope to keep you coming back for more.  Thanks for reading!!

Eddie

***********************

About Summer in the Waiting Room

Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life is the inspiring story of a boy who grew up in a working-class neighborhood, failed at college and lost hope, met and married the love of his life, returned and finished college, raised a family, and found some success in business and public office.  It’s also the story of a man who vowed never to fail again and worked tirelessly trying to redeem himself, only to find true redemption, while in a state of complete helplessness in the ICU.

To read past excerpts from Summer in the Waiting Room, click on“Summer in the Waiting Room” tag to the right.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #18)

Summer in the Waiting Room, ,

423435_2913085552261_1978388929_n

Every semester, the results of that term’s academic performance arrived in the mail on light blue computer paper, and term after term, an “A” would be recorded next each course I completed.  I was on a mission. I stayed up later, studied more, and worked harder in class as the semesters went by.  During the spring before my thirtieth birthday, I was still shy of graduation so I put myself into overdrive to get to the finish line.  That semester I took seven classes, plus a required physical education class for a total of twenty-two units, an overloaded schedule that had to be approved by an advisor.

It was a hectic term, and I earned a straight “A” report card again, then it was done.  It was a bittersweet moment as I was relieved to have achieved my goal; but I still felt inferior and a sense of guilt for the earlier college failure, so I didn’t want to participate in commencement ceremonies.  Fortunately, Sandra made me don the cap and gown of a San Jose State graduate.

At the age of twenty-nine, just slightly ahead of schedule, I walked onto the football field at Spartan Stadium with 5,000 other graduates while our 30,000 friends and family members watched from the stadium seats.  I was proud to have earned my degree, especially because my parents, who both suffered heart attacks in their mid-fifties, were healthy enough to celebrate with me.

My bond with Sandra was stronger than ever, and the true meaning of giving unconditional love entered my consciousness for the first time.  As I started working on a career and Sandra got settled in hers, we decided to have a family.  I’ve always loved babies and kids so I couldn’t wait to have some of my own.  Of course, with Sandra at the helm, we planned our family methodically; we would have two children, three to four years apart, regardless of the gender so we could provide them with enough love and resources to be successful.

We would read to them while Sandra was pregnant and continue the practice until they became readers on their own, we would talk with them to build up confidence, and we would support their efforts as they grew.  I wanted babies with chubby cheeks and beautiful eyes like their mother, and of course, I hoped that they would love to read history and plays sports like me.  On March 20, 1994, our oldest daughter Marisa was born, and Erica came three and a half years later on October 19, 1997.

Marisa is the archetype of the oldest sibling; she is smart, responsible, focused, and cautious.  From the time she was a baby, Marisa was all smiles, cheerful, and attracted attention everywhere we went.  Skipping the crawling phase, she scooted about on her bottom to get from place to place in the house, and suddenly one day she stood up and began walking.  Marisa was and still is articulate.  As a baby she could use simple words before she walked and, when she was a little older, she could memorize the storybooks we read and appear to be reading them herself.

I have to dig deeply into my memory to remember a time when Marisa didn’t talk.  Mr. Peralta remarked more than once that, “this girl is going to be a lawyer.”  Like her mother, she has fair skin, full cheeks, pretty brown eyes, and a smile that is contagious.  She is thoughtful, articulate, a voracious reader with a diverse taste for music, and always ready to participate in a good debate.  At about the age of ten, she began to have challenges with anxiety, of which she is constantly learning to manage.  A straight “A” student throughout her life, she studies communications at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles.

Erica has an endearing personality. She’s witty, daring, and playful.  At times she could be unfocused due to her artistically creative nature.  She was a chubby baby with expressive eyes and a mischievous grin who began to crawl quickly and walk shortly thereafter.  It took her awhile to start talking. I even raised concerns that she might be slightly deaf as it runs in my family.  But that wasn’t the case.  Although she wasn’t talkative as a toddler, you could see her taking everything in and studying the sights and sounds around her.  This keen sense of observation gives her a comedic timing that easily attracts people.

While seemingly shy and reserved upon first meeting her, Erica is outgoing and social once she is comfortable with those around her.  It’s not unusual to see her holding the attention of little kids, her peers, or adults with her musings that end in howls of laughter.  Although frustrating to Sandra and me, she does just enough to get by in the classroom. Nonetheless, she plans to study art and design in college.  While she internalizes her feeling during times of crisis and disappointment, she maintained a faith that was unshakeable during the most challenging time of her life when I was in the intensive care unit clinging onto life

Together, the four of us are a close-knit unit.  I’m a prolific practitioner of nicknames and Sandra and the girls have many, and two have stuck for the girls: Marisa is “Tita” because Erica couldn’t say her name as a baby, and Erica is “X,” a warped progression of “Ericas,” one of my earliest nicknames for her.  When Sandra and I aren’t toiling away at an evening meeting, we have dinner with each other every night so the girls could talk about their day at school, complete with the schoolgirl gossip that came as they grew older.

