This is Manny Rodriguez. Other than the first six years of his life spent in Mexico, Lincoln Heights (or at least that same zip code) has always been his home. He's a community activist, preservationist, and talented raconteur.
His childhood was spent in a one room apartment, here, on the second floor.
“And by one room," he said, "I don’t mean one bedroom, one living room, one dining room; I mean, one room.” And the one room was on one floor that his family shared with 12 other people.
"As embarrassed as I was to let my friends know where I lived, I realize we were relatively happy there. Everyone looked after everyone else. We celebrated holidays together, and would set up a huge table for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I had a good childhood."
It was the early 70’s. He learned English by watching cartoons (if I'm not mistaken, he called it the Bullwinkle Academy), and attended local school. Well, sometimes he attended school. And sometimes he went to a Dodger game. The stadium was and still is within walking distance.
After school and on weekends, he and his buddies explored old railroad stations and junk yards. For pocket money, they stole ice cream bars off the truck at the nearby Swiss Miss dairy and sold them to families picnicking at the park.
Manny and his friends played baseball at a field near the railroad tracks, the same field where teenagers, members of the Eastlake Gang, played handball. Though interaction was minimal, the gangsters made sure the boys weren’t bothered.
The men who camped by the railroad tracks (“We called them hoboes"), also watched them play. "When they were sober, they'd give us pointers, as in -- ‘Hey, that’s not the way to catch a ball. Here, let me show you.’”
Manny and his friends played baseball at a field near the railroad tracks, the same field where teenagers, members of the Eastlake Gang, played handball. Though interaction was minimal, the gangsters made sure the boys weren’t bothered.
The men who camped by the railroad tracks (“We called them hoboes"), also watched them play. "When they were sober, they'd give us pointers, as in -- ‘Hey, that’s not the way to catch a ball. Here, let me show you.’”
Like the gangsters, the hoboes kept a protective eye on “their boys,” and chased out anyone who might be trouble.
Manny stayed in Lincoln Heights through high school and college. He married a girl from Lincoln Heights and now they have a son and a daughter, and a house in the hills of Montecito Heights. (His children live a very structured, protected life. It's hard when you have a dad who knows all the tricks, because that means you get away with nothing.)
Though now in a private high school, Manny's daughter attended the local Sacred Heart Elementary School, as had her mother before her. Manny has a friend from childhood who is dying of ALS. The friend commissioned this mural as a legacy to his community and his wife and children. It's on the wall at the Sacred Heart playground. Throughout, it tells two histories --one public, one personal. That's the man and his family at the mural's heart.
Manny stayed in Lincoln Heights through high school and college. He married a girl from Lincoln Heights and now they have a son and a daughter, and a house in the hills of Montecito Heights. (His children live a very structured, protected life. It's hard when you have a dad who knows all the tricks, because that means you get away with nothing.)
Though now in a private high school, Manny's daughter attended the local Sacred Heart Elementary School, as had her mother before her. Manny has a friend from childhood who is dying of ALS. The friend commissioned this mural as a legacy to his community and his wife and children. It's on the wall at the Sacred Heart playground. Throughout, it tells two histories --one public, one personal. That's the man and his family at the mural's heart.
Going back and forth to work, I must have driven through Lincoln heights 3,000 times of more.
And I’d notice things – intriguing, mysterious, beautiful, messy, and ugly things -- but not with undivided attention. Whatever I saw was in direct competition with the car radio, phone, pager, and my own eternal internal dialog. I never stopped because, for reasons I can no longer fathom, it seemed vitally important that I rush to meet the stress waiting for me on the other side.
"What's the story behind the park at the base of the Broadway Bridge?" I'd wonder, driving past. Then a month later, "What's the story with the park at the base of the Broadway Bridge," too distracted to just stop the car and settle this question once and for all. 
Manny saw one of my posts on Lincoln Heights recently and sent an email.
"If you want a tour, let me know. I love to show off my community."
So yes, I said. Yes.
He's giving me a second tour in December. I figure I should have at least another 2,999 questions left to ask.
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