Memories of dad as Erik Estrada … young and old

Memories of dad as Erik Estrada … young and old

"What a drag it is getting old."

­ The Rolling Stones

"Mother’s Little Helper"

Some of my worst memories are of junior high ­ being in the
seventh grade and getting thrown in the showers by the eighth grade
cholas, never knowing how to apply make-up without looking like I
was off to join the circus, being the only girl in my locker room
row who had absolutely no need for a bra.

But for one afternoon, my dad changed all of that.

It was Friday after school. The bell rang and I ran off to catch
the 3:15 RTD bus that took me home. To my surprise, my father was
waiting for me, police uniform and all, on his motorcycle.

He waved to me wildly and called out, "Hop on, Bubba!" I dashed
to the curb as fast as my knobby-kneed, skinny little legs could
carry me as all the popular kids looked at us in amazement.

My dad was a cop for the LAPD. He drove a motorcycle. And today,
I got to ride it.

Dad revved the engine and took off like a bat out of hell. These
were the days before motorcycle helmet laws, so my hair whipped
around wildly as we zoomed up San Gabriel Boulevard.

We dodged in and out of traffic, bounding over the railroad
tracks and zipping through all the yellow lights. Over the roar of
the engine I could hear my father singing the theme song to "Hawaii
Five-O."

Ten minutes later we pulled into the driveway of our home. As
Dad turned the engine off, I heard the backdoor burst open.

"Sam!" It was my mother. "What are you doing taking her home
from school on that motorcycle! My God! And Roxy, your hair! Look
at your hair!"

I felt it. Tangles everywhere. It was like having bubble gum
stuck in a million places. I giggled. Dad flung off his helmet and
shades, revealing his dark brown face and broad smile. He laughed.
"Come on, Valdina, ain’t no big thing. Just giving her a ride home,
huh Bubba?"

"Right, Dad!" I chimed.

Mom’s complaints continued. Something about Dad’s involvement in
two accidents already and my God what was he thinking.

I didn’t care. For all I knew, at that moment it was just me and
Daddy ­ him looking like Erik Estrada and me like a beaming,
miniature Bride of Frankenstein.

That was my father. Always dark, strong, spontaneous ­ and
young. Always young. In all of our old home movies from the ’70s,
the ones with bright color and no sound, this is how Dad looks.

In one of them, taken in the summer of 1978, our family and some
close friends and their kids are at Disneyland. We’re all wearing
bell-bottoms. My mother’s black hair reaches her waist. My little
sister Raquel’s long pigtails are tied with pink yarn. I still
remember the rainbow-colored tube top I wore that day.

As we walk up Main Street toward Frontierland, Dad gently pushes
me toward Winnie the Pooh and Tigger. I walk timidly. Suddenly
Captain Hook pops out in front of me and I run back to Dad,
frightened and crying. He picks me up and as I cry he looks into
the camera and laughs.

My mother told me years later that he’d wanted to take me with
him on Space Mountain but the employees there looked at him like
he’d lost his mind and wouldn’t let him.

"And I told him, Sam, if she can’t handle Captain Hook, what on
earth makes you think she can handle blasting off into space?" my
mother recalled. "Besides, you were nowhere near meeting the height
requirement anyway."

That was Daddy. For a man in law enforcement, he sure seemed to
enjoy breaking a few rules here and there.

Dad loved novelty and action. He loved James Bond films and
playing football games at our family reunions.

He loved clowning around, but he was always sharp. He had an
explosive temper but faith in the essential goodness of people. And
he was always healthy and young in both body and mind. I have
always remembered him this way.

Over winter break, Dad retired from the LAPD. He’d entered in
1967, straight out of the Vietnam War, when the Academy was
offering a "20 years on the force and you can retire" program
because, in my mother’s words, they were having a difficult time
recruiting since it wasn’t popular to be a "pig."

Dad is now nearing 50 years of age. I thought he would always be
young but he is well into middle age, and it shows. Over break it
was apparent every day at the dinner table when we argued about
everything under the sun.

Reader’s Digest claimed last month that the generation gap is a
myth. They should’ve come to my house when my father and I had our
much anticipated Generational Blowout.

We screamed about President Clinton, race relations and Lyndon
Johnson’s "Great Society." It was like the arguments between the
hippie daughter Karen and her father Jack on "The Wonder Years,"
only now the baby-boomer had grown up. And to his surprise, I was
young and my idealism already withered.

I tried to end our debate by explaining, "Look, Dad, I just
don’t know what to tell you. I can’t speak for everyone my age, but
I can say that a lot of kids I speak to feel that this country’s
problems are so intertwined and so complicated that it feels
overwhelming and frankly not worth the effort.’

"Is that what you think?" he charged. "Well, welcome to the real
world, Roxane! It’s always been complicated! When I was your age we
thought seriously about things, we took government seriously, we
took adulthood seriously!"

He started to talk about JFK. I cut him off.

"My God, Dad, this is not the 1960s!" I started. "That was a
very hopeful time. This is not such a hopeful time, and frankly,
I’d like to think that we aren’t so damn naive."

Now I’d angered him.

He glared at me. I could see his thoughts in his eyes. "I’ve
grown older, my daughter has grown up and why the hell doesn’t she
think like me? And she wants me to take her seriously!"

He spoke rapidly.

"Naive? Little girl, don’t talk to me about being naive! I’ve
been to ‘Nam, your mom and I were dirt poor, some redneck kook
kicked your mom and her cousins out of a restaurant in Texas when
she was in junior high because they were Mexican, so don’t talk to
me like I haven’t seen anything! It’s you who thinks she knows it
all!"

He marched into the kitchen and angrily started filling the sink
with dishwater. "I feel sorry for you guys!" he blurted.

My mother stormed in and said, "That’s enough."

I stomped into the living room and turned on the TV. There was
nothing on except "Dos Mujeres, Un Camino," that Mexican soap opera
starring Erik Estrada. Only now his hair was grey and he had
wrinkled under his eyes, just like my dad.

I heard Mom and Dad mumbling for a while. Then they began
laughing. Dad started singing in his Mick Jagger voice the way he
always does when he wants to make Mom laugh.

"’Things are different today / I hear every mother say / Kids
just don’t appreciate that you get tired!’ Uh, uh. Oh yeah. ‘What a
drag it is getting old!’"

Mom laughed. "Oh, Sammy! It’s not that bad."

"I know," I heard him respond. I could tell by the tone of his
voice that he was smiling.

Assistant Viewpoint Editor Marquez is a fourth-year student
double-majoring in history and English American studies. Her column
appears on alternate Thursdays.