Sandra and I share stories about our workday, constantly focusing on the positive outcomes of the challenges we face daily so the girls could see that work didn’t have to be drudgery if they followed their passions.  Before Marisa went off to college, the girls fought constantly, only to make up in an instant laughing and joking about inside jokes.  Now when Marisa returns for breaks from school, the two of them are the best of friends.

Sandra has always been the one to provide discipline and stability in their lives while I’ve been head cheerleader and dreamer in chief.  Since they were born, the girls have had me tightly wrapped around their little fingers so Sandra has said that she has to be the “tough” one while I’m the “pushover.”  Although overly simplistic, and in dispute like the argument about how I asked her to dance so many years ago, this dynamic has caused the most tension in our house.

With their mom, the girls love to shop, cuddle up on a lazy Sunday afternoon watching TV, and tease me about my idiosyncrasies.  With me, Marisa likes to talk about music, books, and politics. Erica and I talk about sports and history, and make each other crack up with our silly humor.  The four of us enjoy being with each other, whether going to the movies or out to dinner, or just staying home, hanging out and talking nonsense.  For too many years, our good times together must have seemed like special occasions to my family, because for most of their lives, Sandra, Marisa, and Erica have endured watching me fight demons through my obsessive and passionate pursuit of my ambitions.

*************************

Blogger’s note: This is the 18th installment from my manuscript of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. I post weekly excerpts every Wednesday morning.  To read previous installments, go to the “Tags” link and click on “Summer in the Waiting Room.”

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #17)

Summer in the Waiting Room, , , , ,
The newlyweds hanging out with Mickey during the summer of 1991 (Eddie & Sandra García Family photo)
The newlyweds hanging out with Mickey during the summer of 1991
(Eddie & Sandra García Family photo)

Sandra and I rented a small one bedroom apartment in the east foothills, not far from Alum Rock Park and the expensive houses up the hill.  She was in her first year as an elementary school teacher and I taught Spanish to pre-school kids at a private elementary school/day care center.  It was a job that didn’t require a college degree and paid next to nothing.  I also coached basketball at City College and made extra money tutoring the basketball players.  We were able to scrape by financially and married life was treating me well.

For the first time since I was a teenager I felt a sense of accomplishment and stability, this time without the brashness and bravado of one of the big men on campus.  Soon after the basketball season ended, Sandra and I made the decision that I should return to San Jose State on a full-time basis and put my career as a basketball coach on hold until I earned my bachelor’s degree and teaching credential.

I had been taking courses at State here and there for a couple of years to meet reinstatement eligibility to the university and to remove the academic disqualification from my record, so I was ready to submit an application for acceptance.  When a letter from San Jose State arrived in the mail, I anxiously opened the envelope, read the letter, and let out a huge sigh of relief.  My failed academic record had been cleared, and I was officially a college student once again.

The next day, a Saturday, Eddie Velez and I were working on a side job with Mr. Peralta replacing sidewalks at an apartment complex, but I wasn’t participating in the usual banter about sports, politics, the weather, and the aches and pains that come with construction work.  My mind was spinning with thoughts about my past failures, my new opportunity, and my second, and perhaps, last chance to redeem myself by earning a college degree and pursuing my dream of being a teacher and a coach.  Right then and there, I decided that I would work harder than ever in college to stay focused on the prize.

Because the acceptance letter arrived just days before classes were to begin, I had to sit in on the classes I wanted to secure a space before I could actually register.  It would be a tedious process that required patience and perseverance.  With a determination I never had before, I sat in class after class, cajoled professors to allow me to stay, and registered for a full load of classes to qualify as a full-time student.  I threw myself into my schoolwork, finishing projects, writing papers, and completing reading assignments ahead of schedule.

Early that first semester, I ran into a mental roadblock that could have compromised the entire effort; I realized that I was almost ten years older than my classmates in first year general education courses.  I started to doubt myself, I questioned my decision to drop everything to return to school, and I felt out of place as a weathered twenty-seven year old man among bright, young, and eager college students.

I shared these sentiments with a professor, Dr. Randall Jimenez, with whom I had developed a good relationship in his freshman communications course.  He told me that I had a natural talent for public speaking and using words to persuade and lead others.  Then he asked me how old I was and when did I anticipate on finishing my degree, and I responded that I hoped to graduate by my thirtieth birthday.  He said with good health and God’s will I would be thirty years old, so I had to decide whether I wanted to be thirty years old with a college degree or thirty years old without one; the choice was mine and mine alone.

From that day on I had a laser focus toward achieving success at the highest level possible, as a student and in my future career as an educator and basketball coach.  To help Sandra with living expenses, I spent the next three years tutoring freshman for the professor’s public speaking courses.  I ran into Dr. Jimenez two decades later, and with a bear hug and heartfelt smile, he mentioned how happy he was to see me, and that he had followed my career and medical problems in the newspaper.

I reminded him of and thanked him for the wise words he imparted on me that day early in my return to college.  He thanked me for listening because he knew that I would use my gift for public speaking to make an impact in people’s lives.  His wise advice twenty-one years before sent my college career and the professional life that was to follow into high gear.

For the next three years, I was a full-time student and part-time homemaker.  After that first semester, I met with an advisor on campus, selected history as my major, and mapped out the schedule of classes I would need to graduate by the time I was thirty years old.  At home, in between reading and writing assignments, I washed clothes, kept our little apartment clean, and experimented making different meals so dinner would be ready when Sandra got home from a long day with her students.

More often than not, my experiments would go badly and we would end up at one of the mom and pop restaurants or fast food joints that dotted our new neighborhood.  In addition to my studies and tutoring for the professor’s public speaking courses, I worked as a referee for intramural sports at San Jose State and tutored a neighborhood kid to further supplement Sandra’s teaching salary.  I was absolutely dedicated to my studies, devouring books faster than professors could assign them; reading in the laundry room at our apartment complex or at the kitchen counter while preparing another disastrous meal.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #16)

Summer in the Waiting Room, ,
The García and Peralta families came together to celebrate our wedding day on November 17, 1990. (Sandra and Eddie García Family Photo)
The García and Peralta families came together to celebrate our wedding day on November 17, 1990.
(Sandra and Eddie García Family Photo)

With Sandra’s support and the foundation created by this tightly knit family environment, I slowly began to emerge from the abyss of failure.  The fall we began dating, I applied for and accepted a position to coach the frosh-soph boys’ basketball team at the high school across the street from Most Holy Trinity Church.  I worked well with the student-athletes and the school administration further convincing myself that college and a career in education was my path to redemption.

The next year, in a sudden twist of fate, the head basketball coach at my alma mater resigned just weeks before the season began, so my return to college would have to wait because James Lick High School hired me to run its basketball program, which included a full-time job as an instructional aide.  The values I learned at 48 Viewmont Avenue served me well as I worked hard to rebuild a program that had won only two games the year before.  By the end of my second season, we had won half our games in the regular season and recorded a 12-2 record at the San Jose City College summer league, losing in the championship game to a county powerhouse.

That same summer, James Lick High School honored me with the school’s coach-of-the-year award and legendary San Jose City College basketball coach Percy Carr asked me to join his staff.  Despite these successes, the hard facts continued to haunt me:  I had failed at college, the coaching positions were part-time with no real conduit to a stable career, and the bright lights of success as a coach merely covered up the reality of my disappointments.

Although my relationship with Sandra was growing and getting stronger, I would regress into my self-loathing through an occasional weekend drinking binge with Rudy, thus setting back whatever gains I had made with Sandra in strengthening our bond.  As much as I loved Sandra and as much as I desired to get back on track with my life, the dual demons of perceived success as a coach and actual failure in life continued to keep me from moving forward.  As time went by, and as our bond grew stronger, the binges became less frequent and I began to fight the demons by working harder.

On Valentine’s Day in 1989, while still coaching at James Lick High School, I made the first decision I had ever made toward true adult responsibility. I decided to ask Sandra to get married.  I called Kimberley that morning and asked her to meet me in front of Milen’s jewelry store as I wanted her advice on choosing a ring.  I picked out a one-quarter karat marquis solitaire diamond engagement ring, placed it in the velvet box provided by the store, and went to coach that afternoon’s practice as usual.

After practice I called Sandra from the coach’s office and asked her if she want to get something to eat without telling her where we were going.  When we rolled up to the drive-in service at Mark’s Hot Dogs, Sandra mentioned how she was surprised because we hadn’t been there since that first awkward date almost four years before.  We ordered a couple of hotdogs “with everything on it,” chips, and two diet Coke’s, and when the server left the food on the tray that hung from the driver’s side window, I slipped the velvet box next to our order.

I first gave Sandra some napkins that she carefully spread on her lap and followed with the hotdog, chips, soda, and finally the velvet box all in one swift motion.  She took a small bite of the dog, paused, and turned her head toward me with a puzzled look on her face, and asked, “What’s this?”  I opened the box and asked her to marry me.  To my relief, she smiled and her eyes welled up with tears of happiness and she said “yes.”  Soon we were on our way to Santiago Avenue so I could formally and properly ask her parents for permission to marry their daughter.

The next year and a half was filled with work (I continued to work as an instructional aide at James Lick after I accepted the position of assistant basketball coach for the nationally-ranked San Jose City College team), my coaching responsibilities, and preparations for a wedding.  In addition to organizing wedding plans, Sandra completed her studies at San Jose State and began working toward a teaching credential.

On November 17, 1990, our families and five hundred of our closest friends celebrated our traditional Mexican American wedding at Most Holy Trinity Church.  Rudy was best man and Kimberley was maid of honor. When the double doors at the end of the main aisle of the church opened and I saw Sandra for the first time in her wedding gown, I immediately knew that I had made the best decision of my life. The reception was traditional as well with barbacoa (spicy Mexican shredded beef), rice, beans, and tortillas for dinner while mariachis and Mexican folkloric dancers entertained guests.

For our first dance as a married couple, at our request, a four-man Tex-Mex band, my favorite genre of Mexican music that includes an accordion, twelve-string bajo sexto guitar, bass guitar, and drums, played the standard ranchera song “Un Rinconcito en el Cielo” (A Little Corner of Heaven) made famous by Mexican musical legend Ramon Ayala y Sus Bravos del Norte.  Like everything in which Sandra organizes, the entire day and evening were the result of meticulous planning and execution.

We left San Jose the next morning for a three-day honeymoon in the Sierra Nevada Mountains at Lake Tahoe.  The trip was brief so I could return for the rest of the City College basketball season.  A new chapter had started for both of us; for Sandra it was the next step in her carefully thought-out life plan and for me it was a positive step toward my efforts to unravel the complicated life I had created for myself.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #15)

Summer in the Waiting Room, , ,
The Peralta Family with Nana Encarnación, ca. 1980 (Peralta Family Photo)
The Peralta Family and Nana Encarnación,          circa 1980
(Peralta Family Photo)

Sandra’s oldest sister Valerie was born in Fresno, California, in 1961, just before Fausto and Connie moved to San Jose.  She was an only child for five years and thrived under the attention paid to her by her parents.  She grew to be a strong-willed girl who did well in school and participated in the cheerleading squad in high school and graduated from college with a degree in computer science.  She is a loyal sister who is always available to lend moral support.

The birth of Kimberley, the third Peralta daughter, came three years after Sandra in 1969.  Like her older sisters, Kimberley did well in the classroom and participated in after-school activities such as the marching band.  Kimberley has a nurturing and faithful character who seeks compromise and accommodation whenever possible.  She completed her college studies in business administration partly to help her father achieve the dream of having a businesswoman in the family.

The youngest of the Peralta clan from Silver Creek High School is Shelley, born exactly ten years after Valerie on December 28, 1971.  Shelley, who earned her college degree in social work, is unassumingly intelligent, yet boisterous and independent with a fiery spirit that can be witty in one instance and cynical the next.  All four sisters have one trait in common: they are intensely loyal to their own individual families, and to each other, their parents, and extended family and friends.

Once Sandra and I started dating on a regular basis, I realized that acceptance to the family required developing a relationship with each sister on a one-on-one basis in addition to building trust with Sandra’s parents.  Although this was a tall order for a young man mired in his failures and ambiguous future, my upbringing centered on respect and integrity and my accommodating personality, not to mention my absolute adoration of Sandra, set the foundation for my relationship with the Peralta family.

My relationship with Mr. Peralta seemed to begin almost instantaneously one Sunday over a beer when I told him that my grandmother Joaquina was born in Sahuaripa, a village just over the mountains from his hometown; seventy kilometers as the bird flies, but an eight-hour drive through the rugged mountains of Sonora, Mexico.  Although my Spanish is about as good as his English, we hit it off right away.  Sandra had to drive me home that day because I drank a few too many beers and participated in my fair share of storytelling.

With Mrs. Peralta, I learned quickly that I would earn trust and acceptance by respecting her home and her daughters, which, with the exception of one early verbal scrap with Shelley, I was able to accomplish soon after I started to frequently visit Santiago Avenue.  Valerie had been married for several months before Sandra made that birthday cake for me, so she wasn’t living at the house on Santiago Avenue when I started to see Sandra regularly. My relationship with Valerie has always been one based on respect, understanding, and acceptance of one another.

Kimberley and Shelley are my de facto little sisters, I served as an open ear to listen to their adolescent problems when they were younger and still provide counsel to them as adults.  Due to our similar accommodating personalities, Kimberley and I always got along just fine, and although Shelley and I had that early altercation, we grew to admire and care for each other as siblings sharing the qualities of a quick wit and a sarcastic tongue.

Over the years, I also developed deep and strong relationships with the Peralta girls’ husbands.  Valerie’s husband Eddie Velez and I became close as we were the “big brothers” who sometimes worked with Mr. Peralta on side jobs to make extra money and helped each other with household projects.  He’s the handyman of the group, so he’s always available to help with a bad electrical fuse, cable TV connection, or nagging computer problem.  Both of us are loyal San Francisco Giants and 49ers fans, so baseball and football seasons always prove to be fun.

When Kimberley and her husband Miguel Rocha were dating in college, she turned to me often for advice, and once I got to know Miguel, we soon learned that we both shared the same intense ambition of achieving success at the highest level possible, he as a businessman and I in politics.  I love picking his brain and sharing ideas on how we could come up with a successful business plan or two.  We’re both natural salesmen (some would say bullshitters) and I’m sure it’s hilarious watching us trying to sell each other on an idea.

Shelley’s husband, Pancho Leyva, and I have a passion for sports, and in our younger days, we were a mischievous team when the beer started flowing.  Perhaps our best time together was when he and I sat a few rows behind home plate at AT&T Park the night San Francisco Giants home run king Barry Bonds hit his 500th homerun against the Los Angeles Dodgers.  I’ll never forget watching Pancho, the die-hard, blue-bleeding Dodger faithful, high-fiving Giants fans and enthusiastically waving an orange towel in recognition of Bonds’ historic achievement.

I have a true affection for each of them, and together we are about as close as any four brothers could be.  Sandra’s parents, her three sisters, and my three compadres would play a major role in the events that unfolded in the summer of 2010.

*********************

Next Week: My relationship with Sandra continues to grow and I find the courage to ask her to get married.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #14)

Summer in the Waiting Room, , , ,
Written on the back of the photo is, "Sandy 5th Grade" (Peralta Family Photo)
Written on the back of this photo is, “Sandy 5th Grade”
(Peralta Family Photo)

It was during those long phone calls between our first and second date that I got to know Sandra very well.  She was born Sandra Faustina Peralta on September 30, 1966, at Doctors Hospital just west of downtown San Jose, the second of four daughters born to Fausto and Connie Peralta, a construction worker and cannery worker.  She was a cute baby with big brown eyes, chubby cheeks, and puffy arms and legs that looked like they were tapered at the joints with rubber bands like a cute Michelin Man from the tire company’s commercials.

As she grew up, Sandra was obedient, studious, and cheerful.  In elementary school, she helped in the school library, cafeteria, and could always be found at recess time helping a teacher with some odd job in the classroom. Beneath the exterior of the model student and obedient daughter was a girl who had tremendous strength of character and unflinching determination.  According to her mom, even as a toddler, “Sandra knew what she wanted to do and was confident she could do it.”

The family next door had a daughter the same age that constantly competed with Sandra in the classroom and with extracurricular activities.  Only once did Sandra let the pressure of that competition get the best of her when in a fit of anger she called the other little girl a bitch, and abruptly went home to confess to her mom, express remorse, and return to apologize.  This incident accurately describes Sandra’s dual qualities of toughness and compassion.

Sandra went on to excel in school earning good grades, playing clarinet in the award winning high school marching band, participating in after school activities, and eventually getting elected student body president her senior year at Silver Creek High School in east San Jose.  After two years of community college she enrolled at San Jose State University to begin a journey that would lead to her career as an educational administrator.

Sandra’s success can be attributed to her spirit, personality, and the unconditional support from her family.  Her parents, Fausto and Connie Peralta, are the personification of the American Dream.  Born in the village of Cumpas, Sonora, Mexico in 1938, Fausto was raised by aunts and uncles because his father Mariano died as a young man; and his mother Concepción left him, and his sister and brothers in the care of relatives to go to the United States in search of work and a chance to send for her children so they could have a better life than the one they had in Mexico.

He came to the United States at the age of sixteen and settled with his mother in the small California farming town of Mendota; his brothers followed later.  In Mendota, Fausto quickly established himself as a hard working young man who provided much value to the farmers who employed him in the cotton fields of central California.  When not doing the back-breaking work required in the hot and dusty fields, he could be seen around town neatly dressed in clean and pressed clothes, polished shoes, and hair combed just right.

Sandra’s mom, Connie Rosales, was born in 1941 just a few miles up the road from Mendota on the Hotchkiss Ranch just outside of Firebaugh, California, the ninth child of Jesus and Encarnación Rosales.  Like Fausto, she was raised by a single mother as her father passed away when she was just three years old.  Connie, a strong-willed, hard-working, and compassionate woman, grew up dreaming of one day living in a nice house and raising a successful family just like the Americanas who lived in town.

Connie and Fausto met in 1958 when Connie’s presumably match-making aunt invited Fausto to a New Year’s Eve party at the home of Connie’s sister.  Two years later they were married, then moved to San Jose looking for work where Fausto made his way as a cement mason and Connie supplemented their income working in the canneries of Santa Clara Valley, and where they built a family with their four daughters: Valerie, Sandra, Kimberley, and Shelley.  They worked hard and did whatever it took to ensure that their daughters had a chance to succeed.

Raising four daughters was a challenge for Fausto and Connie as each woman has her own distinct personality.  Collectively, the Peralta girls made an impression at Silver Creek High School and proudly call San Jose State University their alma mater.  A large photo of the sisters standing together resplendent in college cap and gown under the shadow of the university’s ivy-covered Tower Hall hangs in the entryway of the Peralta house.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 (excerpt #12)

Summer in the Waiting Room, ,
The original Mark's Hot Dogs stand on Alum Rock Avenue in east San Jose (photo by www.roadfood.com)
The original Mark’s Hot Dogs stand on Alum Rock Avenue in east San Jose
(photo by http://www.roadfood.com)

Blogger’s note: The following passage is the from my manuscript of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. This is the 2nd excerpt from Chapter 2: “Sandra Peralta.” I will post weekly excerpts every Wednesday morning.  To read previous installments, go to the Categories link and click on “Summer in the Waiting Room.”

********************

A couple of months after the garage encounter, I was hitting the town with a couple of old high school friends barhopping when I suggested we stop at the wedding of my friend Will Medina’s sister.  Will and I knew each other from the Kinney Shoe store where he worked in the stock room.  Like me, he grew up in east San Jose, but in a different neighborhood.  He was, and still is, always well-dressed with neatly pressed clothes and perfectly combed hair, and he’s honest and hardworking.  If dictionaries had the phrase “a good man” in their pages, there is no doubt in my mind that Will Medina’s photo would sit right next to the definition.

Will and I got to know each other better after I left my job at Kinney Shoes, and became fast friends playing recreational league basketball and softball together, and carousing around town.  On that summer night in 1985, his girlfriend and future wife, Juanita Navarro, was with him at his sister’s wedding.  Juanita is an intelligent, caring, and faithful woman who has shared her life with Will and their two children.  She also happened to be, and still is, Sandra’s best friend.

When I walked into the reception hall wearing a dark suit and tie, looking for Will and acting like I owned the place, I instantly saw Sandra sitting with Juanita and her family.  She was radiant wearing a navy blue pencil skirt and starched white blouse, and she smiled demurely when our eyes made contact.  Up to this point, Sandra and I agree on how the events unfolded, it’s the next few minutes where we have vastly different perspectives.

I remember walking to Sandra and respectfully asking her to dance; she insists that I waved from across the room and pointed to the dance floor as to say, “Meet me there.”  We are the only witnesses to the disputed incident so I’m sure the whole episode will go with us to our respective graves.  Nevertheless, we danced.   As I escorted her back to her chair, I reminded her that I was the guy who ran from Welch Park across the street to her house mistaking her for someone else.

When told her how I wanted to ask her for her telephone number, but I couldn’t say anything because her beauty left me speechless, she looked at me skeptically, with a slight roll of her eyes, but asked me to sit down anyway.   We danced a few more times and spent the evening chatting.  When my friends began pestering me to leave the wedding for another party, Sandra gave me her telephone number and I vanished into the night.

A week later, we were out on our first date.  I was nervous and excited as I was getting ready for the evening.  I had planned to take her to the movies and then for a quick bite at Mark’s Hot Dogs, the best place on the east side to go for a food nightcap.  When I arrived at her house, I walked into the living room so Sandra could introduce me to her parents.  Sandra looked so beautiful in pink and white striped pants and a pink blouse that I couldn’t stop looking at her; consequently I don’t remember any interaction with her parents or anyone else that may have been in the living room.

As we drove to the Century Theaters on the west side of town to see the hit movie “St. Elmo’s Fire,” Sandra and I talked and laughed, and I quickly became enchanted by this smart, funny, and attractive woman.  Other than being uncomfortable with a couple of racy scenes in the movie, our first date was going well as we arrived at Mark’s Hot Dogs.  Mark’s is an art deco hot-dog stand built in 1936 in the shape of an orange that remains an east side institution and official city landmark to this day.

When I was a kid, my parents would usually stop at Mark’s for a midnight snack after a night out and bring a few dogs home for us, boiled to crunchy perfection in a steamed bun and garnished with mustard, relish, onions, and tomatoes.  My little sister Sisi and I would tear open the plain brown paper bag that held the gastronomic wonders and crunch away with delight.  Sandra had never been to Mark’s, so I was feeling pretty good about introducing her to something new.

As we talked and laughed some more, she suddenly became quiet, then confided in me that she had dated a friend of mine in the past.  She had seen us talking and joking with each other at the wedding.  I admired her honesty, but I was in no mood to start a new relationship fraught with potential challenges.  I quickly finished my dog, drove Sandra home, and told her that I would probably not call her again.  She looked me in the eye and said a matter-of-factly, “Don’t call me then,” and casually walked into her house.  I called her the next day.

********************

Next Wednesday: The chase is on!

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 2 – “Sandra Peralta” (excerpt #11)

Summer in the Waiting Room, ,
Sandra sitting in her 1984 Firebird across the street from Welch Park (Peralta Family Photo)
Sandra sitting in her 1984 Firebird across the street from Welch Park
(Peralta Family Photo)

Blogger’s note: The following passage is the from my manuscript of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. This is the 1st excerpt from Chapter 2: “Sandra Peralta.” I will post weekly excerpts every Wednesday morning.  To read previous installments, go to the Categories link and click on “Summer in the Waiting Room.”

********************

Chapter 2

Sandra Peralta

When I started working at Kinney’s again, a friend named Sammy Ybarra, who I met through a high school friend years before, asked me be his assistant coach for the eighth grade boys basketball team at his elementary school alma mater, a Catholic school in his neighborhood.  He and I became good friends, and I later served as a chaperone at his wedding.  I excitedly accepted his invitation to help coach the team.

We had a blast, and the next year, the school asked me to be the head coach for the boys’ sixth grade basketball team.  I poured all of my energy into coaching that team, and we won all of our games except the championship game at the end of the season.  The kids, parents, and school community loved me, and working with the boys gave me a glimmer of hope that I could succeed at something.

Although the carousing, drinking, and chasing women continued, I began to think that there was a way out of the mess I had created for myself, and getting back into college was the key.  Later that spring, school officials asked me to coach the eighth grade baseball team, and I took on that job with the same gusto.  During the day and on weekends, I was peddling shoes; and in the afternoon during the week I was coaching a Catholic school baseball team at Welch Park in east San Jose.

At night, I was hitting the town causing mischief and feeling a little less inadequate, but not by much. One day, while hitting ground balls at practice, I noticed a shiny car slowly rolling down Santiago Avenue, the roadway that ran between Welch Park and the row of houses across the street.  The driver of that silver 1984 Firebird turning left onto the driveway at the house right across the street from home plate would forever change my life.

Right across the street from home plate on the baseball diamond at Welch Park lived a beautiful young woman.  Every day, I would stop practice to the merriment of the thirteen and fourteen year old boys as she drove up to her house.  I would watch her gather her belongings from the car, sling her backpack over one shoulder, and sip a soda as she walked into the garage that led to the house.  Day in and day out every afternoon, like clockwork, she would turn onto the driveway in her silver Firebird and I would stop practice to watch her routine to the chuckles and giddiness of the team.

After a week or so, the mischievous boys dared me to walk across the street and ask her out on a date, so I took on their challenge the next day as she drove up in a brown Mazda similar to one owned by another young woman I knew.  This was my chance, so I casually jogged across the street pretending that she was the other girl and shouted, “hi Clarabelle.”  As I approached her in the garage of the house, I finally had the chance to see her close up.  She took my breath away.

She had smooth fair skin, high cheekbones, long flowing brown hair combed in the 1980s style of the day, big brown doe eyes, and cute lips that curled just slightly at the top.  With confident reserve, she said, “I’m not Clarabelle, my name is Sandra.”  I apologized for mistaking her for someone else and nervously introduced myself.  I shuffled my feet without taking my eyes off of her eyes, mumbled several things I don’t remember, apologized again, and started jogging back to the park.  She left me speechless, and I didn’t have the courage to ask her out, even though that’s not what I told my players.

During the next several weeks, the kids on the team kept asking if I had gone out on a date with Sandra and I told them with authority that a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.  Of course, there were no kisses and nothing to tell.  Every afternoon when she slipped out of her car, I would wave my hand to say hello in an effort to catch her attention, but I don’t remember if she ever waved back.  When the baseball season ended I had no reason to go back to Welch Park, so I kicked myself for not getting Sandra’s number and  letting an opportunity to slip through my fingers.

********************

Next Wednesday: Fate gives me another chance to meet Sandra.

Summer in the Waiting Room: Chapter 1 (excerpt #10)

Summer in the Waiting Room, , ,
(stock image)
(stock image)

Blogger’s note: The following passage is the from my manuscript of Summer in the Waiting Room: How Faith, Family, and Friends Saved My Life. It’s the 10th excerpt from Chapter 1: “48 Viewmont Avenue.” I will post weekly excerpts every Wednesday morning.  To read previous installments, go to the Categories link and click on “Summer in the Waiting Room.”

********************

Before long, I was failing tests, or worse, just not showing up to class. I was losing confidence in myself as the cycle of going through the motions at school, not showing up for exams, and partying intensified. Every morning I awoke with doom and disaster lurking around every corner questioning myself for accommodating my dad’s wishes that I go to a four-year university.

Was Mr. Bailey right after all? Were college and a life of middle-class comfort not part of my future? What was I really trying to accomplish? One night while drinking at a friend’s house, a former high schoolmate, who I’m sure, was envious of me, told everyone there that I was wasting my time going to college because I was meant to be a working stiff like everyone else from the neighborhood. Drunk and depressed, I believed every word of what he had said.

When my third semester of college came to an end, my academic career at San Jose State collapsed. The bright future that my parents, teachers, and many others had predicted for me had vanished.  San Jose State University sent a certified letter to 48 Viewmont Avenue informing me that I had been academically disqualified from the university.  I had flunked out.  There was no cocoon to protect me; in fact, I had to find a way to protect myself from the cocoon.

With my self-worth completely eroded, I drove deeper into the abyss of self-destruction.  I quit working at Kinney’s for a higher-paying job selling shoes at the mall.  Drinking and carousing around town with Rudy and the guys intensified.  I looked for a job with potential opportunities for quick advancement and found work at the J.C. Penny department store at the same mall.

I worked hard and soon caught the eye of management as someone who could succeed in the retail industry.  All the while, I still hadn’t told my parents about the college failure, I was drinking and partying several nights a week, and my relationships with women were superficial and unstable.  As my self-worth further declined, I would soon be dating someone else, usually some co-worker at the department store, to cover up the emotional sting.

I quit working at J.C. Penney despite the apparent success and a promising future there.  For a short time, I worked on side jobs with Rudy at his father’s concrete construction company as a laborer during the day, and spent nights sitting at the local bar drinking with the hardened and grizzled construction workers.  I was depressed and seeking validation through alcohol and emotionless pursuit of women.  Sisi remembered that I was never home when she told me how I was “absent from [Sisi], and mom and dad’s life.”

She recalled many nights when my dad sat at his stereo listening to music through headphones and drinking as my mom watched movies on late night television while they worriedly waited for me to come home.  I never knew about this until Sisi shared the story years later, because my parents were always safely tucked into bed by the time I staggered into the house to throw myself onto my bed for the night.  My older brothers and sisters knew nothing of this as they had their own lives, their own families, and, with the exception of Steve, lived somewhere other than San Jose.

The Spanish proverb, “the night is always darkest before the dawn,” perfectly portrays that time for me as I had reached the lowest and darkest point of my life.  I had failed in college, foolishly entered into and walked out on several relationships, threw away what J.C. Penny managers thought was a promising career, and couldn’t cut it as a construction worker.  I begged the manager at Kinney Shoes to take me back so I could earn a little money to sort out my life.

With my parents, I confirmed what they probably already knew about my college failure; it was 100 times more difficult than when I told them about the Mr. Bailey meeting.  My dad stood and listened without saying a word, then shook his head in disappointment and walked away.  My mom looked at me with sad eyes and told me that I would find my way and they would be there for me when I needed them.

I had broken almost all of the values and standards that I learned at 48 Viewmont Avenue about how to conduct an honorable and successful life.  I had lost respect for myself and for others, especially the women I used to console my broken spirit, and displayed no desire to learn and improve myself, or to be compassionate, or to love unconditionally.  I was a defeated young man, barely into my 21st year, with no idea how my future would unfold.

********************

Next Wednesday: Fate steps in as I try to rebound from the darkest period of my life.